Chapters (156)
- A DATE WITH DEATH
- Also by Mark Roberts
- A Date With Death
- Copyright Page
- Contents
- The Past
- 1977
- Day OneWednesday, 1st December 2021CatoptrophobiaFear of mirrors
- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
- 6
- 7
- 8
- 9
- 10
- 11
- 12
- 13
- 14
- 15
- 16
- 17
- 18
- 19
- 20
- 21
- 22
- 23
- 24
- 25
- 26
- The Past
- 1979
- Day TwoThursday, 2nd December 2021OneirophobiaFear of dreams
- 27
- 28
- 29
- 30
- 31
- 32
- 33
- 34
- 35
- 36
- 37
- 38
- 39
- 40
- 41
- 42
- 43
- 44
- 45
- 46
- 47
- 48
- 49
- 50
- 51
- 52
- The Past
- 1980
- Day ThreeFriday, 3rd December 2021MonophobiaFear of being alone
- 53
- 54
- 55
- 56
- 57
- 58
- 59
- 60
- 61
- 62
- 63
- 64
- 65
- 66
- 67
- 68
- 69
- 70
- 71
- 72
- 73
- 74
- 75
- 76
- 77
- 78
- 79
- 80
- 81
- 82
- 83
- 84
- 85
- 86
- 87
- 88
- 89
- 90
- 91
- 92
- 93
- 94
- 95
- 96
- 97
- 98
- The Past
- 1982
- Day FourSaturday, 4th December 2021ThanatophobiaFear of Death
- 99
- 100
- 101
- 102
- 103
- 104
- 105
- 106
- 107
- 108
- 109
- 110
- 111
- 112
- 113
- 114
- 115
- 116
- 117
- 118
- 119
- 120
- 121
- 122
- 123
- 124
- 125
- 126
- 127
- 128
- 129
- 130
- 131
- 132
- 133
- 134
- 135
- 136
- 137
- About the Author
- An Invitation from the Publisher
‘I want to go to the mortuary. I want to see my daughter.’ He looked directly into Clay’s eyes. ‘Is there any way another young woman could have the same mole in the same place and the same tattoo. I mean, is it definitely her?’
‘The dental records have confirmed for certain that it’s her.’
‘I want to go to the mortuary and see her body. I need to see my own daughter!’
‘That won’t be necessary, Bobby. You’ve got enough stress going on at the moment.’ She glanced up at the ceiling and the sorrow pouring through it. ‘You need to stay right here to support your wife.’
‘I want to go to the mortuary.’
‘They won’t let you in, Bobby. Please. Let’s not go down that route any more. It’s not going to happen.’
Clay stood up and walked to a formal framed picture of Annie, aged eighteen and in a sleeveless black prom dress. She picked out what she estimated was the greatest act of rebellion against her parents, the bluebird tattoo on her arm, and the mole she’d been born with. She engaged Bobby’s attention and indicated the picture on the wall.
‘You need to remember her like this.’
He pushed himself up on the arms of the chair, hobbled over to the portrait and stood shoulder to shoulder with Clay. She listened to his laboured breathing and her head was filled with a recent memory of Annie’s scalped head and face on the bed of the River Mersey.
‘Did you see her body?’
‘Yes. I was the first officer to go directly to her.’
‘Was she wearing clothes?’
‘No.’
She watched him wince, heard the quiet inarticulate sound of pain that went with it.
‘How did she die?’
For a moment, she juggled in vain with words.
‘She was strangled. There was bruising around her neck. Distinctive fingerprints.’
‘If you won’t let me go to her, then you must describe the condition of Annie’s body to me, DCI Clay. I need to know.’
The doorbell rang, a rising and falling scale.
Bobby Boyd walked to the bay window and looked out.
‘I’ll let her in.’
10
10.54 am
Alone in the living room, Clay scanned the walls and saw an uninspiring watercolour of the River Mersey at sunrise. She checked the signature, Annie Boyd, dated 2011, and worked out she must have been fifteen years of age when she painted it.
She painted one of her own destinations en route to her grave, thought Clay, as the sound of a young woman’s voice came deeper into the house.
The door opened and a woman in her mid twenties entered the room, her eyes wide with confusion and shock.
‘I can’t believe it, Bobby!’