Deceived

Book 4: Wheeler and Ross

by Anne Randall

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Secrets. What secrets are hidden at the heart of family life? Deceit. The lies we tell ourselves are often more dangerous than the truth. When forty-one-year-old Sarah Price is reported missing after having arranged a date with a man she met on the internet, her son is distraught. Meanwhile, Glasgow based Detective Inspectors Kat Wheeler and Steven Ross attend the scene of a murder. Michael O'Donnell, a widower and devoted stay-at-home dad to his daughter, Paula, has been brutally killed. And Paula, who is vulnerable and dependent on daily medication, is missing. As Wheeler and Ross race to find Michael's killer and Paula's abductor, they are drawn into a tangled web of deceit. Soon they come to realise that the killer is watching them. And is always one step ahead... Praise for Anne Randall: 'Brilliant' The Sun 'Randall has grown in confidence since her debut, and this is as assured and clever a novel of "tartan noir" as you could hope to find' Daily Mail

Release date: December 6, 2018

Publisher: Constable

Print pages: 416

Sample

Saturday 12 December, 2 p.m.

Mount Vernon, Glasgow

He often wondered about people like himself. Killers. He knew that they did sometimes give themselves away. It could be that they developed a nervous tic, or that beads of perspiration formed quietly but conspicuously on a top lip. They may have glanced around apprehensively, or perhaps stared straight ahead, laser-focused on their mission? Any of these could potentially have alerted others to their intent. It was only on rare occasions that a killer radiated a sinister, noxious aura, a hint of the violent act that they were about to commit. Perhaps evil may have oozed through their pores; its toxicity palpable? When this happened, when an innocent encountered a killer, he or she intuitively moved away. They did not want to linger in the same train carriage or share a bus seat with evil. Instinctively, wordlessly, they were repelled and quickly moved off, out of the evil orbit. To safety. They hoped.

But he knew that he was not like them, for he was Mr Average. Capital M, capital A. He could walk directly in front of you and you wouldn’t notice him. He could assure you of that. He was unmemorable, unremarkable. And therefore deadly. The assailant was casual in his approach. He strolled on through Mount Vernon, towards Hamilton Road. He believed that the quiet residential area was a fine place to live. Knew also that as a successful killer, an intelligent killer, that he should blend in with his surroundings, become merely part of the background noise to the intended crime and not immediately identifiable as its principal player. Voila! he thought. Let the drama begin.

It would soon be winter solstice. The warmth and predictable glare of the sun was at its weakest in the year. In fact, for killing, it was the most perfect of conditions. He breathed in the cold air. The earlier promise of snow had been delivered and a soft covering of white shrouded the landscape as he walked the deserted road. He knew that families would be packed into their homes, colleagues at their work places. All safe. All sound. Perhaps, some looking up at the darkening sky and refusing to venture out? Stay home. Stay in the office. Stay safe. Most of the Christmas shoppers had gone into the city centre to browse tinsel-draped department stores in search of yet more rhinestone baubles. The killer welcomed the white pavements and roads, secure in the knowledge that the fresh snow would obliterate his footsteps. Better for him to move ghost-like through the neighbourhood, then be gone, without a trace. How helpful, he thought, of the Christmas season and of the universe to favour him. He had risen at dawn and had driven his car to the area and parked up. He had prepared.

Quietly, he approached the elegant, detached, sandstone villa, noted that the name on the plaque read ‘St Guinoch’, the name of a saint. Perhaps the occupier believed that St Guinoch might protect him? He offered a silent hope that he didn’t. That would be too superstitious, too religious. Frankly, just plain fucking wrong. He walked up the path. He wondered briefly about his intended victim. Could he have done anything differently, which may, potentially, have changed the course of today? Or had his destiny been written in the annals of time? Eternity, he thought to himself, was littered with these dates. He knew that the question would never be asked. There simply wouldn’t be the opportunity. The time was now, he had been chosen. The killer believed that everyone had a prescribed time, when they would be released from their physical body and catapulted into the next world. Whatever that would entail. If it were the Christian tradition – and why not, since it was after all Christmas – was it to be heaven or hell or some halfway house of perpetual suffering? Purgatory? Which was more real, the pagan solstice, Yuletide, Christianity or Father Christmas? Which was most relevant? He stopped himself. As for conversations concerning what he was about to do, who on earth would be listening? God? The Devil? He chuckled, he was such a sentimentalist at times. He approached the front door. He bent over and quickly pulled on the dog mask, straightened up, reached forward. At least he had granted his victim a carefree lunch. He was all heart, really. He rang the bell. Leaned on it a second time just for effect. Just because he could. Beneath the mask, he smiled.

2.30 p.m.

Inside

Michael O’Donnell was thirty-nine years old and of Irish–Italian origin. He had dark hair, brown eyes and had inherited his Italian mother’s smooth olive skin. He had a strong nose, high cheekbones and full lips.

He was just under five foot nine and knew that he was considered handsome.

It was just after their lunch and the smell of freshly baking soda bread permeated the air. Michael stood in the kitchen of his villa, carefully washing his dead mother’s good china bowl. It had been from a dinner set she’d been given on her wedding day and had been her favourite. It had been hand-painted, the figs, grapes and lemons around the rim both colourful and strong. He had loved that pattern when he had been growing up. Now there was just the one piece left from the whole set and it was an object he treasured. It was a link from his mother, through him, to his daughter, Paula. He took it out of the soapy water and rinsed it under the tap. Grabbed a tea towel and began drying it. The reassuring hum of the dishwasher told him that the rest of the dishes would be taken care of without his intervention. He thought of his mother and his father; he had been close to them both. He missed them very much and wished that they were still alive to be part of Paula’s life. She had never met her grandparents and that troubled him.

He heard the doorbell ring. Twice.

Michael cursed softly under his breath, hoped that the bell wouldn’t wake Paula. She needed to take a short nap every day after lunch, as her energy levels plummeted. He made his way through to the hallway, almost tripping over Paula’s rucksack, which had been dumped on the floor. He realised that he was still carrying the bowl. He retraced his steps and placed it carefully on the kitchen work-surface before making his way to the front door. If it was another double glazing/conservatory bore, he’d make a formal complaint. There had been three of them in the area recently, ringing bells and annoying folk with their ‘special offers’ or stuffing unsolicited brochures through letterboxes. He’d thrown the brochures straight into the recycling bucket. If, as he believed, the Mount Vernon area was being targeted, he would be bringing it up at the next meeting of the Residents’ Association. He wasn’t going to put up with this kind of bloody nonsense. As if he didn’t have enough to contend with at present. As if life wasn’t complex enough.

The textured glass on the door meant that he couldn’t see the person on the other side. He hated that glass. Depending on the angle of the sun, he either only managed to get a hazy idea of the height of the person, or, more likely, the light was split into hundreds of tiny prisms which meant that he had no idea who was on the other side. Paula’s mother, Jayla, had chosen the dark glass, and Paula wouldn’t let him change it. He peered at the door, through the fractured light, and all he could make out was a distorted figure in various shades of dark. And why did this person have to ring twice? He frowned as he opened the door.

It was the speed with which it happened. The flash of a blade before he could properly assess or process what was in front of him. The dog’s sinister grinning face. Michael felt one, two, three, rapid slashes, deep enough and angry enough that it seemed only a split second had passed between him looking down to touch his shirt before staring at his bloodstained hands in astonishment. He felt panic as all 176 lbs of him staggered backwards before crashing onto the floor. There was no time to call out to Paula, no time to warn her. No time to tell her to call the police. Just. No. Time.

The assailant was inside quickly and stood over Michael, checked for a pulse, but it was over. The job had been done well, an excellent kill. Efficient. He dragged Michael into the living room as fresh blood haemorrhaged silently, persistently, across a cream rug. The killer deftly skirted the body but tramped in a pool of blood before he ran into the hallway. He paused in front of a display cabinet which held a series of upturned crucifixes. He removed his mask, smiled at the grotesque figures and their exquisite dying throes. Such sweet inspiration. Then he made for the stairs.

The killer began to climb, stealthily, carefully.

He had one more job to do. And he had to get it right.

4.30 p.m.

Sarah Price

The wintery sun had almost gone, as forty-one-year-old Sarah Price stood in the bedroom of her semi-detached house in Tollcross. She felt her hands shake as she quickly mixed the second extra-strong gin and tonic. Bloody hell, she thought. You’re not eighteen. Get a grip. She sipped the G and T, knowing that, unlike wine, he wouldn’t smell the alcohol on her breath and it didn’t make her feel sleepy. A perfect antidote to her nerves.

She smoothed down the black, mid-range designer dress. The store assistant had assured her that it ‘exuded glamour’. It was black crepe and mercifully had sleeves to cover the flabby area at the top of her arms, her bingo wings. She hated her upper arms. The store assistant had told her that wearing the designer dress would make her feel ‘empowered’. Sarah sighed. Maybe if she were still a size twelve? What had her old friend, Maria told her? ‘Fake it till you make it.’ It was a shame that they had fallen out, but Maria had detested her last choice of partner. A ‘friends with benefits’ arrangement, which Maria had told her was useless. ‘He doesn’t respect you. It’s gone on too long. He’s selfish. You give in to his every demand. The things you do just to keep him. It’s ridiculous. You wouldn’t even tell me his bloody name.’ They’d had an argument and hadn’t spoken since. Sarah tugged at the hem of the dress. It wasn’t that short, but because she lived in trousers and practical shoes, wearing a new dress and boots felt odd. As if she were younger somehow. She checked her make-up. Thought of her date. She had a good feeling about this one.

This was a real face-to-face date. She’d researched some of the dating apps again and, frankly, they’d made her nervous. Online, all she seemed to find were men who just wanted sex, a ‘hook-up’ or a ‘let’s just see what happens’ scenario. She was fed up with them. In her last relationship, a long-term arrangement she felt was going somewhere, she’d given it her all, but, by the end, she’d felt cheap and used. Despite the huge effort she had made to support him and his beliefs, her absolute unconditional love and a desire to help him in every possible way, however challenging, for many years, he still refused to commit. Finally, she’d left him. Then he had admitted that he’d taken other lovers. It was over. A week later a random leaflet had come through the letterbox, a flyer wedged in between the adverts for double glazing and hedge cutting. After pursuing their website, and having read lots of positive testimonials, she’d joined Looking4Love. They were expensive, but she wanted to cut to the chase and find a man who wanted a relationship. Plus, you could do a search based on geography, she didn’t want to find someone too far away. There had been six matches in a reasonable area. She sipped her drink, told herself to slow down. This evening was all about connectedness. Her gut instinct told her that Rob Carter was the real deal. She glanced at her laptop, at his profile picture. He had an open face and a lovely smile. He was tall, slim and tanned. He was wearing a smart black jacket over an open-necked white shirt.

Looking4Love

Profile picture of CJ200

Unclaimed treasure

Home: The wonderful Drymen and also St Andrews, Scotland. (Although the above picture was taken while I was on holiday in Rethymnon, Crete. Hence the tan. I am now somewhat paler.)

About me: Height 6’ 2” (187 cm).

Hair: dark/ going on for salt and pepper.

Eyes: Blue.

Body type: Muscle -ish (200 lbs).

Past Relationship? Ended amicably when she accepted a (long overdue, in my opinion) promotion to New York.

What am I looking for? To find the love of my life. I’m a hopeless romantic!

Children? No, but I don’t mind if you have any. (Or how many.)

Religion: Not sure about the whole God thing but I’m open to discussing it, if it’s your thing.

Star sign: Pisces. Romantic. Bit dreamy.

Occupation: I own my own computing business.

Looking for: A lovely, kind soul. Height, weight, no issue. I just want to meet a warm, compassionate lady who I can treat to a lovely meal. (OK, to be brutally honest, I would like someone who has an appetite, no evangelical dieters, please. I love to cook and eat out a lot and hope that you can join me!) A perfect storm of imperfection. (Congruence is important.) Be real, please don’t try to be perfect. Airbrushed perfection doesn’t interest me. An animal lover would be good as I have a couple of rescues – an elderly cat and a whippet. They’re not going back! Plus, I’ve been adopted by a feral cat who has trained me to feed him daily. I live in a four-bedroom house on the outskirts of the Queen Elizabeth Forest Park. It’s a very beautiful place. The scenery is incredible.

Age: I’m forty-four, so anyone between thirty-four and fifty-four?

Describe yourself: I am kind (so I’m told). An animal lover (obviously). A foodie. I read a lot and am a member of the Goodreads community. I love to laugh. I have a holiday cottage overlooking the harbour at St Andrews. It’s great to take off for some downtime. I love art, particular favourites are: Picasso, Matisse and Braque. I like long walks with the dog and pub lunches. The venison at my local restaurant is wonderful.

Sarah loved venison. Rob seemed warm and kind, unlike the men she usually met. She recalled that her deceased mother had delighted in goading her: ‘You’re short and round but more importantly you’re stupid around men.’

This latter insult had been added when Sarah had married Ian Price because she’d been fourteen weeks pregnant. When she’d told Ian about her pregnancy, he had pressurised her to have an abortion, but Sarah had ignored him and eventually he had agreed to the wedding. Ian Price had turned out to be a violent and abusive husband. Sarah had been eight months pregnant when she’d discovered him in their bed with a barmaid from their local pub. She left him and managed to find a flat she could afford, and then her son, Nick, had arrived. The birth had been traumatic, but she’d recovered and had held her sweet, soft and beautiful child. She had cradled him in her arms and touched his tiny fingers and knew that she had been right to carry on alone.

‘You spoil him,’ her friend Maria had said.

‘Nick will never respect you. He’s ruined,’ Ian had complained. ‘It was a mistake to ever have him and then split up our family. You are so fucking selfish. He’ll never bond with you. Ever.’

And Nick had, until recently, never truly bonded with her. Not in the way she had wanted him to. Not until the last six months. Years ago, when he had started primary school, a teacher had mentioned attachment disorder and she had laughed. She had known that her son would come round. Given time. And the last six months had been great, they’d barely argued. The rage seemed to have disappeared. She understood that boys sometimes took after their father, and what a mistake that had been. But Nick had never been a mistake. Unlike Ian. She wouldn’t let her ex interfere now. Or think about the bloody shambles that he’d made of his life. She opened her make-up bag and took out a compact, double-checked her make-up. Patted some powder over her nose. She was early, that was good.

She glanced at her watch, 4.55. Excellent, because five was her lucky number. And had been since childhood. Astra, her best friend’s mum, had been a hippy who was into numerology. Astra had told her that the numbers of her birthday and birth year added up to five. Five would always be her lucky number. ‘Trust it,’ Astra had told her. ‘Think of it as the five points of a star.’

When Sarah had divorced Ian, she’d announced it on 5 May at 5 p.m., but Ian still hadn’t taken it well. Her lucky number hadn’t worked at all that time. She put Ian out of her mind. She wondered if she should text Nick. He was meeting friends at a gig at King Tut’s, some band called the Rubes, she’d never heard of them. And then was maybe staying with his dad for part of the weekend. Best to leave them to it. Nick didn’t need to know that she was going on a date. Ian would snarl at her as being ‘mutton dressed as lamb’; he was still jealous of her, still angry about the break-up, even after all these years. Somehow in his addled mind she was still his wife and therefore ‘his property’. Neither Ian nor Nick needed to know that she wasn’t going to meet Maria for a girls’ night out. She hadn’t even let Nick know she was dating. She wouldn’t put him in that position again. Once she had confided in him about her having a date, but Ian had interrogated him, forced it out of him. Ian had turned up at the restaurant and made an ugly scene. ‘You’re my wife, till death do us part.’ He’d managed to punch her date before security had heaved him out. It looked like a broken nose. She’d never seen her date again. He’d looked terrified but hadn’t gone to the police. Who could blame him? You didn’t want to go up against Ian Price. So, any other dates she’d had over the years had been conducted in secrecy. She’d even waited until her son had gone out before changing from her Christmas jumper into the dress.

Of course, she’d cyber-stalked Rob, his Facebook page, Twitter, Instagram, LinkedIn. All to the good. Even his Goodreads page was practically identical to hers, they liked many of the same books, thrillers mostly. She favoured Tess Gerritsen, while he loved Harlan Coben. And Rob had been the fifth person to contact her on the dating site. There was absolutely no way that he could have known that was her lucky number, but she saw it as a good omen.

‘Come to Drymen,’ he’d said. ‘If you get the train to Balloch, I can pick you up from the station. We can go for a walk and then find a nice restaurant for dinner, there are great places to eat. There are great bars. Fantastic food. You’ll love it. I’ll have you safely back home in Glasgow by midnight,’ he’d reassured her. Her son knew the area well, he was a walker. Another good omen, she thought.

6 p.m.

Queen Street Station, Low Level

Carol singers collecting for a homeless charity: ‘Away in a Manger’, ‘The First Noel’, ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’. Sarah dropped a two-pound coin in their collection tin.

When the train arrived, Sarah took a seat beside the window. She took off her coat and folded it carefully. Placed it on the seat beside her. The train wasn’t particularly busy. There were several free single and double seats. A man got on and walked down the train. He was around thirty-five, with a shaved head and a thick neck. He wore camouflage fatigue trousers and a matching jacket. Worn trainers. She thought of the new trainers Nick had asked for, designer trainers. Dolce & Gabbana Portofino trainers would leave her £5 change from £530. She’d bought them anyway. She hoped that they’d bloody last. She was just relieved that he hadn’t asked for the appliqué version which would have set her back another £300. Sarah thought of her overdraft, which sat at £1,900. Of her credit card, which hovered on the £4,000 mark. She knew that she had three personal loans, amounting to over £13,000, but she didn’t even want to go there. Her job as a supply teacher at various primary schools paid reasonably well but as any one-parent family knows, the money doesn’t go far enough. And she worried about Nick in his beat-up third-hand little red Fiesta. She wished to God Ian would buy him a newer car. He really was a selfish prick.

‘Is this seat taken?’ The man smiled at her. Nicotine-stained teeth, a missing incisor.

Instinctively, she glanced at the empty seats around her. Manners got the better of her. She moved her bag and coat onto her lap. ‘No, it’s not taken.’

‘Only I like a bit of a chat.’ He paused. ‘My work can be so isolating.’

She glanced out of the window.

‘I expect you’d like to know what it is I do?’

Oh God, Sarah thought, one of those types. ‘Of course,’ she said. Again, the manners.

‘I’m a song writer. You know the band the Rubes? Well, their biggest hit, “Enchanted”, is my song, it was written by me. They ripped me off. That fucking Madison De La Fontaine is a liar. I told her that she was a thief too and I told her that I’m taking it to the police.’

‘Right,’ said Sarah quietly.

‘You don’t believe me?’ He was on his feet, glaring at her.

Sarah felt uncomfortable. How long to her stop? She looked at the passenger across the aisle from her, deep into her Kindle. The sound of the train, rhythmic and steady. She felt herself begin to sweat. Wondered if she should move carriages.

‘I’ve a brand-new silver S60 Volvo sports saloon parked at home. It’s a fabulous car but I don’t always use it for short journeys. Plus, I’m afraid it will get keyed. People can be mean.’

Sarah took out her mobile phone, ‘Sorry, I just need to send a text.’ Wondered to herself why she was apologising.

‘Go right ahead. I’m only being companionable.’ He paused. ‘That’s the word for it. Isn’t it? companionable?’

She ignored him. Quickly texted Rob. Waited for a second, hoped for a quick reply. Nothing.

‘Is that an iPhone?’ he said peering at her phone. ‘Can I have a look?’

She stuffed her phone back into her handbag. ‘It’s an old one.’

‘My name’s Frankie.’ He offered a hand. ‘Frankie Fermin. Remember that name ’cause I’m going to be big one day. When I get the royalties I deserve from bands like the Rubes. They fucking owe me.’

Spittle escaped from his mouth and fell on her new dress.

‘And you, what’s your name, pretty lady?’ Fermin sat down again.

‘Sarah.’

‘Sarah what?’ Again, more saliva.

‘Sarah Price.’

‘Well, Sarah Price, since we’re sharing this little part of our journey together, why don’t you tell me about yourself?’

She stared out of the window. Saw her own reflection. Knew that the journey was less than an hour to Balloch. Knew that she would be OK. The train stopped and the Kindle-reading woman and the others got off. She and Fermin were in the carriage alone together.

‘You’re not very chatty, Sarah.’ Fermin scowled at her. ‘I hope that you aren’t one of those stuck-up women who think that they are too good to talk to me?’

She wondered if she should run to the next carriage. Would he pursue her? And how would she get past him? She could smell alcohol on his breath. He stank of it.

‘Are you going somewhere nice, Sarah?’

‘I’m meeting someone.’ She heard the anxiety in her voice.

‘Your boyfriend?’

‘Yes,’ she lied.

Finally, they arrived at Balloch station. Rob had explained that there was no train to Drymen. ‘And the bus takes for ever. I’ll pop over and pick you up at Balloch.’

Fermin glanced around the empty platform. ‘Where is he then? This boyfriend of yours?’

‘He must be outside.’

‘I’ll wait with you, Sarah,’ said Fermin. ‘I’m a gentleman like that.’

‘There’s really no need.’

‘You can’t be too careful, Sarah. I should know that, given that I’m a man of the world. You’ll be safe with me.’

She felt her heartbeat race. ‘I’d really rather you didn’t.’

‘But I insist, Sarah. You can’t be alone here on a night like this. Look at the snow, you’ll freeze. And all you have on under your coat is that rather lovely dress. I do like your dress, Sarah. Is that all right for me to say that?’

She said nothing, hurried towards the exit.

‘And your lovely shiny boots.’ He walked beside her. ‘They look new. Are they?’

She kept walking.

Fermin kept pace. ‘Only you can’t be too careful nowadays what with the whole ugly feminist movement. What was once simply flattery can now be misconstrued as abuse. Us guys have a hard time with you ladies.’ He let out a little high-pitched laugh. ‘Ball-breakers that you all are now. Aren’t you?’

Outside there was one car waiting. A green Nissan, but Rob drove a VW Golf. She waited. The driver flashed the lights. She approached the car.

The man was around her age, with salt and pepper hair and a tight smile.

‘I was waiting for my daughter, she didn’t get off the train. Probably missed it, she’s always late. Are you OK, only you look anxious?’

‘I was supposed to be meeting someone. He’s not here. He’s driving from Drymen. He lives out by Queen Elizabeth Forest Park.’ She knew she was nervous and talking too much. She glanced behind her. Fermin was waiting.

‘Is he bothering you?’ asked the man.

‘I’m fine,’ said Sarah. ‘He chatted to me on the train. A bit overbearing. Guy called Frankie Fermin.’

‘You need a lift someplace? You’re all alone here in the station.’

‘I’m waiting for my boyfriend. He’ll be along in a minute, I expect.’ She heard a certainty in her tone that she didn’t feel.

‘Right, I’ll be off then. I need to pick up some nutmeg. The wife’s run out and what with Christmas coming …’

She glanced across the station. Fermin walked away.

‘You sure you don’t want me to wait, in case he comes back?’

She swallowed. ‘Positive.’

‘I’m Bernie, by the way. Bernie Morrison.’

‘Sarah Price.’

‘Good luck, Sarah. Hope your guy gets here soon. He’s probably been held up on the road. T. . .