D Devlin - The Present - The must-read Christmas Crime of the year!

A division of HarperCollins Publishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2017

Copyright © D S Devlin 2017

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2017

D S Devlin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of 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 the 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, down-loaded, 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: 9780008272760

Ebook Edition © December 2017 ISBN: 9780008272746

Version: 2017-12-04

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page The Present D S DEVLIN A division of HarperCollins Publishers www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2017 Copyright © D S Devlin 2017 Cover images © Shutterstock.com Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2017 D S Devlin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of 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 the 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, down-loaded, 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: 9780008272760 Ebook Edition © December 2017 ISBN: 9780008272746 Version: 2017-12-04

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

About the Author

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

The van arrived in the dark and silent hours before the dawn. It came slowly, crawling at a snail’s pace, its headlights off, its engine making barely a whisper. As it passed from one street to the next, its blacked-out windows stared like the unblinking eyes of a doll at the suburban houses on either side, at the neat driveways and trimmed hedges with their sprinkling of early December frost, at the fairy lights and decorated trees and plastic snowmen adorning the well-kept gardens.

Without indicating, the van turned slowly into Beechcroft Avenue, then into Hazelwood Road, then into Sycamore Drive, until finally it came inching along Elm Crescent. Here, at last, it stopped, pulling up against the kerb outside number 19.

19 Elm Crescent.

An unremarkable address in an unremarkable street in an unremarkable London suburb. But within the next twenty-four hours, that address would be known all over the country, as would the names of the young couple who lived there.

Ben and Sharon Steiner.

The black van sat outside number 19, its engine idling.

Then, with a sigh, the engine died.

Silence.

Stillness.

A minute passed.

Without a sound, a black figure slipped from the van and passed like a shadow along the drive of number 19. Effortlessly, expertly, carrying out a plan that had been well prepared in advance, the figure ducked around the side of the house. There was a momentary glint of light as a sharp-edged cutting tool was carefully scored across a window pane. Then a circle of glass was prised away, a black-gloved hand reached inside to unlatch the lock, and two heartbeats later the black figure was inside the house.

The intruder inched through the darkness of the living room, past the decorated tree, past the array of early Christmas cards on the mantelpiece, past the framed photograph of Ben and Sharon on their wedding day, smiling blissfully, revelling in their big day, and revelling too in the start of what was sure to be a long and joyful life together. Whatever the future had in store for them, it would be wonderful. Wonderful.

Reaching the hallway, the black figure stopped at the foot of the staircase and glared silently up towards the first-floor landing and the closed bedroom door just visible there.

The intruder paused.

A gloved hand clutched the wooden handle of a hatchet.

From behind the blank face of a balaclava came slow, regular breathing.

The breathing got faster. Faster, and more guttural, more animal-like.

A thick gobbet of saliva fell against the ragged mouth hole of the balaclava and soaked into the black material.

And then, suddenly, as if reacting to a starting pistol no one else could hear, the intruder charged forward, pounding up the stairs at full speed, taking them two at a time, careless of the racket made by heavy boots on the wooden treads.

It was that thundering of boots on the stairs that awoke Ben Steiner, bringing him suddenly bolt upright in bed.

And it was the crash of the bedroom door flying open that awoke Sharon Steiner, bringing her as suddenly bolt upright, as wide-eyed and terrified as her husband.

The black figure was on them before they had a chance, pounding across the bedroom in three huge strides, looming over them, raising the hatchet and bringing it down with sickening force. The axe blade embedded itself into Ben Steiner’s rib cage and jammed there so firmly that when Ben jerked and convulsed from the bed, he took the hatchet with him. It remained jutting from his chest even as he sprawled onto the floor, drumming and thrashing amid a dark torrent of blood.

Sharon Steiner opened her mouth to scream, but the black-gloved hand struck her like a hammer – once, twice, three times, then again – silencing her.

The intruder did not want her to scream.

Not tonight. Not here.

The screaming was all to come later, in the place that had been prepared for her.

And she would not be screaming alone.