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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
Killer Reads
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017
Copyright © Michael Wood 2017
The ABC Murders Copyright © 1936 Agatha Christie Limited.
All rights reserved.
Michael Wood asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2017
Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com
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 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 e-books
Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2017 ISBN: 9780008222390
Version 2020-01-23
To Woody
26/05/04 – 09/06/16
The best writing companion I could ever ask for. A true friend, and now, a genuine Golden Star.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Callum Nixon
Chapter Four
Lee Marriott
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Mark Parker
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Craig Hodge
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Lewis Chapman
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jacob Brown
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
Ryan Asher
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading…
About the Author
Also by Michael Wood
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
Manchester. Tuesday, 7 January 2014
I was in agony. The pain was immense. I couldn’t believe it. I looked across at the alarm clock and saw that it was just after 1:30 a.m., and I hadn’t been to sleep yet. How could I when all I wanted to do was vomit everything I’d ever eaten.
I managed to roll out of bed and practically crawled to the bathroom. I made it to the toilet just in time. The sick was never-ending. I honestly thought I was going to bring up an organ. There was so much of it. It was like that scene from The Exorcist.
I must have woken my sister, Ruby, because I looked up to wipe my mouth and she was standing in the doorway. She had her hands on her hips and a serious look on her face like she was going to tell me off. If I hadn’t felt like I was dying I would have laughed. How could she try and look mean and threatening when she was wearing Hello Kitty pyjamas?
‘Could you be any louder about it?’
‘Sorry, Ruby, did I wake you?’
‘No, I always go for a walk around this time.’ She looked at her wrist as if there was a watch there.
‘Sorry. I don’t think I should have reheated that curry I had for my tea.’
‘Have you made yourself sick so you don’t have to go to school in the morning?’
‘No. Why would I do that?’
‘Because I heard you telling Dad you hadn’t done your science homework.’
‘I’ve not made myself sick, Ruby. Go back to bed.’
I managed to pick myself up off the floor, although I felt dizzy and the sweat was pouring off me. I had to steady myself against the wall. I was shaking and hot but I felt cold at the same time. I had no idea a chicken korma could cause such agony.
‘Do you want me to wake up Mum and Dad?’
‘No. It’s OK. I think I’ll go downstairs and see if we’ve got anything to settle my stomach.’
‘OK.’
‘Are you going back to bed?’
‘Yes,’ she said, folding her arms.
‘Go on then.’
‘I’m waiting until you’ve gone downstairs. I don’t want you to fall.’
I went to go downstairs and kept looking back at Ruby, who wasn’t moving. I knew what she was going to do. I would have made some kind of sarcastic remark but I was frightened of opening my mouth and being sick again, because Dad had just polished the floorboards. He’d kill me if I splattered regurgitated korma all over them.
I was halfway down the stairs when I heard Ruby tap on Mum and Dad’s bedroom door. ‘Mum, I had that dream again. Can I come in with you and Dad?’
I smiled to myself. Ruby had promised that she’d sleep in her own bed all through the night. It was her New Year’s resolution yet she’d broken it within three days. She hated sleeping on her own, God knows why.
As soon as I opened the door to the kitchen, Max jumped out of his basket, tail wagging, and thought I wanted to play with him. He started jumping on his back legs. As much as I loved the little dude, playing with a Fox Terrier at two o’clock in the morning was not my idea of fun. He ran over to the back door so I let him out.
I left the door open while I looked for something to take. Dad suffered really badly with his stomach. He only had to look at a jar of beetroot and he got indigestion. He was bound to have something that could stop my stomach doing somersaults.
I found a small tub of Andrews Salts and made myself up a glass. I swigged it back in one gulp and shuddered at the taste. It was nasty.
Max came running back into the kitchen with a tennis ball in his mouth and dropped it at my feet. I wasn’t going outside to play fetch in the garden. It was bloody freezing out there. I made him go back to his bed, locked the back door and went into the living room. I didn’t have the strength to walk up the stairs.
I curled up on the sofa, pulled the blanket around me and tried to get comfortable. Whatever was in that medicine seemed to be working as there was no gurgling sound coming from my stomach. I wasn’t shaking as much either.
I was shattered. I looked at the clock – 02:15. I’d never been up this late before in my life. I was just nodding off when Max came in and licked my face. He lay down in front of me on the floor. He could tell I was ill and was looking after me, bless him. He was snoring in seconds. I wish I could fall asleep so quickly.
04:50
Max started licking my hand and barking. I briefly opened my eyes but, as it was still dark, I nudged Max away and pulled the blanket over my head. If he wanted to go out again he’d have to wait. I was finally warm and comfortable.
Another bark. This time he was nuzzling my hand and trying to pull the blanket off me with his teeth. He may be a cute dog and able to get away with a lot of things, but there was no way I was getting up for him now.
‘Max,’ I whispered loudly. ‘You’ll wake everyone up. Go to sleep. Now!’
I waited. I heard him groan, walk around in a circle a few times then drop to the floor. Thank God for that.
05:05
It seemed like only minutes later that he started fussing me again. He was yapping, barking, tugging at the blanket, and licking my face. I threw the blanket off me and stood up to turn on the living room light. I can’t remember what I was saying to Max but as soon as the room lit up I saw exactly why he’d been behaving so oddly.
There was a leak coming through the light fitting in the middle of the room. It didn’t make sense. The bathroom was above the kitchen, not the living room. My eyes adjusted. Shit! It wasn’t water pooling on the coffee table. It wasn’t water dripping and splashing all over the cream carpet. It was blood. I looked up at the light; the surrounding ceiling was a mass of blood. It was dripping down, splattering against the glass, bouncing off and soaking the carpet. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. I was having a nightmare caused by my fever, surely.
Max barked. I looked down at him and he was speckled with blood. His paws were covered in it. Oh my God. This wasn’t happening. Surely, I was running a fever from all the vomiting and having a nightmare.
I ran out of the living room and up the stairs, two at a time. ‘Mum, Dad, wake up,’ I called out. It was pitch-black and still early so my voice echoed around the house. I didn’t care if I woke up the whole street.
I knocked on their door but didn’t wait for a reply. I grabbed the handle and pushed. I flicked the light switch on.
‘Mum … ’
That was the moment everything stopped. My life ended right at that second as I looked into my parents’ bedroom and saw a scene of horror. All I could see was red. The walls, the ceiling, the floor, everything was covered in red. Huge sprays of blood covered every surface.
I could feel my heart pounding hard in my chest as if it was about to erupt. No. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be real.
I walked further into the room and looked at the bed, trying to make sense of what my eyes were seeing, but my brain hadn’t caught up yet. The bed was a tangled mess of limbs and everything was dripping. It was like a scene from a torture porn film. I didn’t know if anybody was on the bed or not. Then I saw it. Dad had given Mum a really expensive watch for Christmas, just a week or so earlier. She’d loved it and spent most of Christmas Day staring at her wrist. She was still wearing it but the face was smashed. Her arm was covered in blood, but it wasn’t attached to her body. I swallowed hard to keep the bile from rising in my throat. I saw Dad’s leg with the Manchester City football shield tattoo. Like Mum’s arm it was splattered with blood. And there, in the middle of the bed, I saw the worst horror of all: the blood-stained white face of Hello Kitty winking at me.
ONE
Norwich. Sunday, 2 October 2016
According to the satnav it would take three hours and nineteen minutes to drive from Norwich to Sheffield. Add on traffic jams, roadworks, and fuel stops, and they would easily make the Steel City in four hours.
The seven-seater people carrier was waiting outside the back entrance. It was parked as close as possible to the door. The windows in the Citroën were tinted; the locks from the back doors had been removed, and there was a security grill between the front and back seats.
In the front passenger seat was Craig Jefferson, his extra-large uniform straining at the seams. He checked the glove box for provisions: boiled sweets, three cans of Red Bull, and a Sudoku puzzle book. Behind the wheel sat Patrick Norris. This was Patrick’s first run. He knew the route; he had been studying the A-Z all afternoon, but the worried expression on his face was for his charge, not his driving ability.
Time ticked slowly by. They should have left by now.
‘What’s taking so long?’ Norris asked, fidgeting in his seat.
‘Red tape probably. Just when you think you’ve filled in all the forms you find another batch that needs signing.’
‘They do realize Norwich are playing at home today, and it’s a late kick-off. We’re going to get caught in the traffic.’
‘They don’t care about that. Once they close that door their job is done. It’s down to us then. They don’t care if it takes us three hours and nineteen minutes or nineteen hours and three minutes. Mint imperial?’ He held out the packet.
‘How many of these runs have you done?’
Jefferson sighed as he thought. ‘Too many to count. I don’t go to Sheffield very often though. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I went. You know it’s bad when you’re given a run to Sheffield.’
‘Do you think there’s some kind of hold up?’ Jefferson asked, craning his neck and looking out of the back window at the dormant building. ‘Maybe it’s been cancelled.’
‘Trust me, it won’t get cancelled. They’re as keen to get rid of him as we’ll be to drop him off. Are you any good at Sudoku? I’m not sure if that should be a three or a five.’
The steel door creaked open and two burly men in similar uniforms to Norris and Jefferson came out. They towered over the young man between them.
His face was gaunt and pale. His hair had been recently shaved which added to the emaciated refugee look. He was a slight build, short for his age, and had the appearance of an innocent man heading for the gallows.
While one of the men secured him to the back seat, the other tapped on the passenger window. Jefferson lowered it.
‘What took you so long? It’s freezing out here.’
‘If you must know, we had a hard time saying goodbye. He’s such wonderful company.’ His reply was laced with sarcasm.
‘Well you can join us if you like?’
‘Tempting offer but I’m clipping my toenails tonight. Here you go.’ He handed over a clipboard with the required paperwork to be signed once they reached Sheffield. It was like delivering a washing machine.
‘Off we go then, Patrick. Head for the A17 and no stopping under any circumstances except for fuel for me and the car.’
Shackled in the back of the car was fifteen-year-old Ryan Asher. Norwich born and bred he was about to leave the city for the first time, and he was never coming back.
His left leg jiggled with nerves. He had been told what was happening to him, where he was going, and what his final destination in approximately three years’ time would be, but it was the unknown he was scared of. A new city and new people, where the only things they knew about him was what the newspapers had reported. Nobody knew the real Ryan Asher anymore. Nobody wanted to know.
In the middle seat of the car, he sat back and looked out of the window at the darkening Norwich landscape. He was born here. He played with his friends here. He went to school here. He murdered here.
A three-hour journey with nobody to talk to, no radio, nothing to read, and a wall of darkness outside the window to torment his troubled mind. He couldn’t get comfortable and kept adjusting himself. He bit his bottom lip and could taste blood. He wondered how fast they were travelling? Was Sheffield far from Norwich? He hated not knowing. They could be taking him anywhere. Maybe he wouldn’t make it to Sheffield. The driver kept gazing at him through the rear-view mirror. His look was sharp and scared. What did he think Ryan was going to do? He was a fifteen-year-old boy who looked twelve, not Hannibal Lecter.
The driver and the front seat passenger didn’t speak much. The odd banal comment on the amount of traffic and how dark it had become, but that was it. They would probably save their conversation for the journey back when it would be just the two of them. Ryan could guess what the main topic of conversation would be – him.
Ryan let out a deep breath he didn’t know he had been holding and closed his eyes. The first image that came to mind was the look on his mother’s face the first time he saw her after their world had been torn apart. She didn’t look like his mum anymore. Gone were the bright blue eyes, the cheery smile, and the dimples – replaced with a look of horror, fear, and loathing. She had brought a monster into the world. She had given birth to evil and stood back while her son destroyed lives.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said when he looked up at her. ‘I’m really sorry.’ It was baseless but it was all he could think of.
Belinda Asher didn’t reply. She couldn’t reply. She was using every ounce of energy to keep herself standing. Her legs were shaking uncontrollably. She was freezing cold, yet sweat was pouring from every pore. Her mouth was dry as she looked at her only son’s face. Her eyes were full of tears that refused to fall.
‘Mum. I’m really sorry. Where’s Dad? Is he coming?’
‘I want to go.’ The words fell out of her mouth to the female detective who was holding her up. No words were exchanged. The detective slowly turned her around and led her across the room.
Ryan was crying. ‘Mum, don’t leave me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of it. Mum, please. I’m so sorry.’
At the door, Belinda Asher turned around and a heavy shroud of silence fell over them all. Somewhere, a clock was ticking, high-heeled shoes were clacking down a corridor, planets were formed, stars died and, all the while, mother and son were locked in a battle of immense will-power.
‘Don’t call me that,’ she said. ‘I have no idea who you are.’
Ryan opened his eyes and stared out of the car window. A tear fell which he didn’t wipe away. He had never cried as much as he had in the past few months. At first, he was embarrassed by his tears. Now, he didn’t care who saw.
Why was he crying? For the pain and emotional distress that he had caused his family; for the life he had lost; for his victims? He no longer knew. All he did know was that he had ruined the lives of so many people, including his own, and, for that, he felt incredibly sad.
The car pulled into a service station. The fat one in the front passenger seat struggled to get out. Ryan watched as he waddled to the toilets then into the small kiosk shop.
‘Are we nearly there?’ Ryan asked, looking at the reflection of the driver in the rear-view mirror. He didn’t get a reply. Ryan was the enemy. He was not to be engaged with.
The fat one tested the suspension as he eased himself back into the car. ‘I needed that. Red Bull might give you wings but it goes straight through me. I bought you a Twix. They didn’t have any granola.’
‘Not much bloody difference, is there?’
‘If you don’t want it, I’ll have it.’
‘And listen to you moan about being borderline diabetic? No, thank you.’
Ryan wasn’t acknowledged. He wasn’t asked if he wanted anything from the shop, or if he needed the toilet. To them he was a tumour – difficult to ignore and impossible to forget.
Three hours and forty minutes after they left Norwich they arrived at their destination in Sheffield. Off a main road and down a long bone-shaking track, they came to a set of electronic gates with razor wire on the top.
The driver lowered his window and leaned out. He pressed the call button on the intercom, and the small screen above lit up. The face of a man loomed out at them in black and white.
‘Yes?’
‘We have Ryan Asher with us.’
‘Drive up to the second set of gates and turn off your engine.’
The screen went blank, and the gates slowly opened. They drove through and stopped when they reached a second set of gates. The first set closed behind them. They were trapped in a small rectangle with high fencing on all four sides and barbed wire tightly coiled along the top. Nothing happened.