Stephen Leather - Nightshade

‘You swear?’

Eric nodded. ‘I swear.’

‘Cross your heart and swear to die?’

‘Cross my heart and swear to die,’ said Eric. It was an easy lie to tell because he didn’t believe in God. He didn’t believe in anything much.

Candy laughed and Eric glared at her. He patted Bella on the shoulder. ‘You and me will go upstairs to the bathroom,’ he said. ‘Would you like a bubble bath?’

‘I just want to go home,’ said Bella. She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her arm. ‘Please just let me go home.’

‘You are going home,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’

He took her by the hand and led her upstairs. First he would clean her, getting rid of any DNA evidence. Then he’d kill her. Then they’d drive her out to the New Forest and bury her near the others. And then the hunt would begin again.

Inspector Hopkins yanked at the door. It was locked. He stepped back and considered giving it a kick, but he could see immediately that it was strong enough to take a lot of punishment. He looked around and saw a garden fork and a spade hanging from hooks on the wall. He grabbed the spade and headed for the garage door. ‘Come on, lad,’ he said. ‘Grab that fork and follow me.’

He ducked under the door and hurried around to the back of the house. The superintendent had said to stand by until the Armed Response Vehicle arrived, but the scream had changed all that. It was definitely a young girl and the sound had chilled his blood. It was a scream of a child in fear of her life.

He hurtled down the path to the back of the house. The kitchen door looked as solid as the one in the garage, but the window overlooking the rear garden was one large sheet of glass. Hopkins swung the spade back and brought it crashing through the window, turning his face to avoid any flying glass. Fisher joined him, and together they used their garden tools to hack away the remaining shards of glass.

Hopkins threw his spade through the window and crawled after it. He rolled over the windowsill, then wriggled across the sink and twisted so that he dropped feet first onto the kitchen floor. His shoes crunched on broken glass as he bent down to pick up the spade. Blood smeared across the handle and he realised that he’d cut his left hand. As he straightened up he saw Fisher struggling to crawl through the window. He leaned towards him, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him through before running out of the kitchen.

There was a woman in the hallway, mid-twenties in a grubby sweatshirt and Adidas tracksuit bottoms. ‘Where’s the girl?’ shouted Hopkins.

The woman was in shock, her eyes were wide and her mouth open. She had an acne rash across her forehead and a tan that looked as if it had come from a bottle.

‘The girl?’ shouted Hopkins again, raising the spade with both hands.

The woman pointed up the stairs. ‘Bathroom,’ she said.

Hopkins walloped her left leg with the spade, just below the knee. As the leg buckled he pushed her face down on the floor, just as Fisher came running out of the kitchen. ‘Keep her down, and call the Super, fill him in,’ said Hopkins.

As he ran up the stairs, Fisher planted his foot in the middle of the sobbing woman’s back and fumbled for his phone.

Hopkins took the stairs two at a time, the blade of the shovel scraping against the wall. He reached the landing and looked around. There was a door open to his left and he hurried towards it, raising the spade.

There was a man leaning over the bath. Hopkins saw a mop of greasy brown hair, a Chelsea football shirt and combat trousers. ‘Police!’ he shouted. ‘Turn around.’

Hopkins stepped into the bathroom and saw what the man was doing. ‘You bastard!’ he screamed. The man had his hands around the throat of a girl, submerging her in the water.

Hopkins brought the spade crashing down on the back of the man’s head. It made a dull thudding sound and the man slumped forward. Hopkins dropped the spade, shoved the man to the side and grabbed the girl under her arms. He hauled her out of the water and hugged her to his chest, then carried her out of the bathroom. He laid her on the carpet and scraped her wet hair away from her face. She wasn’t breathing and he didn’t waste time feeling for a pulse. It had been years since he had been on any sort of first aid course but he remembered enough to check that her airway was clear before tilting her head back and putting his lips over hers to blow air into her lungs. The second his mouth touched hers he knew that he was wasting his time.

The woman was begging Fisher to let her up and complaining that she couldn’t breathe. Fisher had some plastic ties in one of the pockets of his overalls and he pulled one out to bind her wrists together. ‘You can’t do this to me, I’ve got rights!’ she shouted. ‘He hit me, he hit my leg with a bloody spade!’

Fisher stood up. As he took his phone out he looked down at the bloody gash on her leg. ‘You’ll live,’ he said.

‘I’ve got my rights!’ she shouted again.

Fisher called the superintendent and told him what had happened.

‘Do you have the girl?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Fisher.

‘What the hell do you mean you’re not sure? What are you playing at?’

‘I’ll check,’ said Fisher.

‘Check? What do you mean, check?’

Fisher hurried to the stairs. ‘Sir, the Super wants to know if the girl’s okay.’ There was no answer. ‘Sir?’ He headed up the stairs. The inspector was kneeling next to the naked girl, blowing into her mouth, then he sat back on his heels and began a vigorous heart massage. ‘Sir, is she okay? The Super wants to know if she’s okay.’

Fisher realised that there were tears streaming down the inspector’s face and that little Bella Harper wasn’t okay.

Superintendent Wilkinson climbed out of the car and squared his shoulders. There were two police vans parked outside the house, a white SOCO van and three regular patrol cars. Two Police Community Support Officers were marking a perimeter with blue and white police tape.

Detective Sergeant Sean McKillop had driven from the station and he got out and looked over at the superintendent. ‘No ambulance?’

‘There’s one on the way.’ Wilkinson belched and rubbed his stomach. He’d had indigestion since he’d taken the call from Detective Fisher. He’d already chewed two Rennies but took them out of his pocket and popped another two in his mouth.

He walked towards the house, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. Murder scenes weren’t pleasant places at the best of times, but dealing with a murdered child was just about the worst scenario imaginable. He knew that he would be the ranking officer. The top brass would be giving the crime scene a wide berth. If Bella had turned up alive they’d rushing over to take the credit, but no one wanted to be tainted with a dead child. That would be down to him, to stand in front of the cameras and give the bad news. His stomach lurched and he tasted vomit at the back of his throat.

As the superintendent ducked under the tape and headed for the front door, an ambulance arrived. There were no sirens or flashing lights, there was no need. Bella Harper was dead.

A uniformed constable was standing guard at the front door and he stepped aside to allow the detectives through. ‘Where’s the girl?’ asked the superintendent.

‘Upstairs,’ said the officer.

‘And the suspects?’

‘Sitting room, first on the right.’

The superintendent stepped into the hallway. There were two more uniformed officers there and a PCSO. They stopped talking as soon as they saw the superintendent and it was clear they hadn’t been discussing work. Wilkinson jerked a thumb at the door behind him. ‘Out,’ he said.