Simon Beckett - The Restless Dead

‘Actually I was thinking of sooner. Whereabouts are you?’

‘At work. The university.’ She had my attention now. A DI didn’t get in touch about a failed burglary, far less want to meet to discuss it. Not unless there was something else going on. ‘Why, what’s happened?’

‘I’d prefer to tell you in person. How long will it take you to get home?’

‘I can be there in an hour.’ I’d left my hire car at home but the Tube shouldn’t be too busy on a Saturday. ‘Look, are you going to tell me what this is about?’

There was a pause. I felt an awful presentiment, a conviction that an already bad day was about to slip into uncharted territory.

‘We’ve had a hit from one of the fingerprints we found on the front doorway,’ Ward said. ‘It was Grace Strachan’s.’

The name seemed to resonate down the line. I felt a sense of dislocation, as though this wasn’t really happening. From a long way off I heard the DI’s voice continue.

‘... apologize for not contacting you sooner, but with budget cuts being as they are routine break-ins are bottom of the queue. No one realized until now, and I called you as soon as it was flagged up. Dr Hunter, are you still there?’

‘Yes.’ I felt distantly surprised at how calm I sounded. ‘Are you sure?’

‘It’s only a partial, but it’s definitely hers. The thing is it was lifted from the strip of putty on the window frame, and the oil in that’s made it impossible to date. So we don’t know how long it’s been there. It might have been left when she attacked you, but we just can’t say. Obviously, given what happened last time, we don’t want to take any chances. That’s why I want to see you at your flat. I think... well, I think we should take a look at what sort of precautions you need to take.’

There was a rushing in my ears. I realized my hand had gone to the healed scar on my stomach. Given what happened last time... She meant when I’d almost bled to death after Grace Strachan stabbed me in my own doorway. But that was years ago. There’d been no sign of my attacker since then, so how was it possible she’d come back now? Grace had been a murderous psychotic who’d only escaped detection because she’d had help. As time passed I’d allowed myself to believe that she must be dead. If she wasn’t...

I mumbled some sort of agreement and lowered the phone. I was barely aware of the journey back to my flat. Buffeted by feelings I thought I’d left in the past, I descended the escalators to the Tube in a bubble of shock. As the carriage rumbled through the tunnel I checked the time. Rachel’s plane would be in the air by now. I actually felt relieved. If Grace Strachan was back then everyone close to me was in danger.

At least I knew Rachel was safe.

Walking from the station I found myself scanning the street in a way I hadn’t done for years. I went up the path to my flat and stopped by the front door. The woodwork had been repainted after the joiner had replaced the lock and repaired the damage. Any fingerprints that had been there would have been covered over. There was no way of determining now if Grace Strachan’s was an old one or not. I told myself it might have survived all this time, that this could all be a false alarm. But I didn’t really believe it.

I couldn’t afford to.

There was no one home upstairs, but at some point I’d have to let my new neighbour know. That was a conversation I didn’t look forward to. When I let myself into my own flat, the rooms and furniture seemed familiar and yet utterly strange, as though I were only now seeing them. I went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. I didn’t want anything to drink, but it gave me something to do.

My coffee cooled untouched as I waited for Ward to arrive. Even though I was expecting it, the doorbell’s cheerful chime made me flinch. I hurried to answer it, pausing in the porch with my hand on the front door. There was no peephole. I’d always resisted having one fitted, not wanting to give in to paranoia after the attack. But it meant I couldn’t see who was outside now. A sense of déjà vu settled over me as I stood in the black-and-white tiled hallway, then I opened the door.

‘Can I come in?’ Rachel said.

It’s been a longer than anticipated gap between the previous David Hunter novel and The Restless Dead . A number of people and organizations helped along the way. Thanks are due to Tim Thompson, Professor of Applied Biological Anthropology at Teesside University; Tony Cook, the National Crime Agency’s Head of Operations at CEOP; Patricia Wiltshire, Professor of Forensic Ecology at Southampton University; Dr Martin Hall, Research Entomologist at the National History Museum; Essex Police Press Office; Kay West, former president of transgender support group the Beaumont Society; GIRES (Gender Identity Research and Education Society); and Robin Adcroft, chairman of sea fort renovation group Project Redsand Trust. Without their assistance with factual aspects of the story, The Restless Dead would be a poorer novel. It goes without saying that any errors or inaccuracies are my fault, not theirs.

Thanks also to my agents Gordon Wise and Melissa Pimentel at Curtis Brown, my editor Simon Taylor and the team at Transworld, my German editor Ulrike Beck and all at Rowohlt, my parents Frank and Sheila Beckett, my sister Julie for the dog food cake, Ben Steiner and SCF.

Finally, as ever a heartfelt thank you to my wife Hilary, for being there with me throughout.