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Chapters (156)
  1. A DATE WITH DEATH
  2. Also by Mark Roberts
  3. A Date With Death
  4. Copyright Page
  5. Contents
  6. The Past
  7. 1977
  8. Day OneWednesday, 1st December 2021CatoptrophobiaFear of mirrors
  9. 1
  10. 2
  11. 3
  12. 4
  13. 5
  14. 6
  15. 7
  16. 8
  17. 9
  18. 10
  19. 11
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. 16
  25. 17
  26. 18
  27. 19
  28. 20
  29. 21
  30. 22
  31. 23
  32. 24
  33. 25
  34. 26
  35. The Past
  36. 1979
  37. Day TwoThursday, 2nd December 2021OneirophobiaFear of dreams
  38. 27
  39. 28
  40. 29
  41. 30
  42. 31
  43. 32
  44. 33
  45. 34
  46. 35
  47. 36
  48. 37
  49. 38
  50. 39
  51. 40
  52. 41
  53. 42
  54. 43
  55. 44
  56. 45
  57. 46
  58. 47
  59. 48
  60. 49
  61. 50
  62. 51
  63. 52
  64. The Past
  65. 1980
  66. Day ThreeFriday, 3rd December 2021MonophobiaFear of being alone
  67. 53
  68. 54
  69. 55
  70. 56
  71. 57
  72. 58
  73. 59
  74. 60
  75. 61
  76. 62
  77. 63
  78. 64
  79. 65
  80. 66
  81. 67
  82. 68
  83. 69
  84. 70
  85. 71
  86. 72
  87. 73
  88. 74
  89. 75
  90. 76
  91. 77
  92. 78
  93. 79
  94. 80
  95. 81
  96. 82
  97. 83
  98. 84
  99. 85
  100. 86
  101. 87
  102. 88
  103. 89
  104. 90
  105. 91
  106. 92
  107. 93
  108. 94
  109. 95
  110. 96
  111. 97
  112. 98
  113. The Past
  114. 1982
  115. Day FourSaturday, 4th December 2021ThanatophobiaFear of Death
  116. 99
  117. 100
  118. 101
  119. 102
  120. 103
  121. 104
  122. 105
  123. 106
  124. 107
  125. 108
  126. 109
  127. 110
  128. 111
  129. 112
  130. 113
  131. 114
  132. 115
  133. 116
  134. 117
  135. 118
  136. 119
  137. 120
  138. 121
  139. 122
  140. 123
  141. 124
  142. 125
  143. 126
  144. 127
  145. 128
  146. 129
  147. 130
  148. 131
  149. 132
  150. 133
  151. 134
  152. 135
  153. 136
  154. 137
  155. About the Author
  156. An Invitation from the Publisher

Wren eye-pointed to the wall above his head, his Captain Cyclone mural, with new changes to the imagery.

Neil stepped deeper into the room and read the words, ‘An honest witness does not deceive but a false witness pours out lies. Proverbs 14:5. Wow, Wren!’

A dark thought clouded the suddenly bright new horizon.

‘You haven’t caught religion, have you, Wren? Jesus and the disciples and all that…?’ Shite. Wren shook his head and flatly said, ‘No! Captain Cyclone is my God.’

Wren looked up at the mural and his father looked with him, didn’t see the change at first, but when he did see it, he understood immediately the out of character early bird routine.

He had painted over Captain Cyclone’s facial features and replaced it with the physiognomy of Edgar McKee.

He double-checked. ‘Edgar McKee, right?’

‘Right.’ Wren smiled in a manner he hadn’t smiled since he’d been a small boy before he lost his mother to cancer, and his father felt the welling up of tears.

‘You like Edgar?’

‘He’s my mate. He’s cool.’

‘Come on, lad. Your lunch box is at the door, the usual, the same as ever, the things you like.’

I will definitely have to buy you a pint or two, Edgar, he thought.

As he walked downstairs, Neil Wren thought about his sister, Louise Fisher, and had to hand it to her. For one thing, she had been bang on the money about work experience. And for another, as Wren had informed her, she was like a second mother to him.

29

9.09 am

Eighteen minutes after a call to the central switchboard from Mrs Alice Hobson, Detective Sergeant Bill Hendricks rang on the doorbell of 235 Allerton Road – one of nine houses from which there had been no reply during the previous day’s door to door enquiry – and stepped back next to Detective Sergeant Gina Riley.

Riley turned her back on the house, facing Allerton Manor Golf Course and Allerton Towers and the opening to the public footpath between the two green spaces.

‘It looks like Mrs Hobson had a ringside seat.’

‘Who is it?’ A frail, elderly voice came from behind the front door.

‘It’s the police,’ replied Riley, with as much pleasantness as she could muster on a freezing morning. ‘My name’s Detective Sergeant Gina Riley and my colleague is Detective Sergeant Bill Hendricks.’

Behind the door, chains rattled as Mrs Hobson loosened them from their catches.

In the narrow space of the partially opened door, a small, bird-like lady in her eighties clutched at the collar of her pink housecoat. On her head was a brown wig. It looked like a cat had curled up and died in its sleep on her skull.