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One More Chapter
an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020
Copyright © Jackie Kabler 2020
Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Cover photographs © Richard Coombs / Alamy Stock Photo (door), ANGUK / Shutterstock (door knob)
Jackie Kabler 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.
Ebook Edition © April 2020 ISBN: 9780008328429
Version: 2020-02-28
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
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
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Keep Reading …
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Jackie Kabler
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
It was the silence I noticed first. When Danny was around there was always noise, singing or humming, the tap-tapping of a laptop keyboard, the prolonged clatter of spoon against ceramic mug as he stirred his black coffee vigorously for far too long, in my view, for a man who didn’t even take sugar in it – what was he stirring? But I loved it, his noisiness, despite my regular protestations to the contrary. I’d lived alone for far too long before Danny, and the constant clamour made me feel connected, alive. Happy. So that evening, as I pushed the front door open and slid the key out of the lock, expecting a welcoming yell from the living room or to see, within seconds, his grinning face peering around the kitchen door, disappointment hit me like an icy wave.
‘Danny? Danny, I’m home. Where are you?’
I could tell even as I spoke that he wasn’t in but, flicking the lights on and dumping my overnight bag on the table by the door, I began a quick tour of the house anyway, my footsteps echoing on the polished parquet of the hall floor. My frown deepened as I pushed each door open, the rooms dark and empty. Where was he? He’d promised, the previous evening when he’d emailed to say goodnight, that he’d be here when I got back, that he’d cook dinner. Even promised, I remembered as I headed for the kitchen, to have a bottle of my favourite cava chilling; a welcome home, Friday night treat. If he’d forgotten …
‘Dammit, Danny. Seriously?’
I glared at the contents of the fridge. It looked exactly as I’d left it on Thursday morning – a half-full milk container, a block of cheese with one corner hacked off, a pack of sausages with four missing, the four we’d eaten for breakfast before I’d headed off on my latest press trip. No cava. No sign of any fresh food. He hadn’t even gone shopping? What was going on? Had something happened at work, delaying him? He’d told me he’d be finishing at lunchtime that day, for once, that he’d have plenty of time to do the supermarket run for a change, save me doing it on Saturday morning as I usually did, while he stayed at home to run the vacuum round and flick a duster over the shelves. A break from the little routine we’d quickly fallen into, happily fallen into, since we’d moved to Bristol, and into the beautiful house in up-market Clifton. It hadn’t always been like that, but when we moved he’d said he wanted to help around the house more, do more of the chores I hated, and I hadn’t argued. We’d only been in our new home for three weeks, but the words ‘domestic bliss’ pretty much summed things up, cringeworthy as it sounded even to me.
‘You can have a lie-in on Saturday, Gem. You’ll be knackered after all that debauchery at your fancy spa hotel,’ he’d said over our full English, reaching across the breakfast table to wipe a splodge of ketchup from my bottom lip, his finger soft against my skin.
‘It’s work,’ I’d retorted, waggling my fork at him, then smiling as I speared another piece of black pudding. ‘Well … maybe a teeny bit of debauchery too though.’
‘I don’t doubt it. You journalists, and your hard-livin’, hard-drinkin’ ways.’
His accent, normally soft west of Ireland, was suddenly full-on Moore Street Market, Dublin, and I swallowed quickly and laughed.
‘Yeah, right. We’ll have a few drinks, but we’ll all be in bed by eleven, I guarantee it. Too many exhausted mummies in the group now. A night away without the kids means they can finally get a decent night’s sleep for once.’
He raised his thick, dark eyebrows – once a monobrow, until I’d finally pinned him to the bed one day, brandishing my tweezers – and I laughed again at his comically exaggerated expression of disbelief.
‘Oh, shut up.’
‘I didn’t say a word!’
He’d leapt from his chair then, dragging me from my seat and into a hug, whispering into my hair.
‘I’ll miss you. But have a great time. You deserve it.’
So where are you now, Danny? I slammed the fridge door and reached into the pocket of my zebra print coat for my mobile, then remembered. Bugger. There’d been some sort of delay with Danny’s new workplace providing him with a company mobile phone – it would, they’d promised, finally be ready for Monday – and as he’d handed in his old one when he’d left his previous job, he was temporarily phone-less. For a moment, I considered ringing his office, asking them if he’d been made to work late, then sighed and decided against it. A bit much, probably, when he’d only been in the job for such a short time, to have his wife calling, wondering where he was. Email, then? He still had his tablet, and emailing had worked reasonably well over the past few weeks when we’d needed to get hold of each other. We both had Skype too, for emergencies, although we hadn’t needed to use it so far, and just like calling his office, I thought Skyping him might be a bit intrusive. Yes, email.
I perched on the edge of one of the dining chairs and tapped out a message.
I’m home. Where are you? And, more to the point, where’s my dinner? And my FIZZ!? G xx
I hit send, checked the time, and stood up with a sigh. Just after seven. I’d go and unpack, have a nice hot shower, change. We could get some food delivered instead of cooking, and maybe Danny could call in at the off-licence on his way home to pick up some bubbly, I thought. I glanced around the kitchen, noticing that at least he’d washed up, wiped down the surfaces, replaced the chopping knives neatly in their wooden block. Everything was spotless in fact, a faint smell of bleach in the air, even the stainless-steel cooker hood gleaming. I felt my mild irritation subsiding. It would be work, that was all. It wasn’t his fault he’d been delayed. He’d be home soon. Slipping my coat from my shoulders, I headed back down the hall to retrieve my bags.
Chapter 2
‘Holy cow. It’s like looking at brothers. Coincidence, or not? What do you make of that, guv?’
Detective Sergeant Devon Clarke glanced over his shoulder. Behind him, Detective Chief Inspector Helena Dickens nodded slowly, indigo eyes fixed on the two photos on the board.
‘I dunno. Not yet, anyway. But yes, they do look spookily similar. Weird, eh?’
She looked at her watch. Just after seven. She sighed and turned to the room, wincing slightly as she felt a twinge in her lower back. Last night’s run had been too long and too fast, she thought.
‘OK, gather round everyone. I’m sorry to do this to you all on a Friday evening, but with a second murder on our hands now I’m going to have to ask you to work right through the weekend, as I’m sure you’ve already guessed. Let’s just go through what we’ve got so far, so it’s all clear in everyone’s minds, and then I’ll distribute jobs.’
She waited, turning back to scan the board as chairs scraped and feet shuffled; then the room fell silent, the rain which had started to fall an hour ago beating an urgent tattoo against the windows, the air thick with the smell of stale coffee.
‘Thanks. Right, well I know some of you have just been brought into Bristol today to swell our numbers, so thank you for that. I’m DCI Helena Dickens, senior investigating officer. This is DS Devon Clarke.’
She waved a hand towards Devon, who dipped his head.
‘It’s been a while since Avon Police has had two murders on its hands in such a short time frame, so we’re about to get very busy. There’s nothing at the moment to suggest that the two killings are linked, although we’re still waiting on the forensics report on the latest. But …’ she paused and exchanged glances with Devon, ‘well, let’s start at the beginning. Devon, can you take us through what we know about Mervin Elliott?’
‘Sure.’
Devon nodded, and cleared his throat.
‘OK. This is Mervin Elliott.’
He pointed to the photograph on the top left corner of the board.
‘Thirty-two years old, men’s clothing shop manager – one of those trendy places in Cabot Circus. Single, heterosexual, no children, lived alone in an apartment down at the harbourside. His body was found on Clifton Down by a dog walker just over two weeks ago, early on the morning of Wednesday, the thirteenth of February. Here, just off Ladies Mile, near Stoke Road.’ He pointed at a map of The Downs, the vast public open space to the north of the affluent suburb of Clifton. ‘His body was half hidden by shrubs, a bush, something like that. Time of death estimated to be about ten or eleven hours earlier, so between seven and eight the night before, Tuesday, the twelfth. Cause of death, blow to the head. No other significant injuries. No murder weapon found.’
He paused, rubbed his nose and continued.
‘According to everyone we’ve spoken to so far, he was a nice, normal guy. Worked hard, single as I said; his mates said he’d been on the odd date recently, usually women he met online, but hadn’t found anyone he wanted to get serious with. Sociable bloke though, liked a night out by all accounts, but wasn’t a drug user or even a particularly big drinker. He was big into fitness, member of a gym – that big 24-hour one at the harbour, near his flat. Looked after himself. No criminal record. No obvious motive at all for his murder. Looked like he’d been out running the night he was killed – he was wearing trainers and exercise gear when his body was found. But he had a pretty nice sports watch on, and a decent phone in his pocket, and they weren’t touched. Parts of The Downs get their share of doggers and so on at night, people cruising for action, but there was no sign of recent sexual activity on the body, no evidence he was there for anything like that. And so far, we’ve not found any witnesses to the attack. It would have been dark at that time of course. But so far, we have very little to go on. No forensics of any use. Nada.’
A phone suddenly trilled on a desk at the back of the room, and Devon waited while one of the young detective constables sprinted to grab it, answering it in hushed tones then grimacing at Devon.
‘Nothing major,’ she mouthed.
Devon nodded and turned back to the board.
‘OK, so that’s Mervin Elliott. This …’ he gestured at the photograph to the right of the first, ‘is Ryan Jones. His body was found yesterday morning, Thursday, the twenty-eighth of February, in a lane between two houses on Berkeley Rise. That’s here, just off Saville Road.’
He ran his finger across the map.
‘Saville Road borders Durdham Down to the east. And, for those unfamiliar with The Downs, Durdham Down is the northern part, north of Stoke Road. Clifton Down is the southern bit. About four hundred acres in total.’
‘So … the two bodies were found, what? Less than a mile apart?’
The question came from somewhere at the back of the assembled group of officers. Devon nodded.
‘About that, yes. Again, cause of death was probably head injuries but we’re waiting for the results of the post mortem – should be with us any minute; they’ve had a bit of a backlog down there, couple of nasty car accidents got in ahead of us. He also had a couple of minor injuries elsewhere but nothing significant. His head injury was again consistent with being attacked with a heavy weapon of some sort. Again though no sign of that murder weapon. Early days on this one though, as he was only found yesterday. At the scene time of death was again estimated to have been about ten hours earlier, so sometime on Wednesday evening. He was found by a local resident who was out for an early morning cycle and took a shortcut down the lane. We got an ID from the victim’s wallet, which was still in his pocket with about fifty quid in it. Ryan was thirty-one and also single, no kids, dated a bit but again no serious girlfriend as far as we know at this early stage. Worked as an accountant for a firm in Queen Square. Again, early days but so far he sounds a bit like our first victim – nice, normal guy, no record.’
He paused and turned to look at Helena.
‘No CCTV in the area he was found, I assume?’ she asked.
Devon shook his head.
‘No cameras in that area at all. It’s a lot more built up than where Mervin was found though, obviously, so we started doing house to house yesterday afternoon, but so far nobody seems to have seen or heard anything.’
Helena sighed.
‘Remind us what he was wearing? Ryan, I mean.’
Devon turned back to the board.
‘Normal clothes. As in, not running gear or anything. Jeans, trainers, a navy jumper, big black puffa coat. It was cold on Wednesday night. And no, we haven’t worked out yet what he was doing in the area. He lived at an address in …’ he frowned, eyes searching the board, ‘in Redcliffe. So two, three miles away from where he was found.’
‘Thanks, Devon.’
Helena cleared her throat and turned to the room.
‘OK, so that’s the basics. Two dead men, both with head injuries, both murdered in The Downs area within a couple of weeks of each other. Both successful and hardworking, both in their early thirties. Two men whom, as far as we know at the moment, had no involvement in any sort of criminal activity. And, two men who look …’ she turned back to the board again, tapping first the photo of Mervin and then Ryan’s image, ‘who look, quite frankly, like bloody twins. The same dark curly hair, dark eyes, thick eyebrows. Similar height and build. Might mean nothing but …’she shrugged and turned back to face the assembled officers, ‘kind of weird, eh? OK, listen. Let’s not get too hung up on their appearances for now. And of course, there may be no connection between these two murders whatsoever. But we can’t rule it out, not at this stage, considering the similarities between the two cases. Let’s keep an open mind and let the facts guide us.
‘Forensics on Ryan might help when we get them, if we’re lucky. But in the meantime, let’s talk to as many of their friends and family members as possible, and see if there are any common factors – Redcliffe and the harbour aren’t that far apart, so did these two hang out in the same bars, did they know each other, did they have any mutual friends or common interests? And why were they both on – or, in Ryan’s case, very close to – The Downs, on the nights they died? OK, so Mervin was there running, and it’s a nice place to run, I run there myself now and again. But he’s a member of a gym and, even if he preferred running outdoors, there are plenty of routes to choose from around Bristol. So why there, specifically? Was it something he did regularly? And why was Ryan in the area? Was he visiting a friend, a relative? We need to know everything about these two, and fast.’
She stopped talking, watching as her colleagues scribbled notes on their pads, many of them exchanging glances. She knew instantly what they were thinking. It was something she’d thought herself, immediately and with a sudden sick, sinking feeling in her stomach, when Ryan Jones’s photograph had been stuck on the board yesterday next to Mervin Elliott’s. If these two murders were connected, if they’d been carried out by the same person, well …
She swallowed hard. It needed to be three, though, officially. Three murders, to fit the most widely used UK definition. And so far it was only two. Please God, she thought, let it stay that way.
Two was bad enough.
But three …
Three, and she might just have a serial killer on her hands.
Chapter 3
‘Where the hell are you, Danny? This is getting ridiculous.’
I stopped pacing up and down the kitchen for a moment to stand and stare out of the rain-streaked window into the elegant courtyard at the back of the house, willing him to suddenly appear, my fists clenched, nails digging into my palms. It was late Saturday afternoon and, despite my best efforts all day to track my husband down, I’d come up with precisely nothing. I needed to make some more phone calls, but I’d have to calm myself down first. I took a deep breath, trying to slow my racing heartbeat, and rested my forehead against the cold glass, eyes flitting across the yard. On two levels separated by a row of pleached hornbeam trees, the beautifully designed limestone-paved space had enthralled me from the moment Danny and I had first come to view the place. In the centre of the top level nearest the house, water bubbled gently from a polished metal sphere perched on top of a stone plinth, next to which sat a huge glass-topped table, six wrought iron chairs tucked underneath it. The outdoor dining area had been given an exotic, tropical feel more reminiscent of Bali than Bristol thanks to artfully planted bamboo, phormiums and tree ferns, the space illuminated at night by hundreds of tiny lights dotted among the foliage. At the front of the top terrace, steps led down to the lower level, where on either side of the back gate bay trees swayed gently in the wind in tall graphite pots, and raised herb beds lined the walls; our very own kitchen garden in the heart of the city. Even on a wet Saturday in March, and even when I was feeling so utterly miserable, a tiny shiver of pleasure ran through me.
‘A fountain! There’s a fountain, Danny!’ I’d squeaked when we’d first walked in through the back gate, and he’d laughed and squeezed my hand. We’d wondered why the letting agent had suggested meeting at the back of the house instead of at the front door, but it suddenly made perfect sense. It was stunning.
‘It’s more of a water feature, but OK. You and your fancy courtyard fetish,’ Danny had whispered as we were led indoors, both of us knowing instantly that no matter what the interior was like, this place already had me hooked. He was right; I’d always yearned for a courtyard garden. A peaceful place to entertain friends, to sit in the sun with a glass of wine on a summer evening, to lounge with a book on a Sunday afternoon, and no lawn to mow? Pretty damn perfect in my book.
We’d had a lovely home in London, but as so often in the capital, a place in a central location with any sort of decent outside space was hard to find. We’d made the small roof terrace of our apartment as beautiful as we could, but the Bristol courtyard had seemed huge in comparison.
‘There’s even a proper bicycle shed, look, down there in the corner of that lower level. I can finally stop having to chain my gorgeous bike to the front railings and you can finally quit moaning about how it lowers the tone,’ Danny had said, and I’d clapped my hands and done a little happy dance, making him laugh.
That Saturday though, as I stared out of the window, I could see that, just as it had been since I came back from my trip, the smart wooden lean-to where his beloved bike usually stood was empty. I looked at the blank space for a few more seconds, my vision blurring, then jumped as a cold, damp nose nuzzled my hand.
‘Hey, Albert. Where’s Danny then, eh?’ I whispered, and he cocked his head, eyes fixed on mine, and whimpered. I didn’t blame him; I felt like whimpering myself. My stomach churning, my eyes dry and scratchy from crying and lack of sleep, I glanced at the empty courtyard one more time then turned from the window and started pacing again. Albert stood watching me for a moment, then whined softly and trotted off to his bed in the corner of the kitchen.
On Friday night I’d finally ordered pizzas, picking at mine as I constantly refreshed my emails, expecting an apologetic message from Danny to pop into my inbox at any moment. When nothing came, I’d finally, grumpily, assumed he was pulling an all-nighter, and had gone to bed, noticing as I crawled under the duvet that he’d even changed the bedding while I was away, the pillow case fresh and crisp against my cheek. His bloody job, I thought. He loved it, but I wasn’t always so keen. Danny was an IT security specialist, analysing and fixing systems breaches, defending companies against online hacking.
‘I fight cybercrime. I’m basically a security superhero,’ he’d announced with a theatrical wave of his arms on our first date, and I’d rolled my eyes, grinning and, if I was honest, not quite understanding what he did at all, while still being secretly impressed.
What the job meant in reality though was long hours and frequent emergency call-outs, and although this would be the first such occasion in this new job, it wasn’t that unusual for him to have to work through the night if something had gone wrong with an important client’s computer system. When we first met he’d been working for a company in Chiswick, in west London, earning a healthy six-figure salary. When we’d talked about leaving the capital, I’d assumed it would mean Danny accepting a lower wage, but that hadn’t been the case, something that had surprised me until I realized that his new firm, ACR Security, had itself relocated from central London a couple of years back, taking advantage of the lower rents in the UK’s eleventh biggest city.