Mark Edwards - Killing Cupid

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors' imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2011

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2011

KILLING CUPID. Copyright © Louise Voss and Mark Edwards 2011

Louise Voss and Mark Edwards assert the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable 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 ebooks

HarperCollins Publishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780007460717

Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2012 ISBN: 9780007458813

Version: 2016-12-16

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1

I’ve got to take out my contact lenses, they’re sticking.

Chapter 2

My day off. Simon and Natalie were at work, and…

Chapter 3

Well. That was quite an evening.

Chapter 4

I spent all afternoon working on my online review of…

Chapter 5

As soon as he was through my front door, Phil…

Chapter 6

It took me almost an hour to choose the Klimt…

Chapter 7

Class went well last night. I think I’m finding my…

Chapter 8

I felt happy this morning. Really happy, endorphins fizzing and…

Chapter 9

OK, now, something very weird is going on. Either Biggles…

Chapter 10

Seeing them together tonight made me feel sick. The way…

Chapter 11

It’s too much. First, the card, the flowers and the…

Chapter 12

I had been so happy to see Siobhan in her…

Chapter 13

Have just got in from tennis. Dennis couldn’t believe how…

Chapter 14

I panicked, looking around the room, my instinct telling me…

Part Two

Chapter 15

It seems to be taking a long time, getting over…

Chapter 16

I heard someone come home at about 6.30 this evening.

Chapter 17

I need to find myself another tennis partner. I don’t…

Chapter 18

Emily and I had arranged to meet at Moulin Rouge,…

Chapter 19

I’d been trying to work up the courage to call…

Chapter 20

Emily came over again last night. I spent much of…

Chapter 21

I’m looking at what happened this morning as material for…

Chapter 22

The day started well. Emily came with me to the…

Chapter 23

As I was halfway through chapter 8 of my ‘novel’,…

Chapter 24

Waking up this morning, still drowsy, I heard Emily say,…

Chapter 25

I wonder if I should go back to Dr. Bedford. Or…

Chapter 26

Siobhan. Siobhan and Emily. Together.

Chapter 27

It was a really horrible thing to do. I know.

Chapter 28

Emily had to take the day off work yesterday, most…

Chapter 29

Haven’t written for a few days. Been too busy. But…

Chapter 30

Emily threw the rucksack on one bed and herself on…

Chapter 31

I slept like a baby – pot does that to…

Chapter 32

Right on cue, as soon as the brick shithouses had…

Chapter 33

My birthday’s nearly over; I’m drunk and weary and my…

Chapter 34

Ever since I started writing my journal I’ve become addicted…

Epilogue

Keep Reading

Acknowledgements

About the Authors

About the Publisher

Alex

It was the sound of Kathy’s body hitting the concrete that kept me awake at night afterwards. It was like a hard-boiled egg dropped from a great height onto a wooden floor. A muffled thud, something splintering, a crack. And then the great silence that followed.

From my position up on the fire escape, I couldn’t see her. The moon had slipped behind a cloud. I peered down at the black shapes, thought I saw something dart over the back wall – a cat, a small fox? – and that fleeing creature woke me from my stunned state and made me move. There was only one thing to do.

Panic.

The metal steps were slippery from the rain that had fallen that afternoon, and as I walked backwards down the fire escape I slipped and banged my knee, scraping skin, hissing a curse that seemed to echo around me. With tears in my eyes I stood upright and looked out across London, at the jumble of shapes silhouetted on the horizon. The city looked different now. More dangerous. Another secret – mine, my latest – crawled through the city and joined the millions that hid in London’s nooks and basements and hearts.

Back inside Kathy’s flat, I tried to gather my thoughts and work out what needed to be done. Had I left fingerprints? What had I touched? I’d come in from the pub, stood by the window, taken the beer that my temporary friend had handed me, chilled and cracked open, a wisp rising from its neck.

There was the bottle, standing on the table by the window. I picked it up and took it with me, tucking it into my jacket pocket. Had I touched anything else? Had I? My thoughts were drowned out by the rush of fear. I had to get out. Using my sleeve to cover my fingers, I opened the door of the flat and peered up and down the stairwell, leaving the light off. Surely the neighbours would hear my heart? I heard a noise through the wall and froze. Then, trying and failing to make myself weightless, I completed my journey down the steps, out into the night.

I stopped by the gate. Her body was just around the corner. If I took a few steps to the right, I might see it. I… shit, how did I know it was actually ‘a body’? She might have survived the fall. It was possible. She could be merely paralysed. Merely. I had to check. Looking around again to make sure no-one was coming, I dragged my heavy legs – I felt like I was wearing antique diving boots – to the corner of the house and peered around the corner. I could see her on the floor – a dark shape, unmoving, about twelve feet away. There were no sounds, no whimpering, no laboured breathing, sounds that would have told me she was still alive. Though she could be unconscious. I mean, Jesus, if she was still alive, of course she’d be unconscious.

I crept closer, and as I did, the security lights came on, lighting up the whole world, pointing a blazing finger at me. Here’s Alex, everyone. Over here.

I jumped backwards, banging into the wall, stumbling and almost falling. But as I spun away I saw all I needed to see: her head cast at an unnatural angle, neck broken – it was unmistakeable – and her eyes, open, staring. Right at me. My stomach lurched, and I fought it. That would be the worst thing I could do – splattering my dinner and DNA all over the yard. I turned and walked, head down, eyes half-closed, thinking if I can’t see anyone else they won’t see me, and made my way out onto the pavement and along the street. I forced myself not to run, though I was desperate to, wanting more than anything else to flee, to sprint, to put as much distance as possible between me and that dead woman. But I could imagine some curtain-twitcher glimpsing this man running from the scene; a man that police wanted to help them with their enquiries. So I made myself walk, calmly; just a bloke on his way home from the pub. I walked all the way home.