Dark Lies (Detective Rhodes and Radley #1)
Nick Hollin
To my family
Prologue
He stands in quiet contemplation of his work, the warm glow of satisfaction lingering as the body ahead of him starts to cool. There is frustration there, too; she’d deserved better, deserved him to be at the top of his game, but instead he’d stumbled and very nearly missed her throat with the knife. He’d gone a little too deep, and the blood had sprayed to places he hadn’t intended, like onto the corner of a child’s painting pinned by a magnet to the fridge door. It looks like a signature, he thinks. But that crude little picture is not his art. His masterpiece will be something far more ambitious.
The naked body is carefully arranged, and the skull-shaped mark has been drawn at the top of her thigh. The shape he’s piped in chocolate icing is beautiful, exactly as he’d wanted it to be. His hand as steady as the smile on his face.
He reaches into a plastic bag and removes the final piece of the display: a tin of beans. He pulls carefully at the ring, peeling back the lid to reveal the contents. The sauce is a satisfying red. He starts to pour, shaping a speech bubble close to his victim’s head alongside lips that remain parted for a final breath that never came. He tilts her head towards the carving knife he’s placed behind her and positions her limbs to give the impression she’s running.
When he’s done, he stands back and takes it all in, wishing the lights above him were brighter and the tiles on the floor cleaner so he could enjoy the contrast between white and red. Nobody else will ever know it wasn’t perfect, just as they will never know about the mistakes he’s made. And there’s always the next time, of course.
* * *
Sarah stares at the living room window, unable to see past the reflection of a frightened woman. Tonight, for the very first time, she will be without her children. She glances down at her phone, wondering if it’s too early to call her husband and check they’re okay, to make sure they’re not suffering as badly as she is, but she remembers his last words when he’d given her a squeeze and told her to enjoy herself. If only he’d been better at reading her feelings. If only she’d been better at talking about them. Finally, she’d admitted she needed a break, and he’d sweetly arranged to take the boys to his parents’, swearing that he’d follow every one of the two dozen instructions on the list. Now the freedom she’s dreamt about so frequently over the last three years seems like the worst possible kind of nightmare.
She forces herself to move, to look away from the window and give up on the hope of seeing her children suddenly appear, running up the path, arms spread wide. As she turns, she stops, certain for a moment that she really has seen a pale face out there in the darkness. She shakes away the image, putting it down to her nerves, or the two glasses of red wine she’s gulped down to try and ease them. She slumps onto the sofa, trying to remember what she used to do in the evenings when she wasn’t washing clothes, thinking about fun activities for the following day, or worrying about how to put weight on the younger boy, Tate. She stares down at her stomach, lifting her shirt to reveal the scar through which her youngest had emerged. From that very first day she’d known he wasn’t right. It wasn’t science, it was instinct.
It’s also instinct that’s telling her she really ought to get up and investigate the noise she’s just heard at the front door. Has something been pushed through the letterbox? It would explain the draught that’s now fluttering the flame of the candle that was supposed to bring her calm. It might also explain the face she thinks she’s seen.
It’ll be another bloody takeaway menu, she assures herself, pushing up onto her feet and moving past the entrance to the kitchen where she can see a stack of them on top of the microwave. A proper meal out with the family would be nice, but it would have to be a restaurant where she could be sure they would understand Tate’s needs, and where it could all be served and eaten before the older boy, Felix, got bored and ran off in search of trouble. She checks her phone again, wondering what Felix is up to right now, sedated by the television, perhaps, or pestering Tate, who ought really to be getting ready for bed.
As she turns the corner into the hall she spots a small plastic tractor tucked up against the side of a little pair of shoes. She reaches down to pick it up, not only fearful of the tantrums if it’s lost, but wanting to squeeze it in her palm, as if it might bring her closer to the boys. She feels the draught again and looks up at the front door, expecting to see the letterbox her husband has never got around to fixing stuck ajar, but she finds the door is partly open. Her initial thought is a happy one: the boys have returned and are waiting to jump out and surprise her with their cheekiest grins. The absence of a car in the drive she can see through the gap in the doorway is telling her otherwise. As is her instinct, which is telling her to run.
She feels something strike the back of her neck. Hard. The darkness rises as fast as the floor, giving her just long enough to see the glint of a knife. The last thing she sees are Tate’s little shoes, carefully arranged by her just minutes before, ready for a tomorrow that will never come.
One
Katie is woken by an elbow to the face. When she finally manages to pull things into focus the elbow looks to be the only part of the body beside her not covered in hair. Disgusted, she searches for the man’s name, but her thoughts are as twisted as the bedsheets under her, and it’s enough of a struggle to remember her own. She notices the curtains are still open as she peels her cheek from the pillow and rolls over, searching for her phone. A fluorescent alarm clock tells her it was just five hours ago that she was dragged into bed, and perhaps as little as three hours ago that she started trying to get some sleep.
She continues her retreat, slipping off the side of the bed and onto a pile of clothes that look like her own. They stink of smoke, booze and sweat, and she has to hold her breath against the smell as she fights her way into them. The body on the bed doesn’t move.
She slips into the bathroom, taking the briefest of glimpses in the mirror. Her shoulder-length dark hair is matted on one side and stubbornly resists being untangled with her fingers. Her make-up is a state, but she can feel the reassuring lump of a lipstick in her trouser pocket and hastily smooths it on, wiping the kohl from under her eyes. The rest is most likely in her handbag, but she has no idea where that could be. She stands perfectly still, replaying as much as she dares of the previous night. She’s sure she left her bag in her car; she’s also fairly certain she drove that car to just outside this flat. The thought makes the room swim and leaves her leaning over the edge of the sink.