Death Trap

Book 0: Rio Way Thriller

by Dreda Say Mitchell

Genres: Thrillers

Synopsis

A break-neck-speed thriller from Dreda Say Mitchell, author of the Flesh and Blood trilogy.

Teenager Nikki Bell is the only witness to the brutal murder of two members of her family and their cleaner. She's lucky to be alive. But the murder isn't a one-off. It's part of a bigger, more violent attack planned on affluent families in the area - and now Nikki, as the only living witness, is a dangerous threat to the well-orchestrated scheme.

As the net draws tighter around the killers, DI Rio Wray must do whatever it takes to keep Nikki alive. But when you're dealing with criminals, there's no line they won't cross... In a kill-or-be-killed-world, who will be first to pull the trigger?

(P)2020 Hodder & Stoughton Limited

Release date: October 8, 2015

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 448

Sample

one

Day One

6:40 a.m.

 

Madam B: I am going to kill them.

se15: How???

Madam B: Machete. No axe to the head. Quick. Bloody.

se15: Nah gotta be nice n sloooow. Waterboarding. Pure agony.

Madam B: Hahaha. Should Kung Fu chop ’em up to DEATH.

se15: Too much body contact. Your fingerprints everywhere ?

 

Sixteen-year-old Nikki grinned as she stared at her iPad screen, dreaming up different ways to kill her parents. She sat crossed-legged on the bed, tablet in her lap, her trademark fingerless gloves covering her hands. She was on Yakkety-Yak, the latest social networking craze, chatting to user se15. Fantasising about how to take down her parents melted away some of the stress – bought that chill-thrill back into her life. Of course she didn’t really want to kill them, but she was sick to death of them going on and on and on at her all the time like a pair of rabies-ridden dogs just waiting to sink their teeth into her.

You can’t do that, Nicola . . .

You can’t do this, Nicola . . .

And, of course, there was the classic,

We didn’t do that in my day . . .

Nikki rolled her storm-grey eyes as the memory of her mum yelling that one at her – yet again – ricocheted in her mind, before she’d flipped a finger and banged out of the house yesterday evening.

But Nikki didn’t have to worry about moan-fest Mummy at the present; she was safely tucked up in the best spot in town – the cosy bedroom on the top floor of the large house in Surrey: her pod of peace. As soon as she entered the room, her routine was always the same. Shut the door, drop the blinds, pop on the side lamp and then flip up the lid of her iPad to start chit-chatting to people who hid behind images of alter-egos and false names. Her lips pulled into a long, quick smile as she thought of another fantasy deadly deed to dispatch her parents permanently out of this life.

 

Madam B: Smother them with that mega size pillow they bought from Ikea . . .

 

Her fingers stopped moving when the door swung halfway open. A woman in her early twenties leaned her head into the room.

‘Nicola, breakfast is ready,’ she said in a gentle, Polish accent.

Nikki leaned back against the pillows as she answered Ania, the cleaner. ‘It’s too early too eat—’

‘You know they have an urgent appointment this morning,’ Ania smiled. ‘Come on. And don’t forget to take your gloves off.’

Then Ania was gone, but the door was left open.

Ping.

Hearing the sound, Nikki forgot about breakfast and went back to her Yakkety-Yak two-way conversation.

 

se15: Thought you wanted something nice n quick. Smothering takes way too looooong.

 

Nikki’s fingers got ready to answer, but her head hitched up and forwards when she heard a noise from downstairs; like something falling over. Then silence. She shrugged, thinking it couldn’t be anything to worry about and turned her attention back to se15.

 

Madam B: Maybe I should cut out mum’s tongue . . .

 

Her head snapped as she heard a crashing sound coming from downstairs.

Pop. Pop.

Her heartbeat kicked into high alert as she froze at the strange sound. Before she could try to figure out what the popping sound might be, two screams ripped through the air accompanied by shouting. Nicola jumped up, her iPad bouncing off her lap and onto the bed. Something was going on downstairs. No one yelled in this house, no one screamed. That’s what she loved about it: the peace and calm, the way it made her feel like she was a person worth loving. Her body shook as quiet settled over the house again. But it didn’t soothe her; something was terribly wrong. But what should she do? Stay here? Go downstairs?

Ping.

Nikki looked over at her iPad on the bed. Grabbed it up. Didn’t look at the screen this time; instead shut the lid. Breathing way too high in her chest she moved towards the partially opened door. Stopped for a few seconds. Then used the fingers poking out of her right glove to ease the door – really slowly – further back. Nikki took a deep breath as she stepped into the small landing.

No one there. Her gaze settled on the corner that would take her to the remainder of the landing that led to the stairs. Her hand tightened around her iPad as she started to move forwards, slowly. Forwards again, and again. She reached the corner, turned, and crashed straight into another person.

Nikki staggered back. Automatically opened her mouth about to scream . . . A hand slammed over her mouth holding the noise back. She stared up into the wild, terrified eyes of Ania.

‘Shhh,’ Ania whispered.

Nicola nodded back. The other woman pulled her hand away. She twisted away from the teenager as she wildly looked around. Her gaze stopped on the doors of the airing cupboard. Quickly she turned back to Nicola and gestured with her hand at the cupboard. The girl stared back in confusion, not understanding what the cleaner wanted her to do. Her heartbeat pounded harder, and harder.

Ania grabbed her arm and hustled her towards the cupboard, which was opposite the room Nikki had previously been in. The double doors of the cupboard were the same height as the doors of the rooms around it, but with open wooden slats in the top half. Ania threw the doors open. The shelves were deep, with towels, bed linen and two duvets folded neatly on them.

‘Get. In,’ Ania shot out again.

Nikki once again started to ask, ‘why?’ but the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs stopped her.

‘Quick.’ This time Nicola heard the desperation and tears in the cleaner’s voice.

Nicola threw her iPad inside. Scrambled onto the middle shelf with the duvets. Ania slammed the doors shut. Instantly Nikki was engulfed in dark and heat. The footsteps outside got closer, like they were now on the landing. Crouched low she slowly eased her head up and looked through the slats.

All she could see was Ania’s back.

‘What do you want?’ she heard the cleaner shout.

Who was Ania talking to? Nikki couldn’t see anyone else.

No one answered. Abruptly Ania staggered back, her voice high, begging, ‘Please . . . No—’

Pop.

That’s all Nikki heard. Blood spurted out of Ania’s back, slashing high up against the slats in the airing cupboard door. Horrified Nikki felt blood slash against her lips and chin. Frozen with terror she watched Ania’s body slump to the floor. And that’s when she saw who was there.

A man.

Something strange covered his face and he wore black clothing. And he was standing over Ania with a gun in his hand.

Nicola wrapped a palm over her mouth to push back her sobs, but she couldn’t stop the tears running from her eyes. The air in her chest was coming in strange, funny waves that made it hard for her to breathe. She’d never prayed in her life, but she wanted to pray now. Then she heard more footsteps. Her heartbeat madly kicked when she saw the gunman joined by another man dressed exactly like him. They stood staring down at Ania’s body.

The one without the gun turned to the other and spoke. What he said Nikki couldn’t hear because of the thing covering his face. The gunman answered him. She strained to hear what he was saying . . . then wished she hadn’t when she heard his words.

‘Let’s make sure no one else is here.’

Oh my God.

Nikki knew she should move deeper into the cupboard but the terror held her still.

Move.

Move.

MOVE.

Finally Nikki started easing back, scared to death they would hear her. Her chest heaved, but she tried to keep her breathing down; keep it low. She stopped when she felt the end of the cupboard against her back. Panic gripped her again when one of the men started moving.

Oh God, he’s coming towards the cupboard.

His black clothing blocked out the light sending Nikki into the darkest bowels of hell.

Please God. Please God.

He was getting closer. Closer. Closer.

Pleeeeease. Pleeeeease.

She kept the plea pounding in her mind to a God she didn’t even believe in.

The man stopped, hovering just outside. Then he turned away to the side and started walking.

Just stay still until they go away.

Stay still.

Still.

Crouched like a caged animal, with a dead woman’s blood drying on her skin, Nikki waited. The man who’d shot Ania joined the other one. They turned and started walking back along the landing. Nikki let out a soft and shaky breath of relief.

Ping.

Nikki looked desperately at her iPad.

The footsteps stopped. Started coming back.

No. No. No. NO.

The footsteps got closer.

They are going to kill me.

Going to kill me.

Kill me.

KILL ME.

two

9:33 a.m.

 

As soon as Detective Inspector Rio Wray, of the Metropolitan Police Service, turned her car onto the street in Surrey she didn’t need the address to ID where the killings had taken place. The place of murder was already taped off, local police stationed outside.

Number 3 The Lanes.

Sounded like something out of a Catherine Cookson novel, but the house was anything but. No back-to-back homes here in one of England’s most des res locations, at least according to those ‘where the super rich hang out’ guides that were done every year that Rio was never asked to take part in.

The house was two-storeys, large and sprawling; bottom-half plain brick, top coated white. It put Rio in mind of a private school for girls (not that she knew anything about fee-paying education, having been to a rough and tumble inner London comp). It was set in its own grounds – low grass, mammoth trees, showcasing and sheltering it at the same time. Some would call it impressive, but to Rio all that green plain hurt her eyes, and the seclusion afforded by the garden made it the perfect place for murder.

Rio got out of the car, an ebony BMW, which she’d christened her Black Magic Woman. She finger-combed her twist-out Afro – or ’fro as she liked to call it – then approached the two officers on duty either side of the front door.

‘Ma’am,’ one immediately uttered when she reached them.

His tone was low, with a sideline in barely held back insolence that she didn’t care for, but Rio left it alone. This situation was charged enough. The local police were in a tizzy about the presence of an outsider and her team running this investigation. One of the first acts of the newly appointed – and to some, controversial – Surrey Police and Crime Commissioner had been to shake up the investigation into the vicious spate of house robberies happening to wealthy householders living around London’s greenbelt. She’d done the unthinkable – outsourced the case to the Met. A ‘fresh-eyed, strategic approach’ to solving the case was how she put it. B.S. management speak for ‘you can’t get the fucking job done.’

Rio could understand the heated resentment of the local police. Having another force come in to help clean up your house was not a good look. But then blood in your house was an even worse one.

Rio pushed the politics back and the policing up front. Over the last three months a group of criminals – infamously dubbed ‘The Greenbelt Gang’ by the media – had carried out audacious early morning and increasingly more vicious raids on affluent homes in the area in the last six weeks. In the last attack, fifteen days ago, a woman had been murdered and that’s when Rio and her people had been assigned to the case.

Rio slipped on protective, forensic clothing and entered the house, registering the large, white tiles on the hallway floor, pastel green walls, occasionally broken by large paintings, and a wider-than-average staircase that curved seductively to a world upstairs.

A plain-clothes officer appeared from a room off the spacious hallway: DI Thomas Morrell. A top-heavy guy who’d learned how to carry his increasing weight around. He was bristling, just like the other times Rio had met him, his disapproval at her being assigned the investigation he’d once been the senior on out in the open. Rio didn’t take it personally; she’d probably feel the same way if the situation were reversed.

‘So, are we dealing with another Greenbelt?’ she asked him getting down to business straight away. ‘The privacy of the house fits their MO.’

The flesh on his cheeks wobbled as his mouth moved. ‘That’s not the only thing that fits. Paint-sprayed security cameras, French window at the back shattered by a single shot. No bullet casing to be found and the place a total tip as they searched for anything to line their pockets.’ He pointed to the room he’d come out of. ‘They made sure that no one was left standing this time.’

‘Who discovered the bodies?’

‘A local man who does the gardening. He turned up about an hour ago, couldn’t get an answer, went around the back and saw a body in the kitchen.’

‘We’ll need to check out the gardener . . .’

DI Morrell twisted his lips in a way that Rio knew whatever he was about to spit out next was going to be nasty. ‘If you were from around these parts you’d know that old Amos couldn’t hurt a fly.’

Finally it was out in the open. It being he had a problem with her being black. She didn’t have to be a genius to know that by ‘around these parts’ he not only meant Surrey but anywhere else in England. Colleagues questioning her abilities because of the colour of her skin was old news. She didn’t have the time of day for some fat fuck of a detective who spoke in double meanings and didn’t have the guts to say it plain and simple to her face.

‘What’s the body count?’ she continued.

‘Three. Male in the front room, woman in the kitchen and another female on the landing upstairs.’

Rio stepped into the main room, let her gaze roam around: a whirlwind of chaos. Typical Greenbelt Gang MO. So many things were dumped on the floor that it was hard for her to tell the shape of the room. Overturned cushions from the L-shaped creamy-beige leather suite, chunks of glass near an art deco style mirror, paper, twin discarded drawers of a dainty cabinet lying on its side. The lights on two small lamps, positioned on corner tables on either side of the French window, gave off an amber glow of softness and calm in a scene of total destruction. And the most brutal devastation of all was the body lying in the debris of the smashed glass table in the centre.

The victim was sprawled out like he’d just tipped over, one leg bent at an angle and the other straightened out. Dried blood circled the left side of his head. Not a perfect circle though, some of the blood had spread and leaked down the grooves between the wire-brushed teak floorboards. Rio crouched down beside him. With thirteen years on the job behind her, now aged thirty-five, she should’ve been a friend to death. But the air caught in the muscles of her throat as it always did. Rio just couldn’t get why humans messed each other up. But then it wasn’t for her to think about the why, but the who. Get the perpetrator off the streets and banged up behind walls so thick that the world soon forgot what their life-taking face looked like.

‘Forensics are on their way,’ Morrell said behind her. ‘Looks like the poor bastard was shot with some type of pistol.’

Rio kept her brown gaze on the body as she pulled out a tiny torch from her pocket, displaying the faint, diagonal scar on her wrist. She shone it on the vic’s head. The bloody grey-black strands of hair concealed the exit or entrance wound. She noticed a hole in his left hand: a defensive wound resulting from his hand stretched out in vain to stop the bullet coming at him. Rio guided the light against the clothing – black polo shirt with a white collar that was dipped in the stain of blood, dark blue tracksuit bottoms, and navy socks. The absence of footwear meant that the vic had probably been relaxing at home, having just risen for a day he had no idea was going to be his last. The clothing wasn’t rolled or wrinkled which meant he’d fallen where he’d been attacked not dragged from anywhere else.

‘Who lives here?’ Rio asked, spinning on the flat of her feet to face the other detective.

‘Married couple in their fifties. Maurice and Linda Bell. And from the descriptions given by the neighbours this is probably Mr Bell. His wife is in the kitchen.’

Morrell made it sound like Linda Bell was in the kitchen preparing a happy, cosy family breakfast. Rio stood up, torch still in her hand, and was guided by the other officer to the kitchen. It was a picture that she’d seen a hundred times. The ordinary domestic moment shattered by the interruption of a crime. The breakfast table had been carefully laid; this was no meal on the move while getting ready for work. There were fresh flowers in a vase, a coffee pot, toast in a rack, cereals in boxes, various spreads, all carefully laid out on a freshly ironed cloth. What stopped it looking like a breakfast buffet in a hotel was the blood – and the body.

‘Gee-sus,’ Rio let out, confronted by the violent streaks and spurts of blood on the floor and the white kitchen units near the sink.

And in a corner, slumped on the grainy flagstone floor, was the body of a woman. Her throat had been cut leaving a frozen, mini waterfall of dark red on the front of her sunshine yellow T-shirt. The only way to get a spray of blood from a wound like that was if the knife or sharp object had been plunged into the side of her neck and then sliced around the front; slice carotid artery; slice jugular vein; final slice through the trachea. Rio couldn’t stop the image that flashed through her mind – standing in another kitchen, stunned as she watched the blood drain from the slit throat of someone she’d been tasked to take care of. The faint scars on her wrist throbbed as Rio shook off the unwanted memory. Rio didn’t approach the body; best to leave that one to forensics.

She turned to Morrell. ‘This gang are developing a taste for blood. You said there was another body upstairs. Did they live with someone else because the breakfast table is set for three?’

He shook his head. ‘The Bells have a son and daughter and there’s evidence that someone else was occupying one of the other bedrooms upstairs. Maybe it was the son or daughter, but there’s no evidence of either of them being here now. They had a cleaner, but it’s unlikely they’d be sitting down with the help at the brekkie table. Old Amos, the gardener, said she came in twice a week: Mondays and Fridays. Her name was Ania. The neighbours haven’t a clue what her surname was. We think the body upstairs is the cleaner.’

Rio was glad to get out of the kitchen back into the hallway. She pulled in a few deep breaths and then wished she hadn’t as the warmth in the air intensified the tang of death at the back of her mouth. Just as they started to walk up the stairs a voice behind called out, ‘DI Wray?’

Rio twisted half around to find a man facing her at the bottom of the stairs. His stance was bold, legs braced slightly apart. Rio frowned; something about him was familiar and she had a prickly feeling at the back of her neck that the familiarity was not welcome. He looked somewhere between forty-five and fifty, with hair and the head-turning looks of what her closest friend called a silver fox, though the stubble on his chin looked more grizzly bear. He wore his formal suit and tie well on his six-two frame. Her gaze snapped back to his face as she remembered where she’d seen him. No way, her mind protested. DSI Newman would never hook her up with him.

‘What are you doing here?’ Her tone was hostile.

He answered, laidback and easy, with an accent that reminded Rio of her cousins who lived in Sheffield. ‘I’ve been placed on the investigation team.’ He took a step forwards. ‘Jack—’

Rio didn’t let him finish. Just breathing the same air as him further polluted the taste in her mouth. ‘I know who you are and the day you’re on my team is the day I’ve been sent to investigate Lucifer in hell.’

Rio swore softly as she turned her back on him and continued up the stairs. Jack Strong. Detective Jack Strong. Well, he’d better not follow her or she was likely to punch his lights out and send him tumbling straight back where he’d come from.

Still seething, Rio kept pace with Morrell as they hit the next floor, turned the corner, and stopped when she saw the female body lying face up not far from the door of a room or cupboard. She shook thoughts of Jack Strong from her mind as she approached the body. Attractive woman, the front of her top dried with blood. Eyes wide open. Hazel eyes.

The Greenbelt Gang had really gone ballistic this time.

‘From the blood around her and the mess on her front I’d say she was shot once at close range.’

Hearing the voice behind her, Rio slowly turned, trying like hell to keep her temper down.

‘I told you to get lost,’ she threw at Strong.

‘Yeah, well I’ve got orders to—’

Rio laughed with no joy. ‘Orders? That’s a strange word coming from you. As if—’ Abruptly she stopped when Strong placed a finger against his lips in a gesture for her to be quiet. Who the fuck did this should’ve-been-slung-out-of-the-force four years back think he was? Furiously she opened her mouth, but nothing came out because she suddenly knew why Strong was shushing her.

There was a sound, not too loud: a ruffling noise coming from somewhere. Still with his finger on his lips Strong moved forwards, eyes alert as he swung his gaze around. Then he passed Rio and kept moving towards the door behind the body. Rio followed.

They stopped near the door. The ruffling sound came again, then a sob. All three detectives jumped on either side of the door: Rio and Strong to the right, Morrell to the left.

Rio called out, ‘We’re the police, so whoever you are, come out with your hands held high.’

three

 

The answer was another sob, this one mixed with a few beats of open crying.

Rio hitched herself off the wall, eyebrows pressed down, the skin around her mouth tight.

‘Come. Out. Now,’ she repeated.

No response. The crying and sobbing stopped.

‘Are you hungry, love? Need a drink?’

Rio was surprised to hear Strong’s voice behind her, but before she could speak he set himself at the front of the cupboard. She couldn’t believe he was putting himself in danger, so she mouthed, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

But he ignored her and carried on speaking. ‘I’ve got a bottle of water in my pocket. It’s yours if you want it.’

Silence.

Rio impatiently broke through the quiet with, ‘Strong . . .’

But he leaned towards her and whispered, ‘It’s some kid. Sobs sound just like my Mary when she was upset.’ He gave his attention again to whoever was inside the cupboard. ‘We really are the police.’

‘You . . . you could be . . . anyone.’ They heard the voice for the first time. Female. Rasping. Weary. And yeah, Strong was spot on, young.

‘Do you know what a warrant card is?’ Strong continued.

Silence. Then, ‘Is that the wallet thing that cops carry when they ID themselves?’

‘That’s the one.’ Strong took an even step forwards. ‘Why don’t I take mine out, open the door and then you can . . .’

‘Noooo.’ The voice swung high, trembling in fear. ‘Don’t come in. Don’t come in. DON’T. COME. IN.’

Rio quickly moved to stand closer to the newest member of her team. ‘We should just drag her out.’

Strong looked at her and for the first time Rio saw he had blue eyes. Not just any old kind of blue, but the type that was intense and bright. Memorable. He leaned close into her again, his breath warm against her skin. ‘Let me have one more go. If it doesn’t work, we do it your way.’

Rio didn’t like her commands not being carried through, but she needed to get the girl out into the open, and if that meant giving Jack Strong the floor she didn’t have a choice. She briskly nodded back.

Strong started his persuasive dialogue again. ‘What’s your favourite music?’

‘What?’

‘Rihanna?’

‘No way, she’s light weight.’

Strong’s lips kicked up into a grin. ‘My girl loved dance music – couldn’t get enough of it.’

‘Loved? You said loved not love? Is your daughter dead?’

The smile slid from his face, but then he pulled it back into place. ‘If we were going to hurt you lass, we’d have done it by now.’

The breathing inside the cupboard was audible now, frantic and heavy.

‘I saw what they did to Ania.’

Strong’s voice lowered a fraction. ‘We’re going to keep you safe. Make sure you’re alright.’

Silence. Then a noise came from inside like she was moving around. Two eyes appeared at the slats. Wide, searching grey eyes. The girl’s gaze jumped around as she checked out first Strong, then Rio. One side of the double door moved slightly. Both Strong and Rio eased a step back.

‘You’re alright girl,’ Strong coaxed softly. ‘We’ll do this in your time.’

The door inched forwards, little by little. It kept moving until a hand, sporting lilac-and-black striped fingerless gloves, appeared. The fingers trembled and twitched. The girl’s breathing shuddered as she halted the motion of the door, before shoving it wide-open, revealing herself for the first time. Crouched, eyes flickering with fear and at the brightness of the light, the colour of her face gave new meaning to the cliché ‘as white as snow’: as if her heart had stopped pumping blood above her neck.

Rio suspected that her shoulder-length hair was some type of blonde, but sweat had dyed it to a slick, tangled brown. Her grey eyes, a mixture of silver and bloodshot-weary, shone with the lost, wild look of a chained animal. Rio noted all of those things, but what she couldn’t take her gaze off was the tiny, spot of red, or was it brown – maybe both? – that sat awkwardly just left of the centre of the girl’s chin. If that was what Rio thought it was, then the girl had been peering through the slats in the door when the cleaner was gunned down, blood shooting backwards. Witnesses on the previous raids had been carefully controlled by the gang: terrorised, they had only seen what the gang had allowed them to see – which wasn’t much. Now, for the first time in the Greenbelt Gang investigation, there was someone who’d inadvertently been given a front row seat to view the deadly action without the gang knowing.

A unique witness.

Rio stepped forwards, mouth curved into a reassuring smile, palms stretched upwards in a welcoming gesture. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Rio Wray and you’ve been talking to my colleague Detective Jack Strong.’

The girl’s eyes darted between them as if she still didn’t believe their story. Then her hands braced, forearms shaking, against the shelf and she eased out of the cupboard. Her body swayed as soon as her feet touched the ground. Rio rushed forwards and wrapped her arms around the girl’s waist. The girl’s arms hugged Rio’s shoulders as she pushed into the solid warmth of Rio’s much taller body. ‘I’ve got you. You’re OK now, you’re OK.’

The girl’s T-shirt was damp, probably soaked through with sweat and the artificial heat from the airing cupboard Rio concluded. Despite all that heat the girl’s skin felt ice cold.

The girl’s body tensed and Rio knew what she was staring at. Gently Rio shifted her body, blocking the gruesome sight of the dead cleaner.

‘Put your arm around my waist,’ Rio gently instructed.

As soon as the girl’s arm locked around Rio’s middle she started leading her towards the stairs. But when they reached the top of the stairs the pressure of the teenager’s arm increased, so Rio stopped.

‘My iPad.’ The girl spoke softly. ‘I left it in the cupboard. Can you get it for me?’

Rio twisted her head and nodded at Strong. Then she turned back and said, ‘We’ll need to keep it as evidence, but you’ll get it back.’

They hit the stairs. ‘What’s your name?’’

‘Nicola Bell. But everyone calls me Nikki.’ Her voice was quiet and tight.

Bell. Probably the daughter that Morrell mentioned.

‘How old are you?’

‘Sixteen.’

‘Well, Nikki, we’re going to get you out of here . . .’

‘I’m thirsty. The other cop . . . I mean policeman—’ A girl with manners, Rio liked that. She didn’t meet many kids in her line of work that put politeness at the top of their how-to behaviour list.

‘We’ll get you some water.’

As soon as they hit the hallway downstairs Rio guided Nikki towards the kitchen.

‘DI . . .’ Strong’s voice was strident and urgent behind her.

Rio twisted her head to the side and only when she caught his gaze did she realise what he was trying to warn her about. But it was too late; they were already on the threshold of the kitchen. Rio tried to grab Nikki’s head, but the girl had already seen what they didn’t want her to.

Nikki’s gaze was transfixed by the blood and body in the corner with its cut throat. She let out a horrified, choked scream as she slumped back in Rio’s arms.

four

10:40 a.m.

 

‘I will only permit you to question her for a short period of time,’ the doctor warned Rio. ‘She’s traumatised and needs rest.’

Rio stood with Doctor Melissa Green in the corridor of a ward on the second floor of Mission Hill Hospital. Rio had decided to take Nikki Bell to a hospital in London rather than one near the Bells’ home in Surrey. The sixteen-year-old could break this case wide open, so Rio needed to keep her