A Deadly Likeness, page 1
Dorothy Robinson, 4 March 1939–20 September 2022
Dotty – my ‘Little Mother’, who gave me unconditional love, laughter and fun, and showed me what a childhood should be like.
An ‘Apex Predator’ is by definition at the very top of the food chain. In its natural habitat, nothing preys upon it.
Therefore, many would say that we are Apex predators.
I know that’s not true.
I know beyond doubt, we have predators out there, that don’t hunt and kill us in order to survive.
They do it because they can.
But the most terrifying of all . . .
do it because they like it.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-One
Chapter Ninety-Two
Chapter Ninety-Three
Chapter Ninety-Four
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Chapter One
Thursday Morning, Mid-November, Kingsberry Farm
I threw a stick for my boxer dog, Harvey, and watched as he bounded across the frozen field after it.
We were lucky to live in a place like this, with six acres of my own land to walk across, without seeing another living soul. The isolation up here on the Yorkshire moors suited me, given what I did for a living. But it was easy to get complacent about the scenery when it was an everyday companion.
I turned my face into the watery morning sun, breathing in the crisp air. Jamming my hands into the pockets of my Barbour jacket, I turned down the well-worn track to my woods. Harvey was leading the way as usual.
I felt the mobile vibrate against my palm a second before its shrill tone shattered the rural tranquillity.
‘McCready.’
‘Finally dragged yourself out of bed then?’ I could hear tension in Callum Ferguson’s voice, beneath his barely discernible Scottish accent.
‘Been up for hours – already out walking.’ I climbed a stile, which Harvey took in one leap. ‘How come you left so early?’
‘Got a call. You were out for the count – didn’t want to wake you.’ I could picture him at his desk in the CID office in Fordley Police Station. ‘Supt. Warner picked up a murder case overnight.’
Detective Superintendent Charlotte Warner headed up a team of specialist detectives in HMET, West Yorkshire Police’s Homicide and Major Enquiry Team.
‘I’m DCI on it. Going to be putting in all the hours for a while, Jo. This is a bad one.’
I thought about the shock wave from sudden death – destroying everything in its path.
‘Aren’t they all?’
‘Hmm, well this one has extras that I really don’t like . . .’ He paused but I sensed there was more to come. ‘Was hoping you could come and take a look? I really need you to see this.’
‘What is it this time? Sick, sadistic or just plain deviant?’
‘How did you guess?’
‘Because I only get called if there’s an element of sick or sadistic—’
‘Or just plain deviant.’ He finished helpfully.
‘So . . . Which is it?’
‘Thought that’s what you did? Read minds.’
‘I’m a forensic profiler, not Mystic Meg.’ I scooped the stick Harvey had dropped at my feet and launched it for him.
‘I know you don’t want to get involved in police investigations anymore—’
‘I don’t.’
‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’
‘They’re all important, Cal – it’s not a matter of degree.’ Harvey ran back and danced around my legs. ‘It’s a matter of balance – for me anyway.’
‘I know. Last year was a tough one, Jo. Stress wise. I understand that—’
‘My case-load is full. Crown Prosecution Service are keeping me busy. I’ve got offender assessments to do for two upcoming trials.’
‘We don’t want you in this all the way,’ he pressed. ‘Just need you to come out and take a look. To give me your opinion. Please?’
‘Just today?’
‘Absolutely.’
His answer came too fast to be true.
‘Warner’s authorised your involvement – got a budget code for your time.’
‘Already?’
It was unusual for a profiler to be called in at such an early stage, which compounded my uneasy feeling that there was a lot more he wasn’t telling me.
He hesitated for just a heartbeat. ‘I know you hate seeing them in situ, Jo . . . but it’s important for this one.’
Seeing the bodies had never been something I found easy. Even though ‘walking the scene’ was a process I employed to get into the mind of an offender, to map the events that had led up to whatever atrocity we were dealing with. But usually, it was long after all the physical evidence had been removed. I preferred it that way – for all kinds of reasons.
‘I can meet you at the scene.’ He pushed again.
Pre-empting my agreement. Nice tactic.
‘I don’t know, Cal . . .’
‘Please, Jo.’ His tone was coaxing. ‘It’s on the Kenley Estate in Fordley. Do you know it?’
I let out a long breath. ‘OK,’ I said finally. ‘I’m walking Harvey, so give me time to get changed.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘Can be there in an hour?’ I still wasn’t sure I wanted to do this.
‘I’ll send you the address.’
Chapter Two
Thursday Morning, Fordley
I drove past rows of identical semi-detached houses on the Kenley Estate. The one I was looking for was in a quiet cul-de-sac of well-maintained gardens, separated by tidy privet hedges.
I remembered the estate being built when I was a teenager. My mother – known to everyone simply as ‘Mamma’ – dragged me and my father into the show home one Sunday morning.
As an Italian immigrant, arriving in England with my grandparents not long after the Second World War, Mamma had always aspired to living in what she referred to as ‘the posh part of town’. My father, a typical Irish-Yorkshireman, was totally unimpressed by this vision of suburbia, and the ‘bloody extortionate price’ of a new life on the other side of town. Needless to say, we didn’t relocate.
I spotted Callum as soon as I turned into the street, even though he was wearing the anonymising white ‘scene suit’. The head of silver hair was unmistakable as he leaned against the bonnet of his unmarked BMW. The obligatory face mask pulled down and dangling around his neck.
The women at Fordley nick called him ‘The Silver Fox’ – though never to his face. In his mid-forties, his hair was an unusual feature, which only made his good looks more striking.
Blue and white police tape marked the outer cordon at the end of the cul-de-sac. A uniformed officer stood guard outside one of the houses halfway down, as crime scene investigators came and went from their van.
This unassuming home had once been the same as all the others. But not anymore. It would now forever be known as the place where a murder happened. Tainted. Different. Changed forever, like everything touched by sudden and violent death.
In a neighbourhood that was just beginning the tentative process of putting up Christmas decorations; festive tinsel and fairy lights were incongruous against the harsh formality of police paraphernalia surrounding a crime scene.
Callum strolled over as I locked my Roadster.
‘People think you’re a poser, driving that,’ he teased.
‘Still beats yours out of a bend, any day of the week.’
‘Emasculating a man by insulting his car.’
‘Then get a decent car,’ I said with humour.
‘It’s the new body shape.’
‘You can put lipstick on a pig . . . but it’s still a pig.’
Our usual banter – much more fun than a mundane ‘good morning’.
We stood apart, feeling suddenly awkward about not touching. But this was work and we’d always kept that distinctly separate from our personal lives.
Everyone in Fordley nick speculated about our on/off relationship, with no one ever quite sure whether we were ‘on’ or ‘off’. After almost two years of dancing around it, I don’t think we knew ourselves. Then, just a few months ago, I’d decided to stop holding DCI Callum Ferguson at arm’s length. Weighing up the risks of becoming vulnerable against the need to end my self-imposed emotional isolation. But it was still early days, and lately, I’d felt a chill creeping in between us.
‘So, what’ve you got?’ I asked, dragging it back to business.
‘Barbara Thorpe. Fifty-two years old. Lives alone. Apparently, she let the cat out every night and was up around five every morning to let it in and feed it. But not today. Next-door neighbour heard the cat crying to get inside the house and knocked on.’ He gestured next door with a nod of his head. ‘She had a key and let herself in around seven o’clock. Found her friend with her throat cut. No sign of forced entry or a struggle, and doesn’t look like anything’s been taken.’
We both paused as an officer guarding the outer cordon handed me a paper scene suit, gloves, mask and overshoes. Callum leaned against my car and watched as I began to pull them on.
‘Still not sure why you need me for this,’ I said as I signed the scene log.
‘Looks like it might be connected to the Stephen Jones case,’ he said, by way of an explanation.
Stephen Jones had been murdered the previous month, in a quiet suburb of Leeds. He’d had his throat cut as he sat watching TV. I’d only read about the Jones case in the newspapers, same as everyone else.
We both stopped to pull up hoods and slip the masks over our faces, before ducking under the tape that marked the inner cordon.
‘That’s the connection? Both had their throats cut?’ I asked. ‘Not that sick, sadistic or deviant in the grand scheme of things.’
‘Not just that.’
‘What then?’
His expelled breath was muffled by the mask as he opened the gate and walked me down the path. ‘After Jones’s murder, we held back certain details.’
‘Like what?’
‘As well as having his throat cut, he’d had a body part amputated.’
‘Has that happened here?’
‘Not exactly.’
My legendary lack of patience was being sorely tested. This was like pulling teeth.
‘What then?’
‘You’ll see.’
Chapter Three
There was a hush in the house, despite the level of activity. It was something I’d noticed before. A reverence, I supposed, given that the deceased was still there. That until a few short hours ago, this had been their private space, until a brutal killer had invaded it and taken everything away from them.
To me, being at a crime scene, when the victim was present, had always felt like the ultimate intrusion. Prying into the intimate details of their lives and finally their demise. There was no privacy in death, and in a violent killing, even less.
I followed Callum down the short hallway from the front door and into the living room – careful only to walk on the stepping plates put there by crime scene officers, to avoid people trampling over potential evidence.
Barbara’s lounge was what my mother would call ‘chintzy’. A three-piece suite with a bold floral pattern that matched the curtains, which were still drawn shut – just as they had been when she was found.
The mantelpiece and sideboard crowded by cheap ornaments and mementos – the kind of thing you’d pick up at the seaside.
A spindly, silver Christmas tree stood in the corner, its bright decorations a stark contrast against the cream-emulsioned Anaglypta wallpaper.
The brassy smell of warm blood still hung heavily in the air – creeping round the edges of my mask, until it felt as though I could taste it.
I stood with Callum, looking down at the victim.
For some reason I looked at her feet first.
I’d always done it that way, maybe because I didn’t want to look at their faces, especially the eyes, until I had to.
Barbara was wearing pink fluffy slippers. Her right foot was covered by a cushion that seemed to have fallen off the armchair. Her legs were bare – the skin mottled from sitting too close to the electric fire. Thankfully, someone had turned off the heat – but left the fake ‘flickering flame’ lights on, which bathed her in a shimmering, unnatural orange glow that did nothing to lessen the surreal horror of the scene.
My gaze took in the heavy pink dressing gown, stained a brighter red from the waist up, where her blood had spilled down the front, from the gaping wound across her throat.
Finally, I looked at her face. Head resting against the back of the armchair, her sightless eyes staring with glassy terror at the ceiling. Her throat had been severed neatly from one side to the other – the fleshy lips of the wound, thick and white and slick, like the gutted belly of a dead fish.
Her mouth was open, as her slackened jaw had dropped in an abruptly silenced scream.
I took a step forward to get a closer look. There was a grey object protruding from between her teeth. At first, I thought it was her tongue.
‘It’s a thumb,’ I said to no one in particular.
I could feel Callum behind me. I half-turned to him. ‘You think it’s Stephen Jones’s?’
‘I’m getting Forensics to fast-track it, but I’ll be amazed if it isn’t.’
I took another look at the wide thumbnail. The severed end was hidden inside her mouth.
‘Let me guess,’ I said quietly, ‘Jones was murdered on a Wednesday night. His killer used secateurs to cut off his thumb, and apart from the wound to his throat, he had no other injuries – no defence wounds either. No sign of forced entry or a struggle?’
‘Details of his injuries were never made public . . . How do you know?’
‘Any connection between Barbara and Jones?’ I said, ignoring his question.
‘Apart from the fact that she’s sucking his thumb?’ I felt him shake his head.
I straightened up and took in the whole scene. Behind her chair was the door to the small kitchen at the back of the house. The armchair faced the TV.
A few dark spots of blood marked a path across the room from the armchair to the wall – culminating in an almost artistic arc of red across the pale wallpaper. Like a grotesque abstract painting. What the blood pattern analyst would refer to as ‘cast-off blood spatter’ – created as the blade was swung, after inflicting the fatal wound.
Her hands rested on the arms of the chair. The fingers curled into claws. Nails digging into the soft material, when they’d clamped in a paroxysm of pain and terror in the split second she’d realised what was happening to her.
‘Time of death?’
‘Waiting for the pathologist. You know how much they hate being pushed on that – but last night sometime.’
‘Wednesday,’ I said almost to myself.
I looked down at the cushion covering her right slipper.
‘She’s had a toe, probably the big one, removed from her right foot . . . with secateurs,’ I said quietly.
Callum moved away and spoke to one of the CSIs. A moment later, the forensics officer came over and photographed the cushion before gently lifting it to reveal the once-pink, fluffy slipper, which was now stained a dark red.
