Shadows: The gripping new crime thriller from the #1 bestseller

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2017

Copyright © Paul Finch 2017

Cover photographs © Henry Steadman

Cover design © Henry Steadman 2017

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 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: 9780007551330

Ebook Edition © October 2017 ISBN: 9780007551347

Version: 2017-09-12

PRAISE FOR PAUL FINCH

‘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

Dedication

For my children, Eleanor and Harry, who, even though they’ve now left home, are always available to bounce around a few ideas.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Paul Finch

Dedication

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

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Epilogue

Keep Reading …

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

The trouble with a really successful pub crawl – in other words, if you manage to hit all the hostelries on the proposed route – is that the team inevitably falls apart before you reach the end.

Oh, it’ll start off in the usual high spirits, with much yahooing and backslapping as you excitedly barge your way in through the first few sets of doors. But as the evening wears on, and the decibels rise, and the golden nectar flows down gulping throats, heads become progressively muzzier and one by one, as the team weaves ever on to the next establishment, members will drop by the wayside. Usually they end up lingering behind because they haven’t quite finished their pint, or because they’ve met a girl they know, or because they’ve lost track of where they’re supposed to be going next. Or quite simply, in that mysterious way of pub crawls the world over, they’ve simply vanished from the face of the earth – at least for the remainder of that night, no doubt to show up the following morning in a garden or on a park bench or maybe slumped in a shop doorway, rain-sodden and with head banging.

Either way, by the end of the night, only the hardy quaffers tend to remain; that small band of iron-core loyalists who will always see things through.

Tonight, oddly, even though the rest of his mates were well-known on campus as big-time boozers, Keith Redmond had somehow found himself at the last port of call alone.

It was called The Brasshouse and it was located on Broad Street, where its reputation as a popular watering hole was very well deserved. On this occasion though, Keith arrived there in a fog of confusion, at least twelve pints of lager sloshing around inside him, and none of the four or five faces currently in there – when he could focus on them sufficiently – even vaguely reminiscent of his fellow rugby club members. In the way of these things, he wasn’t quite able to work it all out. But as he ambled to the bar, filching his last tenner from his jeans pocket, he had some vague notion that the rest of the crew would catch him up in due course; either that, or they’d done what they’d said they were going to do some way back – namely not bother going the whole distance and, as it was only Wednesday, heading home early.

Keith wasn’t sure which it had been.

As he stood there alone, the last few of the other midweek drinkers nodding their farewells to the landlord and his staff and drifting out, it irked him that he’d been marooned here. Though, as he downed his last pint of the evening in desultory fashion, he supposed he hadn’t been marooned as such. If it had slipped his notice that they’d reached a communal decision to terminate the crawl early, then it was as much his fault as anyone else’s. So, he couldn’t really be angry with them. Not that this would stop him taking the mickey in the morning, or more likely in the afternoon, when he was finally fit to re-emerge, calling them plastics and phonies.

These things happened, he reflected, as he threaded his unsteady way back across a central Birmingham awash with glistening October rain, and at this hour on a weekday almost bare of life. He wasn’t sure what time it was. Probably around one. Which wasn’t too bad. He had no lectures of note in the morning, so he could sleep until noon.

But he was only a hundred yards down the road, heading due southwest towards Edgbaston, when he remembered something important. It was quite fortuitous. A ‘Poundstretcher’ sign caught his eye, reminding him that he was supposed to draw some extra money out tonight. He was going home to Brighton this weekend, for his older brother, Jason’s, stag do. Keith sniggered. There’d be no phonies tolerated on that seafront tour; any who thought they were going to try it would get dragged to the last few venues by their underpants’ elastic.

Of course, Keith wouldn’t be involved in any of that if he didn’t have enough money. In his quest to find a cashpoint, he backtracked a little along Broad Street, and then crossed the canal, heading roughly in the direction of the city centre.

It was vaguely unsettling, even in his drunken state: there was literally no one else around.

That was partly because of the lateness of the hour, but primarily because rain was still falling in torrents: rivers gushed out of pipes and gurgled down drains; lagoons had formed at road junctions, the occasional passing vehicle kicking them up in spectacular waves. Keith was in his usual attire – jeans, trainers, and zip-up lightweight anorak over his T-shirt, though in truth that ‘anorak’ certainly wasn’t protecting him tonight, his T-shirt already soaked through; at least that went with his jeans which were also sopping, not to mention his trainers.

On reflection, it might have been a better plan to have organised a taxi back this evening. This would usually be a last resort for Keith, who, as a student, preferred to spend what little cash he had on booze, but these conditions were pretty extreme by any standards. He could still try to flag one down, of course, but only after he’d drawn the money out for the weekend.

At least, one positive result of the downpour was the sluggish but steady return of sobriety. Keith’s head was getting the full, unrestricted brunt of it, his short straw-blond hair dripping wet even as it lay plastered to his skull. It was amazing what a reviving effect that could actually have on beer-laden thought processes. By the time he’d crossed Centenary Square, those familiar post-party urges to chuckle pointlessly at nothing, or sing out loud or kick at the occasional can had long departed. He now found himself walking steadily and in a reasonably straight line.

And at the same time, as he came back to his senses, he wondered if perhaps this wasn’t the best idea. His original intention had been to call at a cashpoint before they started hitting the pubs, or at least halfway through, when it wasn’t too late and when there were other people around. Keith wasn’t the sort of person who would normally expect to be robbed, but there was a particular story circulating at present that even he found unnerving.

He considered chucking it in and heading back to Edgbaston. But then another voice advised that there was a cashpoint not too far ahead, near the Town Hall, and if he turned around now when he was so close, he’d be an absolute idiot – not to mention a total wuss.

Keith puffed his chest and thrust out his jaw as he walked defiantly on. He didn’t play wing-forward for the university seconds for nothing. He was six feet tall, and though, at the tender age of twenty, not exactly solid muscle, he was on the way to getting there. He’d make a formidable opponent even for some loser like … What was it they were calling this bloke?

Oh yeah … ‘the Creep’.

Keith snorted with derision as he strutted determinedly past a row of silent shops, water pouring in cataracts from the canopies over their fronts. Even if the bastard showed up, it wasn’t as if Keith was totally on his own here. There were lights on in some of the flat windows overhead. He even fancied he could hear music. And if he could hear them, they could surely hear him if he cried out for help.

Not that he would be crying out, for all the reasons he’d just underlined to himself.

Of course, it wasn’t comforting that this guy – the Creep – supposedly came armed.

Keith shook the thought from his head as the object of his search at last slid into view. About thirty yards ahead, on the left, the bright green square of a cashpoint VDU revealed itself. He veered over there, turning his head and checking behind him as he did.

It was in the close vicinity of cashpoints, always late at night, where this nutball was supposed to hang around. Essentially, he was a mugger. He would stop folk in the street, produce his blade, and it was quite some blade, by all accounts, and demand the cash they’d just drawn from the telling machine – though apparently it was never quite as simple as that, or at least it hadn’t been so far.

Keith’s rain-greasy fingers fumbled at the buttons as he tried to bash in his pin number. For an absurd moment, he miskeyed and got a refusal notice. He hesitated before giving it another go, glancing around first. Pulses of heavy rain drove along the deserted street in a kind of choreographed procession. But he was still alone.

Unsure how many attempts he’d be allowed before it locked him out, Keith tried his number again, much more carefully this time. With relief, the transaction was completed and a wad of crisp twenty-pound notes scrolled from the slot. He crammed them into his pocket as he lurched back along the shopfronts.

It was about three and a half miles to his digs. That would be no problem normally, but though he wasn’t exactly leaden-footed, his energy reserves felt as if they were dwindling – that was probably as much to do with the cold and wet as it was the booze. Again, he thought about trying to hail a taxi, except that, typically, there were none in sight at present.

It didn’t matter too much. He was sure that he could make good time on foot if he got away from the town centre. That was all he needed to do, in truth. All the attacks had occurred in that inner zone, the areas around New Street and the Bullring; nothing had happened as far out as Edgbaston. As he walked down Paradise Street, and crossed Suffolk Street Queensway, his confidence grew that all would be well. The guy hadn’t always struck as soon as the victims had drawn out their cash; apparently, he’d shadowed a couple for a few streets, until they’d hit more secluded spots. But there’d been absolutely nothing out in the residential districts.

Keith felt mildly critical of himself. It had been folly – drunken folly, needless to say – to have got himself into this predicament in the first place, but the reality was that he’d probably not been in any real danger. There’d only been three or four of these attacks, as far as he knew, and Birmingham city centre was covered by CCTV, so it couldn’t be long before the lunatic was caught. Perhaps ‘the Creep’ had realised that himself and had already gone to ground. That was surely what any sensible criminal would do.

As he headed down Holliday Street, Keith casually glanced over his shoulder. And had to blink twice – as what looked like a dark figure about fifty yards behind stepped out of sight.

Keith halted and pivoted around to look properly, his heart suddenly jolting in his chest.

Seconds passed. There was no sign of anyone there now.

He walked quickly on, throwing more glances over his shoulder, but seeing nothing through the gauze of rain. Before he reached the canal, he cut left down a ginnel, unsure if this was the quickest route but determined now to keep heading southwest.

Could what he’d just seen have been a figment of his imagination?

He hurried down a covered walk, and emerged onto another main road, Commercial Street. From here, glancing left, he could see all the way to the point where it intersected with Severn Street. It was at least a hundred yards off, but a dark, upright shape seemingly waited at that junction. It was impossible to tell what it was from this distance – it could easily have been some kind of permanent fixture there, but on the other hand it might be someone loitering.

Keith hurried the other way along Commercial Street until he reached Granville Street. From here he had good vantage both to the left and right. Not too far away, a set of traffic lights sat on green; there were no cars to obey them, just more curtains of rain swishing over the empty crossing. He glanced back once to see if the figure at the intersection was still there, but it was impossible to be sure; again, the rain obscured all detail.

Low-key night lights were still on in various shops, he noted as he walked on. Funny how, when you were out alone at night that didn’t really bring you any comfort, somehow enforcing the message that there was no one else here but you.

He turned onto Bath Row, lurching sharp right. The deluge still hammered down. Keith wondered if it was going to slacken off at all before he got back to the flat, not that it would make much difference now, saturated as he already was.

For what seemed like the umpteenth time, he turned and glanced behind.

And this time saw a figure about forty yards away and on the other side of the road, but heading roughly in the same direction that he was. As before, Keith felt as if he’d been struck. But then he had a couple of reassuring thoughts: firstly, although the figure was wearing heavy waterproof clothing, with the hood pulled up, concealing the face was hardly sinister on a night like this; secondly, he’d made no effort to duck out of sight again.

It must be someone else on their way home. Nothing to be worried about.

Even so, Keith increased his pace, jamming his hands into his anorak pockets, and more out of instinct than logic, on the spur of the moment, taking a detour down another alley, this one leading around the back of the Shell garage. Technically, he was heading northward again – not where he wanted to go, but he had to admit, he hadn’t liked the way that other homeward-bound pedestrian had suddenly appeared from nowhere.

He peered backward as he trudged down the alley, its junction with Bath Row falling steadily behind. But no waterproof-clad figure strode past it as he’d expected. When the junction was a hundred yards distant, Keith still hadn’t seen anyone.

And that felt wrong.

He pressed on urgently, and almost collided with the steel post of a street sign, which he must have made a blind beeline for without realising. He skipped aside, but in so doing, slipped on a greasy flagstone, and landed heavily on his back.

A great video for someone to post on YouTube, he thought as he scrambled back to his feet, insulated from the pain by his growing sense of unease. In actual fact, he hoped that somebody was filming. It might help them catch this Creep nutter.

When he stepped out onto a narrow, largely residential thoroughfare which he recognised as Roseland Way, it was a relief. He wasn’t far from home now.

Within a few minutes, he’d worked his way down to the A4540, or the Middleway as it was known, a large inner-urban dual carriageway, which formed part of the Birmingham ring road.

On the other side of that lay Edgbaston.

He crossed the Middleway via an underpass, descending a flight of stone steps and heading quickly along the square cement passage, which led some thirty yards to the other side. The usual graffiti was there in abundance – ‘Blues’ and ‘AVFC’ – along with other vastly more profane slogans. Keith might consider himself a lad-about-town, but he didn’t particularly like using these subways at night, especially not alone – they were damp, desolate and echoey. But tonight was an exception. He just wanted to get home, get showered and get to bed. Not long now.

He was perhaps ten yards from the end when a figure descended the steps in front of him.

By its height and shape it was male, but there was no real certainty of that because it was covered by a heavy black rain-slicker with the hood pulled down over the face.

It came straight along the passage, head bowed, hands buried in its pockets.

Keith continued forward too, didn’t even falter in his stride. Partly this was due to surprise – it basically stupefied him; his brain, for all that he thought he’d sobered up, was still too sluggish to transfer immediate messages to his limbs. It was also, he supposed – somewhat fatalistically – because there was no turning back now.

He lowered his own head as he advanced, burrowing his hands deeper into his pockets, and at the same time moving slightly to the right. Drunk or not, he was still an athlete. He could still dodge and run. But the guy – who was quite clearly the same person Keith had seen before – now veered straight into his path.

They were about two yards apart when he looked up and met Keith face to face.

Keith couldn’t speak. He was too mesmerised by the waxy-pale features and the deranged grin imprinted on them. In fact, he was only able to move when the figure drew something metallic and gleaming from inside its right-hand pocket – which clearly wasn’t a pocket at all, because this thing came out inch after curved and glittering inch.

It wasn’t as much a knife as an old-fashioned cavalry sabre.

Keith jerked himself backward – and slipped on some waste paper. For the second time that night, he landed hard on his spine. For the second time, he barely felt it as he attempted to crab-scuttle backward. The grinning figure followed with a slow, deliberate tread, raising the sword as though for a massive downward chop.

‘Alright!’ Keith shrieked, scrabbling frantically to his feet but at the same time yanking the wad of cash from his jeans pocket and waving it at the advancing shape.

Sword still hovering, the Creep – whose maniacal expression never changed – reached out a gloved hand, and snatched the cash away. Keith could only peer up at the gleaming steel. In part because he couldn’t bear to lock gazes with those small and weirdly shimmery eyes – he’d read something in the paper about the Creep always wearing a demented expression and having a penetrating, glint-eyed stare – but also because he knew, he just knew, that awful blade would not be staying overhead. Even so, he never expected it to sweep down in a blur of speed, to deliver a murderous blow to the joint between his neck and shoulder, to bury itself deep in muscle and bone. Keith sagged to his knees, stunned by pain and horror.

But it was only when the blade was wrenched free that the blood fountained out of him, and he fell face-first to the concrete.

Chapter 2

Detective Constable Lucy Clayburn headed north along the M60, and at the Wardley interchange swerved west along the M61. It was just after ten o’clock at night, so even Greater Manchester’s famously crowded motorway network was relatively quiet, enabling her blood-red liveried Ducati M900 ‘Monster’ to hit a cruising speed of 80mph as she passed the turn-offs to Farnworth, Lostock and Westhoughton. She only slowed as she reached Junction 6, where she swung a right, entering the complexity of roundabouts and slip roads surrounding the Reebok stadium, the home of Bolton Wanderers Football Club.