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Back The Family Next Door Save as PDF
Chapters (117)
  1. Also by
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright Page
  4. Epigraph
  5. PROLOGUE
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
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  42. 37
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  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
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  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
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  111. 106
  112. 107
  113. 108
  114. 109
  115. 110
  116. Teaser chapter
  117. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A child, like him.

He wondered who it was. And where that child was now.

The branches of the trees were lifted skyward in worship. His vision blurred and they seemed to beckon to him, urging him outside.

The curious part of his nature—the part that pored over maps of the world and took apart his windup alarm clock to discover how it worked—burned to find out more.

But the young boy in him—nervous of the dark, who put his hands over his ears when the house shifted and creaked—was resistant to wandering into the garden alone with the night so black and watchful.

He stood at the window for a while, watching the tree house. A breeze breathed through the leaves and they waved at him like tiny hands. The plums were glossy, their skins dark and lush amongst the branches.

What secrets were hidden amongst the wooden slats of the tree house? What had happened there?

He reached for his Magic 8 Ball and whispered his question: Should I go back to the tree house?

Screwing up his eyes, he tipped the ball over and waited for its answer to appear. After a minute, he could wait no longer.

It is certain.

Evan put on his slippers and headed into the night.

79

79

Wednesday 1st August 2018, 2:50 A.M.

Southside Hospital, Essex

The mortuary was in darkness, save for a lamp in the examination room at the front of the building. A blond head was bent over a stack of postmortem reports. She lifted her glasses and rubbed her eyes.

Mathilda Hudson did not have to be there. She could have packed the paperwork into her briefcase and taken it home to read on the sofa, legs tucked under her, an icy gin and tonic on the table. She could be in bed. But instead she had set up a makeshift desk in this sterile stainless steel room. It was her penance.

She was having trouble sleeping, anyway.

Yesterday, a broadsheet newspaper had printed a detailed analysis of the murders. A pathologist who knew nothing of the case had criticized her lack of progress. A public skewering. It wouldn’t have hurt so much if it hadn’t been true. It was her job to find out what had killed them. But she still didn’t know. Guilt impaled her. And professional shame.

The reports were full of medical technicalities that would have baffled the families of the victims, but they were poetry to the pathologist, full of meaning and depth. Held between those pages was the key to The Doll Maker murders, but Hudson hadn’t unlocked the puzzle yet.

What had caused all five of these victims to display signs of cardiogenic shock and respiratory distress? The answer to this question was at the heart of the police investigation. It was her responsibility to find that answer. And she took her professional duties extremely seriously.

But she was missing something vital.