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Back The Bad Place
Chapters (72)
  1. Cover
  2. THE BAD PLACE
  3. Contents
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. 63
  70. Acknowledgements
  71. About the author
  72. An Invitation from the Publisher

‘Have you by any chance spoken to your father?’

Finally they had arrived at the real reason for her call. She would never admit it, but she wanted Sasha to act as intermediary.

‘I haven’t had the time.’ It was a lie, but she didn’t want to say her dad had refused to answer the phone. ‘I’ll try later, I promise.’

‘What time will you be coming home?’ asked Ursula. ‘Because your family need to see you.’

Oh God, she had promised Denny she would get home at a decent time, but her hopes of keeping that promise were fading fast. Not her first parenting fail and certainly not her last.

‘Got to go, Mum, I’m late for a meeting!’

Sasha killed the call and threw the phone across the desk, peering at the photos of the man in the tinted glasses. Jerry Swann. Loner, abductor, murderer.

The first image was a head-and-shoulders photo ID taken at a warehouse he had once worked at. His face was soft and featureless. Badly cut hair billowed over his ears but lay flat and lank on the top of his head. Ginger fuzz curled over his upper lip, and his weak chin barely seemed to protrude from his neck.

The next photo was taken at a company Christmas party. White tinsel and paper chains hung in a canteen. In the foreground, a gang of drunken men and women laughed and leered at the camera. Jerry stood at the edge of the image watching them, the camera flash bouncing on the coloured lenses of his glasses so that his eyes seemed to blaze with satanic fury. In stark contrast, the rest of his bland face was blank, immobile; he didn’t look happy or sad. He was just there, ignored by everyone.

And there was one final photo of Swann, sitting self-consciously in a deckchair. Oversaturated polaroid colours gave the image a feverish, hallucinatory quality. His chest was bare in the sun and his white legs, protruding from tiny shorts, twisted tightly around each other.

Swann was a nondescript man, the kind of fellow you wouldn’t glance at twice in the street, yet he had joined the pantheon of notorious monsters who fascinated the public. Countless books had been written about the Bad Place, all of them regurgitating the same few facts. There had been an award-winning novel, a stage adaptation, even a graphic novel. An American TV movie had transplanted the drama to Minnesota.