Cover

About the Author

Jake Woodhouse is a Sunday Times bestselling author. The Copycat is his fourth book.

Dedication

For Zara

Prologue

The candyfloss smudge of dawn.

Stars glittering up high.

The gun at the back of my head.

‘I can explain,’ I say. ‘Just give me a –’

‘What did I just tell you?’ the man says as he slaps my ear. ‘Maybe you need these unblocking?’ He slaps the other one so hard my ear starts ringing.

We’ve been walking for what must be an hour now, stumbling through a wood slippery with fallen leaves. Roots snake across my path at random as if they’re trying to trip me up. Water drips from branches all around. His breathing’s close behind, I can feel it on my neck, and he pushes the gun harder, spurring me on. Up ahead I glimpse a break in the trees and soon the forest falls away on either side as I step into a round clearing.

Skewered on a craggy branch is a bright misshapen moon. Long thin clouds slide across the sky. The cable ties he slipped on earlier pinch my wrists.

For the briefest of moments I think about running. I shake it off. Back at the academy they teach you what to do if you’re ever held at gunpoint, and it sure as hell isn’t run. Lesson number one: you can’t outrun a bullet, movies notwithstanding. The preferred route is to shut the fuck up, do what you’re told, try not to anger them until you can work out a better plan. Or backup reaches you. As backup isn’t even aware of me, I’m left with the first. And I failed the not-angering-him bit before we even started the forced march.

‘Stop,’ he says as we reach the centre of the space.

What choice do I have?

Muscles ache from the march. My right heel, rubbed raw with each step, feels like it’s bleeding. And it’s all my fault.

‘Undress,’ he says.

Oh fuck. I know what’s coming now. I thought, given he had the gun, he’d use it. At least that would be quick. But if he’s asking me to undress … My pulse techno-beats in my ears. I need to think of something, fast, but he hits me across the back of the head with the butt of his gun and my thoughts scatter again. I start fumbling with my belt to bide time.

‘Faster,’ he growls.

Jeans pool at my feet with a soft exhale.

‘Everything,’ he whispers into my ear. ‘Take off everything.’

Socks come off slowly, giving me time to think. Underwear. My balls shrink and shrivel – the cold air’s like a caress from a dead hand.

‘T-shirt.’

‘My hands are tied. How can I –’