Little Bones

LITTLE BONES

N V Peacock

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Copyright © N V Peacock 2020

Cover design by Holly MacDonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

N V Peacock asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008436353

Ebook Edition © October 2020 ISBN: 9780008436360

Version: 2020-09-28

Dedication

For you, the reader.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

Too many young boys are out tonight. Broken-voiced taunts and high-pitched laughter echo down the road to him. Crowds make him more careful. One boy alone is easy prey, but with packs of children roaming the streets, his actions need to be more careful, more considered and more inconspicuous.

To inspect the young faces on offer, he slips down to second gear. Crawling along the kerb, he hunts for the right one: the one all alone.

Emerging from a newsagent is a boy around ten years old with a plastic bag; wearing hand-me-down clothes, but sporting new white high-top trainers. For a moment, the boy stops. He looks down at his feet, eyeing his trendy footwear with pride, watching how the metallic embroidery catches the light. Happy, he almost skips forward, but then remembers his purchase. Rustling in the bag, he brings out a shiny packet of football cards, which steal his focus, so it takes a few seconds for him to notice the car creeping beside him.

Carefully, the driver rolls down his window. ‘Can I give you a lift, mate?’ he says.

Looking down at his cards, the boy keeps walking, albeit at a quicker stride now.

The driver glides the car along to keep pace with his prey.

‘Don’t be afraid – I’m a taxi.’

‘You don’t look like a taxi.’ The boy stops and quickly adds, ‘And I’m not afraid.’

‘I’m off duty tonight, mate. Look, I have a kid about your age. I’d be worried if they were out this late, all alone.’

Smirking, the boy says, ‘It’s not late.’

‘It’s dark. You should be home by now. Your parents will worry.’

‘I’ve spent all my money, sorry.’

‘No charge.’ He then whispers the next sentence like it’s a secret only he and the boy share. ‘Look, the streets are full of crazies. I’d hate to see your face in the morning paper. Didn’t your parents ever warn you about predators who take little boys off the street? There was that kid who never made it home last week. You know the one.’

The boy narrows his eyes. A kid at his school did go missing a few weeks ago.

‘All right. My dad said to get home before the streetlights come on, so you’d be doing me a favour.’

The man grins. ‘No worries, mate. Hop in.’

The boy quickly slides into the back seat. When the man hears the slam of the car door, he knows he has his prize. It’s like the snap of a jaw, the puncture of teeth, the squeal of an animal knowing its time has ended.

The boy’s face will be in the newspapers, not the next morning, but maybe the one after. The man sees it in his mind’s eye and smiles. He’s killed four boys now, and the police haven’t connected the cases. Even if they had, no one would ever consider him a suspect. He lives with his happy family in a beautiful home. No one would imagine he has a dark blue room in that house. A room where each boy he has stolen gifts him his last words and final breath. A room where he hasn’t bothered to wipe the blood off the walls, or even muffle his victims’ screams.

He’s the perfect man, the perfect partner, the perfect father. No one would ever see anything different. Monsters who kill little boys are evil and ugly and wear long dirty macs. Those sinister creatures skulk in the shadows while committing their dark deeds, ashamed of admitting the why with the how. When he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t see a monster, but the smile of a man about to get what he wants.

‘What’s your name?’ he asks his prey.

‘Thomas.’

Chapter 1

The blade slices through the flesh, and a pink sliver falls down into a perfect curl.

‘Cherrie!’

I look up at my name to see Mr Dawson, my boss, pointing towards a customer; a fifty-something woman with sharp features and an even sharper stare. Our eyes lock, and her fake fingernails begin clacking an impatient rhythm on my countertop.

Smiling, I stuff my hands into new plastic gloves, and then step towards her.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Five sirloin steaks.’

She narrows her keen eyes at me. I hate it when they stare; I’ll probably drop all the meat on her beady-eyed watch. Carefully, I pull two steaks onto the scales. The cost is already at £13 but it doesn’t seem to bother her. Reaching over, I grab a third steak.

Suddenly, the customer cocks her head and asks, ‘Do I know you?’

I try not to react. Instead, I widen my smile and continue piling up her meat like a butcher’s game of Jenga.

‘I’ve seen you somewhere before,’ she says.

‘I’m here in the shop most days.’ I nod, trying not to look her in the eye.

‘Do you live on the Pine Holmes Estate?’

The moment the question leaves her lips, she realises how silly it is. I’m just a shop assistant, and the houses in Pine Holmes are worth more money than I’d see in three lifetimes.

‘I wish,’ I say and laugh, although it comes out more like a strangled hiccup.

Without bothering to tell her the final price, I quickly wrap up the meat.

‘So, where do I know you from?’ She’s not even asking me now, just talking to herself.

Thrusting the package towards her, I throw her another smile, hopefully one that concludes our encounter. Still, the woman lingers. Looking down, I see her palm is flat against my clean glass countertop. As she moves her hand to collect the meat, she leaves behind a sweaty smudge.

‘I’ve definitely seen you somewhere before. This is annoying.’

‘Sorry, you don’t know me. I don’t think we’ve ever met,’ I say, which is the truth, just not the whole truth. Daring to look her in the eye, I commit her face to memory so I can avoid her in future. She may not remember who I am now, but I might not be so lucky next time. Memories have a habit of snapping back into place like elastic bands.

‘Can I get you anything else?’ I ask.

With a blank face, the woman stares at me. If we lived in a cartoon, this would be when I see inside her mind to watch the exhausted mouse on its wheel. I want to yell at her to give the poor rodent a break and stop her pointless interrogation but instead, say, ‘Enjoy your steaks.’ Life isn’t a cartoon, not even close.

I turn away from her to continue slicing the ham. With my back to her, she loses interest and wanders deeper into the belly of the shop.

These encounters only happen now and then. Strangers who feel a tickle of familiarity when they look at me, and mentally chase their tails trying to figure out how I’ve crossed their paths before. Nowadays, people’s attention spans are thankfully low. Usually, when I slip on the plastic cap and apron, no one bothers to look beyond them. It’s why I love this job so much.

Grabbing a cloth, I wipe her parting smudge from my countertop. I wring my hands together, shut my eyes, and remind myself that that is all she is, a smudge on the surface of my day, nothing more. When I open my eyes, I realise she didn’t even once say thank you. If Robin behaved like that, I’d have grounded him for a month.

‘Hey!’ Tracy steps out from the area behind the plastic curtains, where we sign in the meat deliveries. We affectionately call it backstage and the counter onstage.

‘Where have you been? I’m onstage all on my own as a one-woman show.’

‘Feel like having fun tonight?’ she asks, avoiding my question.

‘I can’t go out tonight. Leo’s buying a bottle of wine and we’re watching Strictly Come Dancing together.’

‘I swear Leo is the most boring boyfriend in the world.’

‘Boring is underrated.’ I smile.

‘Look, I thought Gran was going to go with us tonight, but now she’s told me that she already went with her mates from bingo instead. We need a fourth person.’

‘A fourth person for what?’ I ask.

‘Come on, Cherrie, when are you going to join the rest of the world on Facebook? We’ve been talking about tonight on there for ages.’

‘I’m a private person. I don’t like strangers seeing stuff about me.’

Tracy lets out an exaggerated sigh. ‘We booked a psychic, but she’ll only see groups. We need at least four people. And I’ve been so looking forward to it.’

‘Why?’

‘I just want some hope that I have more of a life to look forward to than this.’ She motions at a pile of sausages.

‘I get the need for hope; just why four people?’ I ask. ‘It’s not like some mystic number.’

‘Because four people’s money makes it worthwhile for her to get her psychic on,’ Tracy replies with a sigh. ‘Please come with us.’

‘I’ve never been to a psychic before. What do they do?’

‘Her name is Mariah. She reads tarot cards. Gran told me she predicted her little bingo victory last week, and her heart operation. It’s only £25. A bargain to know your future.’

‘Look, can I think about it and come back to you?’ I ask.

I’m not sure I believe in all that psychic stuff, but if I’m wrong and this woman sees things in my past she shouldn’t, it could be disastrous.

‘I need to know now. Come on, Cherrie.’

My kneejerk answer is no. There is no win here. If this fortune-teller is crap, she’ll tell me nothing, and I’ll be down £25 to discuss nonsense with a stranger. If she’s good, she’ll see my past. Not that I can tell Tracy my concerns. We may have been best friends for the past decade, but she has no idea who I am, or should I say who I used to be. I ought to say no. However, if I turn down this invitation, it could be months before the girls ask me out again. I could do with a night out, and as much as I worry about someone recognising me, it still hasn’t happened yet. My name may live on the tips of the tongues of busybodies, but it is yet to be spoken aloud by those close to me. I can’t let my past rule my present.

‘Okay, I’m in,’ I say.

Tracy jumps up and down. ‘You’re the best, Cherry Pie.’

She hasn’t called me Cherry Pie in ages. A sudden warmth makes me grin back. ‘What time and where?’

‘Pick me up at seven. We’ll go together. Wait.’ She stops and narrows her eyes at me. ‘You’re not going to flake out on me, are you?’

‘No, I promise I won’t flake out on you.’

‘Fab. Oh, and there are privacy settings on Facebook, just so you know.’ With that, she disappears backstage.

It’s Saturday, but the shop is quiet. Boredom affords me far too much time to think through what I’ve just agreed to. The worry of a stranger poking about in my past continually wriggles to the surface of my mind, like a worm in the rain.

On my break I text Leo that I’m going out with the girls tonight. His text back is cool along with an emoji my phone is too old to read. I still have an iPhone 4; emoji created after 2010 show up as an alien face. Leo says I need to update, as I’m only getting messages with half the information, but I love my phone. It was given to me at a time in my life when everything started to get better. It was the day I found out I was pregnant with Robin. Leo treated me. He wanted us to only ever be a fingertip away. I’m not prepared to give up on that solid, plastic daily reminder that I’m loved.

By the time five o’clock rolls around, I’ve served two more customers, and counted the chicken wings and stuffed olives twice. Tracy has already left to get ready for tonight. I’m alone. Almost.

As I put the lids back over the deli tubs, I see a young woman of about eighteen looking over her shoulder then back again at the pre-packaged meat. Shoplifter. I reach behind the counter and pick up our radio. It’s our only security – it links us to the main shopping centre’s lads in uniform. We call whenever we need backup.

I hesitate. If I catch a thief, it will mean hours of police statements and paperwork, which would equal an escape from the psychic encounter tonight, but it would mean no Strictly with Leo and Robin either, ruining my Saturday night.

The shoplifter raises her gaze. She holds my stare as her hand snakes out and grabs a chicken. A whole chicken. Without even looking away, she puts it under her coat. It protrudes like one massive knobbly boob. I’ve seen nothing like it before. Is this some gang initiation thing? Ten years in the job, and I’ve never seen anyone blatantly steal in front of me. Like a toddler who you’ve told no to, but does what they want anyway. Damn the extra time. Without breaking our staring contest, I lift the radio to my mouth.

‘Security Team, come in.’

The radio crackles, and I smile at the girl. Robin went through bouts of both terrible twos, and the even more terrible threes; this shoplifter has no idea who she’s dealing with. If she wants to act like naughty kid, then I’ll treat her like one.

The girl purses her lips, blinks, and puts the chicken back. As she does, her coat flaps open, revealing her pregnant belly. The giant mound before her dwarfs her thin frame. When was the last good meal she ate? Who is looking after her?

An eardrum-pounding bleep sounds and Tim, the head of security, comes over the radio: ‘Hey, Cherrie, are you okay down at Dawson’s Food? Over.’

When you hold the radio, stealth is off the menu. In the past shoplifters have stampeded towards me when hearing it go off, but this girl looks as if she’s about to cry.

I soften my smile. ‘Everything is fine. Just wanted to say goodnight. Over.’

‘Oh yeah, you part-timers only work until five on a Saturday now. Have a good weekend, Creeker. Over.’

‘Thanks, you too. Over.’

She stares at me, mouth slightly open. Is she shocked I’ve given her a break, or waiting for the right moment to shove the chicken back under her coat?

Putting the radio down, I motion to the company sign hanging above my section and say to the girl, ‘They call this place Dawson’s Creek. After the TV show.’

‘What TV show?’

‘Never mind.’

Wringing my hands together, I make a decision. I pack up some meats, olives, and cheeses into a large package.

‘Here, take this.’ I wave the package towards her. ‘And take some bread and milk.’ I nod over at the shelves sitting parallel to my section.

‘Why are you doing this?’ she asks, yet walks up to take the food before I can answer.

‘Looks like you need a bit of help. I know what that’s like. Don’t worry; I’ll mark it all down as being out-of-date. We throw out a shocking amount of food here.’

‘Thank you.’ She looks down at the food package as if it’s the most amazing thing she ever held; wait until she gets her baby in her arms.

‘You’re welcome. I’m here again Monday until five. Come around the back, and I’ll save more out-of-date stuff for you.’

‘The guy on the radio said your name was Cherrie. Is that right?’

‘Yes. I’m Cherrie.’

‘I’m Kylie.’

‘Your mum used to watch Neighbours eh?’

‘Huh?’

‘Never mind. See you Monday, Kylie.’

She nods, takes a loaf of bread and a four-pint jug of whole milk, and then leaves.

The shop is eerie when it’s empty, so I quickly check the tills are cashed up, then leave, locking the front door behind me.

It’s five-thirty and already so dark I have to use the torch on my phone to light my way. Fortunately, I parked my car just down the street from the shop, so my time in the shadows is limited.

Climbing into my little Ford, I strap on the seatbelt and then twist on the engine. It sputters out its anger at being disturbed, yet fortunately gurgles to life.

In the summer, I walk to work. I only live half a mile away from Dawson’s Food, but in the winter months, when the nights close in quicker, I use the car. I don’t much like the dark.

Opening my front door, I find a quiet house. I check my mobile and find Leo has texted to say they’ll be late. He has included an emoji my phone can’t read. I’m guessing it’s supposed to be some sort of frustration face. They were at his mum’s today, and she has a habit of making dinner later to keep them longer.

I pull off my boots and place them by the door, leaving space for Leo and Robin’s shoes when they get in. I grab a microwave meal from the fridge, then pop it on. I run upstairs to see if I can change clothes before it’s cooked. Pulling off my apron, top and jeans, I wriggle into a pair of corduroy trousers, and tug on a blouse and a jumper. I bound downstairs just in time to see three seconds ticking down on the microwave. It’s a small life victory.

Clutching my meal, I plop down onto the couch, turn on the TV, and check the clock. I have over an hour before I need to pick up Tracy, so I can fit in an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. Ever since I saw the medical series could be streamed, I’ve binge-watched it. I’m only on season four; it’s comforting that I have at least another eleven seasons to spend with the feisty surgeons.

Reaching for the remote, I’m about to change the channel when I see a boy’s face filling up the screen. He looks only a little older than Robin, and is sporting a chocolate-smeared grin and a Christmas jumper with a fat reindeer on the front. The caption reads, Thomas Doncaster, age ten. I want to change the channel over; I won’t be able to see a full episode of Grey’s if I don’t, but my finger doesn’t want to press the button on the remote. Something bad has happened.

Chapter 2

‘Thomas Doncaster disappeared last night between the hours of six and eight. He was last seen outside the newsagent’s on the Rosemount Estate in Northampton wearing a navy Adidas jacket, blue jeans and white trainers. If anyone has any information on his whereabouts, please contact the hotline number below.’

The local newscaster glares at the audience for a second longer than necessary, as if she knows the guilty party is watching and she can force her contempt at him through the screen. Suddenly, the camera angle changes. The newscaster twists around to a second camera, meets the viewers with a fake smile, and then proceeds to talk about the latest knife crime statistics.

Rosemount is only fifteen miles from my house in Oak Cross. A thought wrapped in a memory bobs up to the surface of my mind; I let it sit there a while before I mentally burst it. What could have happened to this little boy? His parents must be so worried, consumed with the worst thoughts in the world. What could be happening to him right now? Will they ever see his chocolate grin again, or give him a Christmas present?

I have to find out more about Thomas Doncaster’s disappearance, but I barely get to sign in on my laptop when I hear rattling keys. My front door crashes open and in floods Hurricane Robin. He throws off his shoes, and they land like two little bombs on the floor.

‘Mummy!’ he yells, throwing himself at me.

Catching him, I pull his flailing body into my arms. As I do, his red Puffa jacket deflates, making a fart noise. He giggles.

A gush of cold air hits me, and I look up to see Leo closing the front door. A bottle of wine nestled in the crook of his arm.

‘Hey, bloody freezing out there. You still going out tonight?’

‘Yes, Tracy will kill me if I don’t.’

‘Okay, you better wrap up warm,’ he says, and then walks into the kitchen.

I hug Robin again. He wriggles, but I hold him steady so I can whisper, ‘You know never to accept lifts from strangers, right?’

‘I’m eight years old. I’m fully aware of stranger danger, Mum,’ he replies, pulling away from me.

‘Even if there’s another child with them. Never get into a stranger’s car.’

‘I get it. I won’t.’ Robin shrugs off his jacket. I can see he has eaten spaghetti at his gran’s house; there are speckles of red all over his beige jumper. Leo’s mum quite often leaves her mark on my son.

‘Get changed into your PJs, sweetie,’ I say.

Robin scrambles up the stairs.

‘He was looking forward to us watching TV together tonight,’ Leo states, lounging against the wall with a glass of red wine in his hand. ‘We both were.’

‘We watch TV together every night,’ I say.

‘But Saturday nights are special family time.’

I had been looking forward to sharing tonight’s special family time.’

I wanted to tell Leo about Tracy’s supernatural entertainment tonight; we could have laughed about it later. Right now, though, a twinge of guilt stops me. I should be staying in with my family. Spending my time with them, not gallivanting off to see some second-class sideshow. My future is obvious: sitting on the sofa holding Robin close, drinking wine and laughing with Leo. What more could a psychic say to me anyway? It’s not like she could dig up anything about my past I don’t already know. Just as I think this I get a text from Tracy: Looking forward to tonight Cherry Pie. With my best friend’s hatred for grammar, I can’t tell if it’s a question or a statement; however, I do know I made a promise.