Cover

Dedication

To Ross and Fleur, and other Lakeland friends

PROLOGUE

The Baby

The damn baby is crying again. As always. It never stops. Never stops screaming, its fists clenched, red face ugly and hateful and accusing.

There is something wrong with it. Some problem inside. Some failure in how it works. But how are you supposed to know what it is? How are you supposed to fix it? You can’t take it apart and find the faulty piece of the mechanism and put it back together, repaired and working again.

You can’t do anything. Change its nappy, put the fresh, warm bottle to its lips? That was what people said: they just need their bellies full, their nappies empty, and to be warm and safe, and they’ll be fine.

Not this baby. This one has all those things, but still it cries. Because it is faulty. Broken.

Useless.

Stupid.

Every night. Every single one. Why? Why is it doing this? It’s just a baby, you know that, but still. It is as though there is a malevolent intelligence at work. It seems malicious, deliberate. Why would it not want to sleep? It must want to sleep. It must be tired. So why doesn’t it?

Does it intend to be infuriating? Does it want to provoke you?

No. It is a baby. There is something causing this. Some pain or distress that can’t be alleviated.

The thing broken inside it.

Not that you care. The stupid thing can be in as much pain as it wants, provided it shuts up. Provided it gives you some peace.

And it has to. It has to stop. You can’t take any more.

The baby’s arms lift above its head as it cries again. It is a piercing, loud, angry wail.

Does it like having its arms up? Hold them there, then. See if it settles.

It doesn’t. It simply wails louder, its arms struggling against your grip.

But you are much stronger. You squeeze. Pinch with your right hand.

Not hard. But hard enough.

It looks at you, and stops wailing. Stops making any noise at all.

You let go. So that was all it took.

The wailing starts again.

You pinch again, harder this time. And again, it stops crying, eyes wide. It looks shocked, if a baby can be shocked. Good. It is quiet. And that is all that matters.

But it does not last. Seconds later the wailing is back and it is twice as loud. It is like an ice pick in your brain. Right now you would bash its head on the floor, shake it, do anything to make it stop.

Footsteps on the stairs. You cradle it and make gentle soothing noises, sounds that mean this crying is not your fault.

The bedroom door opens.

‘Everything OK?’

Stan Davidson

He should have taken a taxi. The rain that had been threatening all evening was here and instead of being inside an Uber, five minutes from home, he was walking along the road, water running down his face.

He hadn’t wanted to spend the money, not after all the cash he’d pissed up the wall in the pub. He’d only had four or five pints; it was the drinks he’d bought for Carl and Andy and Ben and who knew who else that had emptied his wallet and, as the night wore on, worn out his credit card.

And it was a fucking waste. They were using him, but he couldn’t help himself. It had been the same at school; they were the cool kids, the football players, the ones with fake IDs and pretty girlfriends. Most of the other pupils let them get on with it – they were happy to be the geeks or the nerds or fill whatever social niche they found themselves in, but Stan wasn’t. He wanted them to like him. He wanted to be cool. To be the best player on the team. To walk with the swagger they walked with.

They knew it. They dangled membership in front of him, taunted him with the prospect they would welcome him into their group. At parties they goaded him into doing stupid stuff: Hey, Stan, drink this or Stan the Man! You’ll take on the dare, right? Go and pull Marj’s thong up from the back of her jeans.

He did it, every time. He couldn’t stop himself. And every time the drink made him vomit, or the girl – rightfully enough – slapped him and told him he was – on one memorable occasion – ‘a no-balls wanker who could fuck right off’.

And here he was, doing it again. Since they left school he’d created a carefully curated image on Instagram and Facebook. Anyone looking at his social media would think he was a successful financial adviser with a burgeoning private practice – Another happy client! #DavidsonFinancial – and a brand new Audi A3.

In fact, he had one client, his uncle Tony, whose total portfolio was worth a tick shy of twenty-five thousand quid, two thousand of which he let Stan invest for him. The Audi in his photos was rented; he and his dad had gone to visit some dying relative in Edinburgh and his mum was using the car. The rental clerk, bored, had upgraded them.

So when Carl had seen him in the pub and said Looks like you’re doing well for yourself, always knew you’d make it, Stan the Man, he’d nodded nonchalantly. And when Andy had said Drinks on you, mate and Ben had added Mine’s a pint of Stella he’d replied Only too pleased, lads, go for it.

Which was why he was walking home in the fucking rain.

He turned left onto a road that ran alongside a patch of waste ground. There was a sign up declaring it to be the property of some development company and warning people to keep out. That was how to make money. Property. Not advising your bloody uncle.

As he walked he saw a car, no lights on, parked by the road. It was a strange place to leave a car and he looked around for an owner. Maybe someone pissing in the bushes. There was nobody, and he carried on walking.

He passed the car. Up ahead was a railway bridge, then a left turn, and a few hundred yards to his road. He walked under the bridge, the darkness sudden after the moonlit street.

Behind him, he heard a footstep and he spun around. His eyes were not adjusted to the light but he was able to make out a silhouette. It was hooded, and, as he decided it was time to run, it raised a hand.

A hand that held something he recognized.

A hand that held a hammer.

Once the boy was dead the hooded figure worked quickly. The body was rolled onto its back, the arms were folded over the chest.

The figure knelt by the body, as though in prayer, then raised a finger, encased in a blue surgical glove, and dipped it into the gaping wound on Stan Davidson’s temple.

It contemplated the blood, then slowly – almost reverently – it opened its mouth and sucked the finger clean.

It gave a low moan, and then took something from the pocket of its jeans and placed it delicately in the hand of its victim.

PART ONE

Friday, 16 July 2021

Tom

He’d been back at work for two weeks, and he wasn’t sure he could survive much longer. His employer, a Scandinavian engineering company, had an enlightened parental leave policy, so he had stayed at home with his daughter Joanna – or Jo – for the first four months of her life. Alice was a self-employed journalist and, if she was to have any income at all, had to work, so initially the role of primary carer had fallen to him.

It had been hard. Jo wasn’t much of a sleeper and he and Alice were in a state of constant exhaustion, but his dad had said something to him that had stuck with him.

I never had this chance, he said. When you and your brother were born I had two days off work, then I was back in. I wish I had – so make sure you enjoy it. You might never get the opportunity again.

So he had tried. It was hard at 2 a.m., eyes heavy, Jo’s cries cutting through him, but he had forced himself to pause and try to enjoy the moment.

At least when he was home he could find time to nap in the day. Now he was back at work, and Jo was home, either with Alice, or Martha, a retired teacher who was helping look after her.

He studied the CAD model of an oil cooler housing on the screen and yawned, a deep, full yawn. Only 10 a.m. It was going to be a long day. At about 9.30 the night before, Alice had gone to bed. Jo – as usual – had no interest in following suit and he’d stayed up with his daughter, walking around the house in endless circles with her nestled against his chest in a papoose. It was the only way she’d go to – and stay – asleep. At a pinch he could stop walking, but as soon as he sat down – and heaven forbid he lay down on the couch – she would wake up and make a quiet whimpering sound.

It was the precursor to the full works. The full, red-faced, open-throated, screaming works.

And then he’d have to stand up and start walking again, trying to soothe her to silence for five or ten minutes until she settled down, if she ever did. It wasn’t worth trying.

Then, at 2 a.m., Alice had come down and taken over. She had a different strategy. Jo would sleep for her, provided she was in constant motion, so Alice would strap her into the car seat, and go for a long drive, listening to an audiobook she wanted to read. They’d tried to replace the motion of the car with a bouncy chair, but that was not remotely acceptable to their daughter. Jo needed to be in something with wheels. Perhaps she’d be a racing driver when she grew up. He hoped so. It would at least make this into a funny story. At the moment it wasn’t funny at all. It meant their nights had become a combination of him walking around wearing the floors out, and Alice driving around the streets.

His mum hadn’t said as much, but he could tell she thought it was a situation of their own making. Their bedtime routine – when she would go to bed – involved various bounces and pats before they laid her gently in her bed, the room dark and silent. Then they had to remain in the room, bent over the crib, one hand on her back. If they moved too soon or if someone made a noise or if it was too light, Jo would wake up and they would be back to square one.

He had explained all this to his mum when she had come to babysit so they could go out to eat. She had listened, and nodded, and then kissed him on the cheek and said We’ll be OK, love. He tried to explain how important it was, but she ushered him towards the door and told him to have a good time.

They were home an hour later. At the restaurant, with no Joanna-related tasks to do for the first time in the ten weeks since she was born, free to do and talk about whatever they wanted, they had talked about nothing other than their daughter. By the time they had eaten their main courses, Tom was worried that something might have gone wrong.

I think we should go, he said.

We’ll be OK. Call your mum and check.

He shook his head. He had been gripped by the sensation that he had to get home, right away, or something awful would happen.

When they arrived home his mum was on the couch, watching old episodes of the Great British Bake Off. She looked at her watch.

Were they closed? she said. You just left.

How was it? How’s Jo? he asked.

She’s lovely. Fast asleep. She was no trouble at all. Why don’t you two go to the pub and have a drink. She’ll be fine.

Tom started to say no, but Alice grabbed his elbow. Good idea. Thanks Margaret. We won’t be late.

Later, when his mum was leaving, she hesitated on the doorstep. You know, Tom, it might be worth letting Joanna learn to go to sleep herself.

What do you mean?

I don’t want to interfere, love, so you do as you see best, but if you always create the perfect sleeping conditions then you’ll teach her to expect those. It might be better to let her develop a bit more – flexibility.

That was it. She’d not mentioned anything since, but he could tell she thought they – he in particular – were overprotective.

So be it. Better over than under. It was no bad thing for a father to protect his daughter, after all. And she needed him. She was a baby.

He stared at the CAD model again. It was hard to concentrate, and he closed his eyes. Even a few seconds would help.

‘Not getting much sleep?’

Tom jerked upright and opened his eyes. Carol, his boss, was standing by his desk, a paper cup of coffee in her hand. Her nose and mouth were concealed by a mask, but her eyes were smiling.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was just – I needed a little rest.’

‘That’s fine. I’ve been there.’ She handed him the coffee. ‘Take this. It’s fresh. I’ll get another. Joanna still not sleeping?’

‘Not really. She’s up all night, for the most part.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Five months. She’s at the doctors for a check-up today. Alice is going to ask if there’s anything wrong.’

‘I doubt it,’ Carol said. ‘Some babies aren’t great sleepers. My second was a holy terror. I still have nightmares about it now. I’m sure she’s perfectly healthy.’

‘I hope so,’ Tom said. ‘But one way or another, I need some sleep.’

Alice

THIRD VICTIM RAISES FEAR OF SERIAL KILLER

By Alice Sark

The body of a 23-year-old male was discovered yesterday, at 9 p.m. The corpse had been concealed under a tarpaulin on a piece of waste ground near Appleton Thorn, in Warrington.

The victim – who has not been named – suffered serious head wounds which were confirmed by police as the cause of death. It is being treated as a suspicious death. No other details were forthcoming at this time.

If confirmed as a murder inquiry, the victim will be the third person killed in this manner in the Warrington area in the last four months. The body of Jane Kirkpatrick, 21, of Moston, Greater Manchester, was found under a bridge in Sankey Valley Park in April of this year. In June, the body of Amy Martin, a 31-year-old mother of two, was found in a field in Walton. Both were killed by blows to the head.

Although the latest victim is male, this has not stopped speculation that there is a serial killer at work. A spokesperson for Cheshire Police did not confirm or deny whether the force believed this to be the case, saying only that at this stage of the investigation ‘all possibilities are being considered’.

Alice read through the story. It had already had – in the hour since she had posted it – more comments and likes than any story she had ever written. People evidently loved serial killer stories, and they had a lot to say about them.

No doubt this is a serial killer. Has all the hallmarks.

Puts me in mind of the Ripper. Yorkshire variety, that is.

Bloody police need to find this bastard. Instead they’re too busy arresting parents for taking their kids on holiday. Typical.

None of them knew the first thing about what was going on, of course, but that didn’t stop them speculating; in fact, it had the opposite effect. It made them speculate more.

As she read the comments, more appeared. There really were a lot of people interested in this. She glanced at the clock. It was later than she’d thought; she was going to be late for Jo’s appointment at the doctor’s office.

She closed her laptop. She could read the comments later.

The doctor – Freya Quinn, Joanna’s paediatrician – pressed her stethoscope to Joanna’s chest. Alice watched as her daughter – already five months old, a fact that prompted everyone who met her to marvel at how quickly babies grew up – pawed at the instrument.

‘Now, now,’ Doctor Quinn said gently. ‘I need to listen to your heart. It won’t take long.’

Alice held Jo’s hands away from the stethoscope. The doctor concentrated for a few moments then smiled.

‘Sounds good,’ she said. ‘So. How is she?’ She consulted her notes. ‘Is she sleeping better? When I last saw her, your husband said she was struggling to settle at night?’

That didn’t quite cover it, but it was a start.

‘Not really,’ Alice said. ‘She goes down for a while but then she’s awake all night.’

‘All night?’

‘Pretty much. It’s like we’re in a movie. That’s what I say to my friends – we have the kid that you hear the nightmares about. I can’t believe it when I’m out at 2 a.m., driving her around’ – Alice shook her head – ‘it’s crazy.’

‘Have you tried letting her cry it out?’ the doctor asked.

‘We did. But she just cried. After an hour we – well, me mainly – couldn’t take it.’

‘Does she sleep during the day?’

‘Yes. I had to wake her up to bring her here. It’s really frustrating!’

The doctor nodded. ‘I went through the same,’ she said. ‘I have three, and the last one was allergic to sleep. At night, anyway. She was like a vampire – up all night and dead to the world all day.’

‘How did you cope?’

‘She eventually grew out of it. But not entirely. She’s sixteen now and she’s still a night owl. Children are who they are. You have to work with them.’

‘So we wait? It’s been a while. Some of the other mums I’ve met have babies who slept through the night from day one, which I can’t even imagine, but even the ones whose babies didn’t sleep well at first are through it now.’

‘Don’t compare yourself to other parents, if you can help it,’ Doctor Quinn said. ‘As I said, children have to find their own path, even at this age.’

‘So there’s nothing we can do? You don’t think there’s a problem?’

‘Not a serious one,’ the doctor said. ‘There could be something. Colic, maybe. An immature gut that causes her pain when digesting food.’

‘Someone suggested lactose intolerance?’ Alice said.

‘I don’t think so,’ Doctor Quinn replied. She consulted her notes once more. ‘Her weight gain is normal. But we could check.’

‘If it is colic, or an immature gut, what would we do about it?’

‘There’s not a lot you can do. It’s her digestive system developing. It can cause discomfort.’

‘And will it just get better?’

‘Normally it does.’ She reached for some plastic gloves and snapped them on, then adjusted her face shield. ‘But I’ll examine her.’

Doctor Quinn placed her right hand on the baby’s pale abdomen and gently palpated it with her fingers. She moved her hand around, her face fixed in concentration.

‘I don’t feel anything abnormal,’ she said. ‘And Joanna doesn’t seem to be experiencing any discomfort when I press on her stomach. She has normal movements?’

‘What’s normal?’ Alice said.

‘Same as for you, more or less. Not explosive, or persistent diarrhoea.’

Alice paused. Joanna’s nappies were hardly things of beauty, but she didn’t think they were anything to worry about, at least given what the doctor was saying.

‘Normal, I think,’ she said.

‘Then I think we can simply monitor her for now.’ Doctor Quinn started to popper up the onesie. Her nails were short and neat, her hands nimble and quick.

As she did up the second button Joanna twisted and her arm became exposed. Dr Quinn paused, and ran her finger along Joanna’s upper arm, then frowned and looked up at Alice.

‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘What’s that?’

‘What’s what?’ Alice said.

Dr Quinn leaned forward, slid Joanna’s arm out of the onesie and nestled it in her palm. She studied it for a moment, her expression watchful and concerned.

‘A bruise,’ she said slowly. ‘On her upper arm.’

She tilted Joanna into a sitting position and lifted her arm. She examined it, her forehead creased in a slight frown. There were two bruises, one on each side of her arm, dark against her pale skin. There was a long pause before she spoke.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘That’s a little unusual.’ The smile was still on her lips but the warmth was gone from her face. ‘It’s on both sides of her arm. Do you have any idea where it came from?’

Alice wanted to snatch her daughter from the doctor’s hands and run from the room. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I have no idea.’

‘Hmm.’ The silence settled between them. Dr Quinn studied Joanna’s arm more closely. She pushed her chair back to her desk and opened her notes. She flipped through the pages, then took a pen from a mug with World’s Best Aunt on it and started to write.

‘What is it?’ Alice said.

‘Just making a note,’ Dr Quinn replied. She scribbled some more words, then put the pen back in the mug and folded her arms. ‘You can dress her now.’

Alice put Joanna’s arm back in the onesie. She buttoned her up and held her on her lap.

‘So you have no idea how this bruise came about?’ Dr Quinn said. She picked up a cloth and wiped her face shield; there was a smudge on it where Joanna had grabbed at it.

‘I don’t,’ Alice said. ‘But – I mean, it’s a only a bruise.’

‘Bruises have causes,’ Dr Quinn said. ‘I’m wondering what that might be.’

‘Maybe she was falling and someone grabbed her,’ Alice said.

‘Did anyone mention something like that happening?’

‘No,’ Alice said.

‘And you don’t remember doing that?’ The doctor picked up the pen and wrote some more notes.

‘No. I would remember. I could ask Tom. He spends a lot of time with her. Or Martha.’

Dr Quinn glanced up at her. ‘Martha?’

‘She’s been helping out with child care. Now Tom’s back at work.’

‘Is she a nanny?’

‘Kind of. She’s a retired teacher. A ten-pound pom.’

‘A what?’

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