скачать книгу бесплатно
CUT DEAD: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel
Mark Sennen
‘He could be out there right now. Passing you on the street. You’d never know …’DI Charlotte Savage is back, chasing a killer who was last at large ten years ago, a killer they presumed dead …Now he’s back and more dangerous than ever.When three headless bodies are found mutilated in a pit, it’s a particularly challenging case for DI Savage and her team. The victims bear the hallmarks of a killer who butchered girls to their death; a killer who was never caught.Could this be a copycat or has the original murderer resurfaced? With a steady stream of bodies arriving at the morgue and gruesome secrets from the past emerging DI Savage is up against it to find the killer before he strikes again?Part thriller, part police procedural, a must-read for fans of Mark Billingham and Tim Weaver.
MARK SENNEN
Cut Dead
Copyright
Avon
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014
Copyright © Mark Sennen
Mark Sennen asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for 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 non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book 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: 9780007518197
Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780007518203
Version: 2016-06-28
Dedication
To the real Charlotte Savage
Contents
Cover (#uedd9a2e0-11c9-5c3b-9b43-ffed165db452)
Title Page (#uafdb7ccc-3870-59ee-a2b5-7b81222de41b)
Copyright (#uf6564aab-28d1-54cc-a056-e521d51b7d47)
Dedication (#u390e1ba9-4ffa-5413-8495-5afcf2b32bc8)
Prologue (#u1b77ea0c-2767-5b90-b5fc-77e9146099be)
Chapter One (#uaeead62b-16f1-5d7f-9d2c-ebd6266460bc)
Chapter Two (#uda57c98f-18c6-50b2-a8d1-2e292d9a1c13)
Chapter Three (#u354a4d49-2bdf-52ac-83b1-541ca5cc2ce5)
Chapter Four (#u2f0d1d21-8e1c-55f7-aa5c-478a721032f0)
Chapter Five (#u4f0e9fd5-62e2-5974-889a-9c3a53765920)
Chapter Six (#u074e386c-ae77-536d-adec-85ddf67d0e7b)
Chapter Seven (#u048f0c46-e485-592a-b7f1-2c1851c3bb95)
Chapter Eight (#u2df80bcd-e824-57a6-9c15-8dd6d5b0a708)
Chapter Nine (#ue2fcbf78-bbd8-5e97-aecc-0163aa2592b9)
Chapter Ten (#ub51dc8f4-8324-570a-8875-6751e7c727f0)
Chapter Eleven (#ubef7f9eb-949a-5441-b6bd-0c9be5876cb5)
Chapter Twelve (#u1510c694-88fc-5196-84a3-6d42c21a8d72)
Chapter Thirteen (#u06361a44-7acd-5b8c-975f-eb74970a6585)
Chapter Fourteen (#uf899bca7-06d8-518e-8be9-2c61932330d1)
Chapter Fifteen (#u3a1768fc-345e-52fd-82c6-a18737b51991)
Chapter Sixteen (#u51e9b928-afe7-5eb1-b064-80ba6d46d90b)
Chapter Seventeen (#u1a044839-be1f-5a13-935b-876ac1fffc31)
Chapter Eighteen (#u24b98b4d-95d8-5c59-8268-1d1b06cfc9c0)
Chapter Nineteen (#u82131447-7f53-5ef1-88f3-4d0e4305802d)
Chapter Twenty (#u2b7dc8f1-b459-53c0-aa2d-1c9c933c290c)
Chapter Twenty-One (#uf2d76d8e-01f6-5c9e-aaad-04c99d28ce66)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#u554f2351-f890-5267-9609-2b54fb616191)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#ub0795ea0-a0d4-5340-bb2a-5a338a96f87a)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#uf7d6fa4c-fa8e-5cd9-95f9-98921f6ac311)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#ud43ebbe9-b46b-5c7e-9ce9-be4f3a82eb28)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#uf2e4ca2f-500d-5842-93fc-a7dfa021a548)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#ua1ca83b5-a097-5689-ae8a-69f6dc0491dc)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#u6c166ea7-5d6d-5fb8-a7cc-24d882af2fd7)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#u919afffb-a9fe-5e76-bbec-de31c1cd1c0e)
Chapter Thirty (#u63d62446-f9ce-5662-ab26-dc213ccb359c)
Chapter Thirty-One (#ucbac7cd9-5b07-5a26-8ffb-08bb17f9ce6e)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#u1377598b-0a37-59b4-8d1b-9cdd1f6f4095)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#ua7b24913-a600-5f53-988a-e8e0d1460929)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#uc3dffaf5-2391-54f9-b827-55ae4eae517f)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#u7b595988-c060-5b52-b7b5-feb537ef9f8c)
Chapter Thirty-Six (#ua643a003-eecc-5121-af0d-812b68c612c9)
Chapter Thirty-Seven (#ufcc5b54a-a37f-5d94-b609-71897fa180c6)
Chapter Thirty-Eight (#ub22563ff-3fd8-5736-a902-7f054e1efcca)
Chapter Thirty-Nine (#ua408f299-4837-5c9e-b382-1c8252c802d5)
Chapter Forty (#u265ea9e3-6f2e-5f23-97fb-48635a69cce2)
Chapter Forty-One (#uc1c276f8-dd34-5855-ad56-b64115d2f95e)
Chapter Forty-Two (#ub752b074-b44e-5d8e-a51b-934d213be51f)
Chapter Forty-Three (#u4e1d0a18-cf9b-50ba-a710-6eb2cd3cc115)
Epilogue (#u99596fcd-2f4a-5361-8308-f1be813e3b0c)
Acknowledgements (#ub86939e0-4688-5036-ab74-860ce0094dd1)
About the Author (#u0485ab75-d5e9-531f-9118-2a7a1929acdc)
Also by Mark Sennen (#u20bb3975-de22-56f7-9ab6-9ad06dcefada)
About the Publisher (#u7c561dec-f21e-562b-8d45-d79f340c9f67)
Prologue
Back Then
The song ends and Mummy and Daddy clap. The candles on the cake flicker in the draught and Mummy tells you to blow them out. You lean forward and purse your lips, your brother moving alongside you to help, and you both puff with all your might. One, two, three, four, five, six. All out. The room plunges into darkness and you feel a sudden fear.
‘Lights on!’ Mummy says and Daddy switches the light on and marches forward, the big knife in his hand, the blade shiny, sharp, ready for cutting.
The big knife lives in the kitchen, stuck to the wall above the cooker by magic. At least that’s what Daddy calls it. The knife winks at you every time you pass by, a flash of light reflecting off the stainless steel, the glare mesmerising. You don’t like being in the kitchen alone with the knife, especially not at night.
Because that’s when the big knife talks to you.
‘I am temptation,’ it says. ‘I am the explorer. I am the light.’
You’ve heard someone else speak like that too, in the cold of the church, but although the words are similar you don’t think they can mean the same thing.
‘OK, so who’s going to have the first piece?’ Daddy says and for a moment you forget about the knife and instead concentrate on Daddy’s words, knowing he is trying to trick you. You mustn’t be greedy, must always be polite; if you aren’t, you’ll get hit. You point to your brother. He smiles and claps his hands.
‘Can I, Daddy, can I?’
‘Of course you can, here, let’s see.’
Daddy takes the knife and rests it on the white icing, using his other hand to push the blade down into the cake. He cuts again and then slides the knife under the cake and withdraws the slice. He stops. Doesn’t give the piece to your brother after all. Daddy frowns. The inside doesn’t look right, the yellow sponge is soft and mushy, not cooked properly. Daddy doesn’t like that. He turns to Mummy and sneers at her.
‘What’s this?’ Daddy’s face reddens. ‘I’m out working all day and you can’t prepare a cake on this, of all days. Our special day. What do you think, boys?’
‘Naughty Mummy, bad Mummy, naughty Mummy, bad Mummy.’ You and your brother start the chant, the chant your Daddy has taught you. You hate singing the words, but if you don’t there’ll be trouble. There’s been a lot of trouble in recent months because Daddy’s changed in some way. You don’t understand why, but you wonder if it’s your fault, something you’ve done.
‘Yes, boys. Naughty Mummy.’
Daddy steps forwards and slaps Mummy in the face. She raises her hands, but it’s too late. The blow catches her and knocks her sideways. Then Daddy has her by the hair. He is dragging her out of the room into the hall, pulling her up the stairs. Mummy is screaming and Daddy is shouting. They are upstairs now, the door to their bedroom slamming shut. You know what’s going on up there because once you peeked through the keyhole. Daddy is doing something to Mummy and she doesn’t like it. Afterwards Daddy will be sorry and Mummy will say everything is going to be alright, but this time you wonder if Mummy’s words will come true because the big knife has gone. Daddy has taken it with him. You wonder how you will be able to cut the cake without it, but then you remember the cake is bad.
Your brother is crying and you tell him to pull himself together. You whisper the words Mummy says about everything being OK, but even as you say them you know they are lies. Parents lie to their children all the time. They tell them things called white lies. But there are other types of lies as well, other colours. You’ve learnt that.
‘It’s OK.’ You repeat the words to your brother as you touch him on the shoulder, but you know something has changed today and nothing is ever going to be OK again.
Now
‘Evening, Charlotte,’ someone says as she climbs from the car. Another person nods. Not a greeting, just a simple recognition that she’s here to share the load. The dirty work.
She walks across the field. Except it isn’t a field, the mud more sludge than earth, pools of water in footprints showing her the way from the gate to the tent. Not a tent for camping. Not sleeping bags to slip into at night, snuggle down, cool air on face, stars above visible through the opening of the tent.
No, there are no stars tonight, only cloud from which rain tumbles in streams, as if from a million hosepipes. There are bags, yes, although these ones are black, the tent white, vertical sides flapping in the breeze, and inside, the light comes not from a weak torch but from halogens. The people here aren’t on holiday, not smiling, not laughing apart from one joke about the weather, the incessant rain. Even then the laughter is nervous, not genuine, as if the banter which preceded the joke was merely to take minds off the task in hand, away from the hole in the ground which the tent covers. But words can’t do that, can’t take her thoughts away from the horror down in the pit where a pump thrums, slurping water up a hose to discharge it a few metres away. A generator chugs somewhere in the background and every now and then the halogens dim for a moment as the engine misses a beat.
She wonders who set this all up, who coordinated everything, who the hell is in charge of this nightmare. But really, those details don’t matter at the moment. The only thing which matters is that she doesn’t throw up, doesn’t cry, that she keeps her mind on the job.
Job, what a laugh. They don’t pay her enough for this; couldn’t. Nothing is worth this. Staring down into the hole, seeing the pitiful sight within, smelling the decomposing flesh, thinking about her own little girl, dead years now. Thinking about her other children too, knowing she loves them more than anything. Knowing nothing can be worse than this for a mother, for a parent, for anyone with an ounce of humanity inside them.
And while the others are talking, making comments, offering suggestions, she’s letting her mind go blank, allowing just one thought through: a promise to the three souls dissolving down there in the mud that she will find who did this. A promise she will do more than just find them.
