Cover

Also by David Mark

Novels

THE ZEALOT’S BONES (as D.M. Mark)

THE MAUSOLEUM (aka THE BURYING GROUND) *

A RUSH OF BLOOD *

BORROWED TIME *

BLOOD MONEY

INTO THE WOODS

SUSPICIOUS MINDS *

CAGES *

GRAVE OF THE GOBLINS

ANATOMY OF A HERETIC

THE WHISPERING DEAD *

The DS Aector McAvoy series

DARK WINTER

ORIGINAL SKIN

SORROW BOUND

TAKING PITY

DEAD PRETTY

CRUEL MERCY

SCORCHED EARTH

COLD BONES

PAST LIFE *

BLIND JUSTICE *

* available from Severn House

THE WHISPERING DEAD

David Mark

Dedication

For Phyllis and Milly

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Some of the events outlined in this novel actually happened. Most of them didn’t. I’ll trust you to work out which is which. I rather hope you’re wrong.

Epigraph

Spies cannot be usefully employed without a certain intuitive sagacity.

They cannot be properly managed without benevolence and straightforwardness.

Without subtle ingenuity of mind, one cannot make certain of the truth of their reports.

Be subtle! be subtle! and use your spies for every kind of business.

If a secret piece of news is divulged by a spy before the time is ripe, he must be put to death together with the man to whom the secret was told.

Sun Tzu, 544–496 BC

PROLOGUE

Browndown Beach, Gosport, Hampshire

March 11, 1968

The sea’s a joyless grey, cloudy as milk. There’s no line where water meets sky, just a smudge as the slow-moving sea merges softly into low, cloud-coiled sky. Drizzle greases the stones on this shingly, isolated beach; a near-invisible rain suspended in the chill air, misting a horizon the colour of unbaked clay.

A young woman is sitting on the sea wall, gazing at nothing. She’s as colourless and unremarkable as the emptiness into which she stares. Such appearance marks a change in philosophy and deportment; a transformation of sorts – a butterfly worming back into its muted cocoon. She is capable of extravaganza, of genuine visual spectacle; adept at clothing herself in gaudy hues and luxurious modes, splendid in short skirts, vivid nails; big earrings, big hair. She favours plum-coloured berets and large sunglasses, calf-hugging platform boots and bangles that clank as she swigs her brandy and lemonade. But here, now, she is equally comfortable in her monochrome anonymity. Were she to sit still long enough, she fancies she could pass for a stone.

She shifts position, ignoring the throbbing pain in her ribs. She’s getting good at disregarding pain. She didn’t even wince when she applied the blusher to her bruised cheek; her knuckles prodding her tender flesh as she worked her kohl around the contours of her strikingly blue eyes.