T.M.E. Walsh - The Principle of Evil - A Fast-Paced Serial Killer Thriller

‘DS Crest, meet Daryl Thomas,’ said Stefan. Daryl’s face turned sour and his eyes narrowed at Elias’s credentials.

‘She’s done nothing wrong, sitting ’ere minding her own business. You got nothing.’ He folded his arms in defiance.

‘Miss Larson isn’t in trouble, Daryl. An associate told us she was here after we got no answer at her flat. We’re here about Nola Grant,’ Stefan said.

Daryl swaggered around Elias to stand beside Rachel. ‘You tell that silly slag to get her skinny arse back round ’ere ’n see me.’

‘That’s not possible,’ Elias said. He saw Stefan shake his head and his jaw set firm as Rachel began to cry.

Daryl saw their faces and edged closer. ‘What you two hiding?’ he said, raising his finger, pointing at both of them. ‘Where is she?’

Stefan ignored him and focused on Rachel. ‘We’d like to talk to you back at your flat. We’ll give you a lift.’

‘Stay out of the fucking car,’ Daryl said, grabbing her roughly by the arm. ‘Whatever you say to her, you can say in front of me.’

‘Careful, Thomas. You don’t want another assault charge under your belt.’

‘Fuck off. I’m just looking out for the lady, aren’t I, Rach?’

‘Shall I add using offensive language to an officer as well?’ Elias asked Stefan. Daryl puffed out his chest and pushed strands of his thinning brown hair out of his eyes.

‘What’s your name again?’ Daryl let go of Rachel’s arm and she rubbed it instinctively through her thick coat. Daryl squared his tall wiry frame up to Elias. Stefan took the opportunity to move Rachel, and helped her into his car.

‘Hey!’ Daryl called out and Stefan used his key fob to lock the automatic doors as Daryl reached for the passenger-door handle.

‘She’ll be fine, Daryl, settle down.’

Elias reached out and gently pushed Daryl back when he tried to round on Stefan.

‘Get your fucking dirty hands off me.’

‘You want to get a new profession, Thomas. Real men don’t beat women.’

‘You wanna fucking have a go, pig?’ He shoved his hand hard into Elias’s chest. ‘What does it matter to you? Plenty of your lot are serviced by my girls.’

Elias’s face dropped. He reached out and grabbed Daryl by the front of his jacket, pulling him forward, until his face was just inches from his own.

‘She’s dead.’

He watched Daryl’s eyes now searching his own. He went to speak, but Elias stopped him, tightening his grip. ‘Nola. Is. Dead.’

Daryl’s face grew serious. ‘You’re lying.’

‘She’s laid out on the slab in the morgue. She’s been murdered, Daryl, and I’ll be coming back to speak with you about it personally. I’ll make sure of it.’

PART TWO

02:58 a.m.

A deep pounding echo. A rush of blood through the ears. Breathing is hard and rapid.

She can see her own feet when looking down with eyes that don’t quite feel like her own. The ground is drenched in melting ice and snow. There are trees, so many trees, skeletal branches and trunks like twisted figures in the grey. Her surroundings are void of colour, entwined in a thickening mist.

Running.

She runs across the woodland floor. She has no shoes, and her feet are turning numb. Her legs are heavy. They can’t keep up with the will of her heart, the pull of her soul.

Her eyes scan the surroundings and everything whips past in a blur. A panoramic view of no way out, no place to hide. Her heart slams harder against her ribcage, fear driving her on.

All she can hear now is the sound of her own breathing, a fearful rush through the depths of her body.

A body too tired to run for much longer.

She sees the path ahead.

A path dense with trees, their roots stretching far and wide. She doesn’t see the twisting, dark root, snaking its way above the earth, and crossing her path. It’s too late now to stop herself.

Her foot is hooked. Her legs pull from under her. She is no more than a rag doll, cast aside. She panics as the ground rushes up to meet her. She can hear a voice as she falls.

She knows she can’t fight any more.

Still the ground rushes towards her. She feels like she is endlessly falling in slow motion, the wind pulling through a mass of blonde tangled hair.

CHAPTER 9

7 thNovember

The first November snow started to fall at exactly 5:31 a.m. Claire knew the time, having been up since 3:00 a.m., unable to sleep after yet another night terror. It was her third that week.

This time she was sure the man with no eyes that haunted her, who she ran from, was some twisted version of her father – Peter.

How long had it been now since they’d spoken?

She couldn’t remember and part of her felt guilty for not caring. Everything that had happened last year he’d brought upon himself, Claire knew that.

I did all I could, she reasoned with herself. Then why do I see the two of them – Father and the Other, whose name I can’t bring myself to speak – in every nightmare?

Sweat cooled against her skin, and she felt the shiver travel up her spine.

It was the morning of Nola Grant’s PM. She’d concentrate on that. It was all that mattered right now, not her broken inner self.

After she wiped the sweat from her face and chest, she headed downstairs. She then sat curled up in the window seat of the bay window in the living room, swathed in a blanket, nose buried in a book.

There was a small lamp dimly lit beside her and the curtains were open, despite it still being dark outside. A cup of coffee that rested beside her had long gone cold and she’d pushed it aside. When the first snowflake had settled on the window, she set aside her book in favour of watching the snow cover her garden in a blanket of white.

She could hear her mother, Iris, get up and start down the stairs, then her feet shuffling in her slippers against the hardwood floor as she entered the kitchen. When she heard the coffee machine whir into life, she sighed to herself, her solitude soon to be broken. She snapped her book shut and stood just as Iris entered the room.

Iris had invited herself to stay with Claire, forcing herself away from her home in Spain. Claire had never been to her mother’s house on the Costa Brava, and didn’t intend to if she could help it.

Since Iris had been divorced, she rarely made the effort to see her only child, and even when Claire had gone through her own messy divorce, Iris practically left her to go it alone.

Knowing how her mother felt about England nowadays meant Claire could relax, safe in the knowledge her mother only made an effort to visit once a year, at a time of her own choosing.

She insisted Claire never take days off to spend time with her while she was here, and was quite content to amuse herself. As long as she stayed in Claire’s house, she’d be happy left to her own devices.

Claire’s father, Peter, had moved to Aberdeen in Scotland, into a warden-controlled complex. It saddened Claire immensely but her decision to sever all ties had been for the best.

The last time they’d spoken had ended with cross words after he’d said some rather nasty things about Iris. Despite knowing her mother had been difficult to live with, Claire was having none of it, and had defended her.

‘It’s snowing,’ Iris said, with some irritation, wrapping her dressing gown tightly around her small frame.

‘It’s been forecast for over a week now.’

‘You seem to get snow earlier each year. Bloody global warming.’ She raised her finger at her daughter. ‘You should move out to Spain, love, much warmer climate. Not like England’s changeable weather. It’s bloody tedious.’ Claire rolled her eyes and turned on the television.