Paul Finch - Kiss of Death

‘Wonderfully dark and peppered with grim humour. Finch is a born storyteller and writes with the authentic voice of the ex-copper he is.’

PETER JAMES

‘Edge-of-the-seat reading … formidable – a British Alex Cross.’

SUN

‘An ingenious and original plot. Compulsive reading.’

RACHEL ABBOTT

‘As good as I expected from Paul Finch. Relentlessly action-packed, breathless in its finale, Paul expertly weaves a trail through the North’s dark underbelly.’

NEIL WHITE

‘A deliciously twisted and fiendish set of murders and a great pairing of detectives.’

STAV SHEREZ

‘Avon’s big star … part edge-of-the-seat, part hide-behind-the-sofa!’

THE BOOKSELLER

‘An explosive thriller that will leave you completely hooked.’

WE LOVE THIS BOOK

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018

Copyright © Paul Finch 2018

Cover design © www.blacksheep-uk.com2018

Cover photograph © Alamy

Paul Finch 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 ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, 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: 9780008243982

Ebook Edition © August 2018 ISBN: 9780008243999

Version: 2018-06-21

For my wife, Catherine, who has always been my rock.

Table of Contents

Cover

Praise for Paul Finch

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Keep Reading…

About the Author

By the Same Author:

About the Publisher

2014

‘OK … here’s how we do it. Now pay attention, Brian. Pay very close attention …’

The older one was speaking, the one who’d been so indescribably vicious all night.

It was a strange thing, but as recently as one day ago, if you’d asked Brian Kelso which of two desperate criminals you’d expect to be the most unrestrainedly violent – the older one, or the younger one – he’d have opted for the younger one every time.

But of course, the last nine hours had not just changed his views on that – it had changed everything.

‘Are you listening?’ the guttural voice wondered.

Again, the guy sounded as if he was from East Yorkshire. Again, Kelso made a mental note to remember this, so that he at least had something he could tell the police, though both he and Justine needed to survive this ordeal first.

‘Yes, I’m listening,’ he told the throwaway phone they’d supplied him with.

‘Drive out of the north end of town along Welton Road. You know it?’

‘Yes … I know it.’

‘You’ll see a bus stop at the junction with Horncastle Lane. Slow down when you get there, and stop. That’s when you’ll receive further instructions.’

‘OK.’

‘Before you set off … how much did you manage to get?’

‘Erm …’ Kelso’s mouth, already flavoured like mud after what seemed an age without even a sip of water, went fully dry. He glanced over his shoulder at the four heavy haversacks, now zipped and buckled tight on the rear seat of his Peugeot. ‘About two hundred … I think.’

There was a protracted silence.

‘Two hundred?’ came the eventual response. ‘I thought we’d agreed three at the very least?’

‘Look … I was on my own, OK? The staff were due within the next hour. I got as much as I could in the time available. Surely you understand that? It’s not like the Dunholme branch is crammed with cash anyway.’

‘I suppose it’ll have to do.’ The tone was deeply grudging. ‘But I’m not happy with you, Brian. I’m not happy at all.’

The line went dead.

‘Wait, please!’ Kelso shouted. ‘Is Justine all right?’

Only the dial tone purred back at him.

Just about managing to suppress the cry of emotional agony set to burst its way out of him like a piece of actual anatomy, he dropped the phone onto the passenger seat next to him, and slumped forward, his forehead striking the steering wheel.

Justine, whom he’d been married to for the last twelve years, had never hurt anyone in her life. She was good-natured, kind-hearted; she rarely nagged him or got crotchety, and God knows, there were times when he’d deserved that from her. Even though she’d been so grief-stricken to learn that she couldn’t have children, she’d refused to let it get her down, determinedly continuing with life, filling what might otherwise have been a yawning desolation for both of them with her bubbly personality and busy demeanour, looking after herself to the nth degree, looking after him, looking after their detached, four-bedroom house, ensuring that it was permanently like a new pin.

And now those bastards had … had …

Kelso shook his head, hot salt-tears coursing down his cheeks as he struggled to negotiate the icy surface of Market Rasen Road. Whatever the outcome today, he knew that he’d never forget the image now branded into his mind’s eye: of his lovely soulmate, stripped naked and bound X-shaped with pairs of her own tights to the lower banisters of their staircase, her head drooped, her chestnut hair unbound and hanging in long, ratty hanks, her slim, marble-white body mottled with bruises, streaked with blood.

‘You have to understand,’ the older one had said some time around three that morning, by which point Kelso sat stiff and sweat-soaked in the dining room chair they’d brought into the hall and tied him to with the hoover flex, so that he could watch. ‘We couldn’t do any of this to you . Because just before dawn, you’ve got to go down to that bank you manage with your best suit on and your keys in your pocket as if everything is normal. A bit earlier than usual of course, but not so much … and not in any kind of state that’ll make anyone who sees you suspicious. But even so, we had to make it absolutely clear what you’ll be facing if you try to fuck us over. You see, my young pal, here … he’s going to tail you down to the bank. And he’s going to park across the road till you’ve gone inside. Now, up until that moment I reckon it’s safe to say we’ll have full control over you. But we’re under no illusions: once you’re in there, things are different. There’ll be nothing to stop you picking the nearest phone up and calling the filth. Except the knowledge that we’ve still got your missus. And that nasty little question that’ll be niggling away in the back of your head … if that was the way they treated her when I hadn’t given them any grief, what in Christ’s name will it be like if I try to double-cross them?’