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’m going to lift her head. I want you to take pictures of the back of her head, please.’
Clay slid the fingers of both hands between the muddy rock and the back of the victim’s head. The backs of her hands felt grainy and wet as they slid along the mud, and her fingers sensed the contours of the skull beneath the muscle.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Clay beneath her breath as she lifted the woman’s head from the rock. She looked at the back of her skull, at the thin wet muscles covering the bone and the skin at the base of her throat.
‘Paul, place a light on the skin beneath her jawline, on her throat.’
As torchlight hit skin, Clay saw the rough smudges around her throat and said, ‘Strangulation, same MO as Warrington.’
In a handful of seconds, she went through the killer’s logic: Strangulation, up close and personal, and full of sadistic joy, feeling the life drain out through his fingertips and thumbs.
Clay lowered the woman’s head back into the water and noticed that Detective Sergeant Terry Mason looked like a man seeking for a wafer-thin slice of meaning in a storm of chaos.
‘Terry?’ she called.
‘It’s literally and metaphorically a fucking washout, Eve.’
It was only the third time in fifteen years she had heard Mason swear. She looked at the mortuary van on the promenade.
‘The Anatomical Pathology Technicians, Terry?’
‘They might as well come down and pick her up right now.’
‘I’ll make that call, Eve,’ said Stone.
In the sky, the finger of hazy light was widening, stretching out at either end, and Clay faced a grim conclusion.
‘Karl, come on, there’s nothing we can do here. I need to talk to the constables who found her.’
She walked back towards the concrete steps that she had just climbed down.
‘Terry, as soon as the ATPs leave here, call me. I’ll meet them at the mortuary as she arrives there.’
Clay took out her iPhone and dialled Detective Constable Barney Cole. As he connected the call in the incident room at Trinity Road police station, Clay heard his voice but was lost in the woman’s dead eyes staring from the raw muscles that once opened her missing lids.
‘Eve… Eve? Eve, are you there, Eve?’
‘Barney, when you’ve finished your trawl through missing persons, I need you to contact Warrington Police. Ask them for everything they’ve got on Sandra O’Day, the River Irwell victim, August, this year. I need to speak to the SIO on that case. Roll the ball as fast as you can, Barney.’
2
7.15 am
From the front of her car, Clay watched two police constables walking past the larger-than-life statue of a bright orange bull looking in the direction of the River Mersey, a huge art installation aptly named Sitting Bull.