When Evil Wakes

Book 4: The Holly Wakefield Thrillers

by Mark Griffin

Genres: Hard-Boiled; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

'Truly frightening . . . a British Silence Of The Lambs' DAILY MAIL
'A thrilling new talent' PETER JAMES

OUT OF THE DARKNESS, A KILLER RISES AGAIN . . .

Holly Wakefield was just nine years old when her parents were murdered by notorious serial killer The Animal. The devastating event influenced her career as a criminal psychologist and now she helps the Met Police catch the most dangerous psychopaths.

But Holly's world is turned upside down when she starts discovering messages at gruesome crime scenes from the person she fears above all else. The world believe The Animal is dead, yet Holly knows he is alive and killing again - and he wants her to know.

DI Bishop is the only person who trusts Holly's instinct above reason and the pair embark on a covert investigation as further murders are detected across the country.

However The Animal has a more twisted game in store for Holly than they could ever have imagined. And it's one he intends to finish properly this time . . .

The heart-racing new serial killer thriller in the Holly Wakefield series, perfect for fans of Robert Bryndza, Angela Marsons and Stuart MacBride.

Praise for Mark Griffin . . .

'Creepy, twisted and gripping' SUN

'Mightily impressive . . . deviously plotted' DAILY MAIL

'Dark, compelling and expertly paced' M. W. CRAVEN

'Meticulously plotted . . . utterly compelling' LESLEY KARA

Release date: August 18, 2022

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 90000

Sample

It was August and seemed too early for rain, but it drummed on Constable Samuel Jefferson’s car roof and splashed boot-high off the road.

He had the engine on and kept the windscreen wipers going so he could see the house. The living room lights were on and the curtains were drawn. There had been no activity from any of the other houses on the street, just the occasional pigeon as it flapped from tree to tree.

The rain wasn’t going to let up, so he wrapped himself in his anorak, got out of the car and ran for it. Along the path and past the wooden for sale sign staked into the lawn, trying to keep the notepad under his arm dry, but by the time he got to the front door he was wet. Jefferson was in his sixties with an angular face. He was lean, with veins that stood out on his big hands and jaw muscles that bunched every time he swallowed. His hair was short and silver and it shone in the porch light.

He rapped on the door and rang the bell in quick succession. Straightened his uniform and dried off the notepad on his trousers. He heard footsteps on the wooden floor inside then a voice:

‘Just a minute.’

The chain was pulled back and the door opened.

The man who met him was fifty-three years old and five foot eight with a side-parting and round glasses. He was wearing a white woollen sweater that was tight over his thin arms and belly.

‘John Newsome?’ PC Jefferson said.

‘Yes? How can I help?’

‘Actually, sir, it’s your wife I need to talk to, Mrs Sandra Newsome. I’m with the Metropolitan Police.’ He flashed his ID.

The man nodded, a sudden look of apprehension on his face. He retreated slightly then came back.

‘Can I ask what this is about?’

‘Actually I do need to talk to Mrs Newsome first, although you can be present at all times.’

‘Right, well you’d better come in then.’

He entered and shut the door behind him.

‘Can I take your coat?’

‘Thank you,’ and PC Jefferson shucked it off and Mr Newsome hung it on the coat stand. The stairs to the second floor were on the left, the kitchen straight ahead and the glass double doors to the right opened onto the living room where John directed him.

‘Darling?’ John said.

Sandra Newsome rose from the sofa at their entrance. She wore a white blouse, blue skirt and blue cardigan. She had pale hands and smoothed the hair back from her face.

‘Hello,’ she said quietly.

‘Darling, this police officer – sorry I didn’t get your name?’

‘Jefferson, Constable Jefferson.’

‘Right. Constable Jefferson needs to talk to you about something.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry to disturb you on a Sunday evening – this won’t take long.’ He studied his notes. ‘Mrs Newsome, you work for Domum and Casa estate agency as a sales negotiator?’

‘Yes, are you interested in a property?’

‘Actually no,’ he smiled back. ‘I don’t know quite how to say this, so I’ll dive straight in. I regret to inform you that a body has been found in one of the houses you have listed.’

She blinked, looked at her husband then back to the constable.

‘A body?’ she whispered.

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘As in – you don’t mean a cat or a dog, do you? You mean a …’

‘Yes. A human body.’

‘Oh my God.’ Her voice came out as a shriek and her hand went to her throat. She fingered the orange coral necklace around her neck nervously. ‘I don’t believe it. That’s ridiculous, which one?’

‘It’s a local property and I’m sorry but I can’t divulge the address—’

‘Thurston Avenue? Bennington Place?’

‘It’s an ongoing investigation, so I’m not at liberty to tell you—’

‘Was it a suicide?’

‘I’m afraid it would appear the victim—’

‘The victim?’

‘It would appear the victim had met with a violent death.’

A brittle silence.

‘Bloody hell,’ John said. ‘I wasn’t expecting this.’

‘It was one of your empty properties, so I don’t think it will be any of your clients or anyone you know, but I can inform you the body was found three hours ago when a neighbour called the police because the front door had been left open.’

‘The front door? Oh God, I mean, I have keys to all my listings.’

‘That’s the thing. There were no signs of a forced entry, so it looks as though the perpetrator used a key.’

‘That’s not possible – all the keys are kept inside a lockbox outside each property.’

‘So perhaps they knew the lockbox combination?’

‘I don’t see how. I set the codes myself.’

‘And you never give a set of keys to anybody or make copies?’

‘No, never.’

Her nostrils flared at the thought and she smoothed her skirt with her hands.

‘Maybe you should sit down, darling?’ John said. ‘Let me put the kettle on and we’ll all have a cup of coffee. Would you like a cup of coffee, Constable Jefferson?’

‘That would be nice, thank you. Just milk, no sugar.’

John nodded eagerly and headed for the kitchen.

Constable Jefferson sat on the edge of the chair. He turned a page in his notepad and watched Mrs Newsome. Her lips were pressed so tightly together they were white, then she suddenly said:

‘Wait – have you spoken to Jason?’

‘Jason?’

‘Jason Oppenhein, he’s the owner of Domum and Casa. I should call him.’

‘We’ve already done that, that’s how we got your address.’

‘Of course it is. Sorry, I’m not thinking. How did – I mean – a murder in our neighbourhood. And you can’t tell me which house it is?’

‘It will be in all the newspapers tomorrow, I’m sure,’ Constable Jefferson said. A quick thought: ‘You’ll be here tomorrow morning, won’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well perhaps myself or one of the other officers on the case could come by and pick you up and take you to the property to make a statement to the SIO.’

‘What’s an SIO?’

‘Senior Investigating Officer. It will be DI William Bishop, from the Met Serious Crime squad. He’s very good.’ A check of his notes, ‘And he might bring a young woman with him – Holly Wakefield. She’s a forensic psychologist.’

‘A what?’

‘She helps catch killers who are …’ he hesitated, ‘ … particularly violent.’

‘Oh God, is there much blood?’

‘Again, I can’t discuss—’

‘I’ll need to get professional cleaners in. I’ve got twenty-two empty listings, but it can’t be Bedford Terrace, I was there just over an hour ago.’

‘No, it’s not Bedford Terrace,’ Constable Jefferson said.

She looked at him conspiratorially.

‘Is it Mellington Mews?’

‘I can’t, I’m not supposed to …’ He took a breath, squeezed his eyes shut and when he opened them he said:

‘I could get into trouble for this.’

‘I won’t tell a soul, I promise.’

‘One of your listings is 107 Bishops Drive, is that correct?’

‘Yes, but that’s …’ she hesitated, ‘that’s here. This is 107 Bishops Drive.’

Constable Jefferson checked his notes.

‘It says here – body discovered at 107 Bishops Drive.’

And she suddenly laughed like uncorked champagne.

‘Well that’s wrong!’ she said. ‘That’s wrong!’ And then with a hint of a smile: ‘There’s an empty house for sale on Bishops Crescent? Is that what you mean?’

‘Bishops Crescent?’

‘Yes, it’s two streets away. That must be it, and it’s not even one of my listings! John! John, come quick!’ and she couldn’t stop laughing.

‘What is it?’ John said as he entered with three cups of coffee on a tray and a plate of chocolate biscuits.

‘They’ve got the wrong address, it’s Bishops Crescent, not here!’

‘Not here? What address?’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Constable Jefferson said and stood up. ‘Bishops Drive is where you live – I must have copied it down wrong at the station. I’m such a fool. I need to radio back to dispatch and tell them I made a mistake, then they’ll have to send a different officer to the other address. I’m so sorry to have troubled you. I’ll get my coat.’ He made a move to go when—

‘No, no,’ Sandra said. ‘You’re here now, you can have your coffee at least.’

‘Yes, you must, and it’s still raining,’ her husband added, and turned his attention to the coffee table, which was packed high with magazines and a vase of roses, deciding whether to chance a landing or clear the table first.

‘Well, that’s very kind. At least let me help,’ Constable Jefferson said. He reached out for the tray but lost his grip and the cups fell and coffee spilled everywhere.

‘Buggeration!’ John swore.

Sandra was up on her feet and cleared away the magazines.

‘Get some kitchen tissue,’ her husband said to her.

The constable watched Mrs Newsome go and said:

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s fine.’ John dropped onto his knees and started pooling the coffee using his white woollen arms like a soggy dam.

‘It’s gone everywhere …’

‘Can I help? Can I—’

‘No, it’s fine. Just relax.’

Constable Jefferson nodded and knelt by John’s side. He whispered softly:

‘I promise I won’t touch your daughter upstairs,’ he said.

John turned, eyes wide—

‘What did you say?’

Under his shirt and jacket, Constable Jefferson had a thick metal cuff around his right wrist and when he angled his hand back, a long, thin knife shot out and struck John in the neck like a matador. The blade was pulled free and retracted into the spring-loaded cuff with a metallic click and the constable lowered the torso gently onto the coffee table just as Mrs Newsome reappeared with a roll of kitchen tissue.

‘This is such a strange night …’

‘John’s had an accident,’ the constable said.

‘What happened?’

‘He just sort of collapsed.’

She looked down at the blood spilling from her husband’s neck but couldn’t comprehend, and then the man grabbed her by the throat, turned her around and the blade flashed from his wrist again and he stabbed her incredibly hard in the back. The thin blade missed her spine, punctured her heart, passed through her ribs and tore apart the front of her blouse. Constable Jefferson let the body drop to the floor.

He stared at what he had done for the briefest moment, then retracted the knife into the cuff and very carefully put on a pair of transparent latex gloves.

His hard mouth softened into a smile as he dipped a finger in the frothing mix of coffee and blood and wrote a message on the wall.

‘What is evil?’

Holly Wakefield asked the question as she sat on the end of her desk in King’s College London. Fifty-plus students watched her from all levels of the tiered seating in the main lecture hall. One of the students raised a hand.

‘Yes, Ben?’

‘Something that is inherent in all of us?’

‘In all of us? Really?’

There was a ripple of laughter.

‘Maybe not all of us,’ she smiled, ‘but most definitely in some. The word you used, inherent, implies it exists as a permanent characteristic, which is another interesting thought. Or can evil be created, can it be fashioned?’

She turned and wrote on the whiteboard as she spoke:

‘The definition of evil is “profoundly immoral and wicked” or “the opposite and the absence of good”. A rather medieval interpretation perhaps, because when we think of evil we don’t generally conjure up images of a moral compass, do we – we think instead of creatures or beings. We like to give evil a substance. Something we can see, or feel or touch. Dark spirits and witches in the night. The bogeyman. The creature under the bed that waits for the lights to go out before it appears and scares the living shit out of us.’ A beat as she strode to the centre of the stage. ‘That is the stylised evil of comic books, films and our imagination, but what does real evil look like in the twenty-first century?’

‘Massive corporations screwing us over and stealing our pensions.’

‘Thank you, Matthew, yes, and here’s an interesting point. How many of your parents are CEOs of companies?’

Hands raised until there were about a dozen.

‘Approximately one in five CEOs can be clinically classified as a psychopath. That’s twenty per cent of all CEOs in the world, which is the same percentage of psychopaths that are in the prison population. So, statistically speaking, two of you in this room have a psychopathic mother or father – I’m not going to ask who, but I don’t recommend bringing this up at dinner tonight. Now let me quickly clarify – not all psychopaths kill, in the same way not all sociopaths kill, but twenty per cent of those who help run this country will have clinical traits with characteristics such as – don’t bother with hands up – just shout them out,’ Holly said as she uncapped a Sharpie.

‘No empathy,’ Ben said.

‘Yes, the inability to empathise with your fellow human beings,’ she said, writing on the whiteboard behind her.

‘Pathological lying,’ from someone in the front row.

‘Yes,’ she turned and wrote again.

‘Insincerity.’

‘Yes.’

‘Cocky – arrogant.’

‘Yes – we like to call it a grandiose sense of self-worth.’

‘Manipulative.’

‘You guys are on fire today.’

‘No emotions?’

‘Yes – a disparate range of feelings, if any.’

Her pen hovered, waiting for the next item.

‘Come on,’ she said.

‘A lack of remorse.’

The voice threw her. It was sandpaper rough, cigarettes and whisky. She turned away from the board and smiled curiously.

Detective Inspector Bishop.

They were supposed to meet for lunch but he was an hour early. He made his way down a few of the auditorium steps and sat at the back. Gestured for her to continue.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A lack of remorse. Thank you, Detective Inspector Bishop.’

A few of the students turned briefly to look at the newcomer as she wrote lack of remorse on the board and then resumed the class.

‘Whether they’re screwing people out of a pension or stabbing someone twenty times in the chest, the psychopath rule is – I don’t care.’ She re-capped her pen. ‘Like I said, very few CEOs will actually go out and kill someone, so let’s look at the individuals who will, and reasses my original question: what is evil? Or rather, what does evil look like – that which is housed within a human soul? How do you spot a psychopath?’ She pointed to a girl three rows up with dark hair: ‘Clara, if you saw a mass murderer walking down the street, would you know straight away?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Simon – what about a serial rapist sitting at a bar?’

‘No.’

‘Erica – a serial killer offering to carry your shopping when you get out of the lift in your block of flats?’

‘I hope I would sense something, but—’

‘You probably wouldn’t,’ Holly said. ‘The simple answer to the question “how do you spot a psychopath?” is, you don’t. Because psychopaths at this level of duplicity are very good at blending in and becoming one with the crowd. We must never forget that evil is intelligent, it’s smart, and a lot of times it’s invisible until it’s too late.’

The bell rang and the students began to move. Holly shouted after them:

‘Christian theologists argue that natural evil is the result of original sin. I want two thousand words on this for next Monday, please!’

The footsteps faded and her eyes locked on Bishop’s as he walked down the steps towards her. Six feet two inches tall, dark hair flecked with grey. He was wearing a charcoal suit and white shirt with a black tie. He looked good.

‘It’s nice to see you in your natural environment,’ he smiled. ‘So these are the shrinks of the future?’

‘Some shrinks, some lawyers,’ she said as she put away her books. ‘I thought we said one o’clock?’

‘We did, my apologies.’

‘I still have another lecture. Do you want to come and watch?’

‘Can you cancel it?’

She froze. There was an urgency in his dark-blue eyes.

‘Seriously?’ she said.

He nodded.

‘I need you to cancel it, Holly.’

Bishop drove out of central London and headed east on the motorway.

After half an hour they broke into the Hertfordshire countryside of cornfields and hedges. The air was muggy, the afternoon sun hidden by thick grey clouds.

‘It’s a double murder, a husband and wife,’ Bishop said. ‘The victims are John and Sandra Newsome. He was a computer tech guy who sold crypto-currencies and she was an estate agent. They were both stabbed, he in the neck, she between the ribs and into the heart.’

‘Who’s the coroner?’

‘Angela Swan.’

Holly nodded. She had worked with Angela on her last three cases.

‘Angela’s doing the autopsy tonight,’ Bishop said. ‘We’ll get the report tomorrow morning. She thinks the killer used a thin blade, like a stiletto knife.’

‘That’s unusual. A stiletto blade is easy to conceal and very efficient. Where were they killed?’

‘Downstairs in their living room. No signs of forced entry – it appears they let the killer in.’

She nodded as if she had expected as much.

‘Any witnesses?’

‘None. It’s a quiet street in an affluent neighbourhood, and it was raining heavily last night so nobody was out walking dogs or heard a car, and the closest CCTV is three miles from the house.’

‘Have you seen the crime scene?’

‘I got there two hours ago, made a preliminary report,’ he paused, ‘and drove straight to you.’

Holly took a second and shot him a look.

‘Why?’

He said nothing but blinked rapidly several times.

‘Bishop?’

‘This one is different to the others I’ve taken you to in the last few months. This one is …’

‘Is what?’

‘Truth be told, I don’t know what it is. And I don’t know what it means.’

Holly thought for a few moments and then it clicked.

‘My God, you think it’s him, don’t you?’ she said. ‘The Animal?’

He kept his eyes on the road.

‘Jesus Christ, Bishop – The Animal? Sebastian Carstairs? The man who killed my parents when I was nine years old?’

‘And sixteen other people,’ he said flatly. ‘And the man was sent to Broadmoor prison for life, and the man who’s supposed to be dead.’

Holly’s head was spinning.

Three months ago The Animal had been pronounced dead from stage four cancer. Holly had even gone to his cremation. She had firmly believed the chapter of her life that began when she came home from school and saw The Animal standing over the dead bodies of her parents was closed for good. But as part of his last parole application he’d been required to write to the families of each of his victims, and Holly had found a secret code in the letter he wrote to her suggesting he was still alive. Moreover, in the letter he had called her Jessica – her real name before she had been put into witness relocation and granted a new identity. She’d tried to alert the authorities, but they insisted the letter was nothing more than a spiteful hoax. So far as they were concerned, The Animal was dead and buried. But deep down Holly feared the worst.

‘If he is somehow still alive …’

‘Hold on a second,’ Bishop said. ‘We can’t prove anything at this stage.’

‘No, of course not, but … we can profile this crime scene and analyse the kill. A stiletto knife, you said?’

‘Possibly.’

‘The Animal used multiple types of weapons during his killing spree: kitchen knives, hammers, acid, rope. But a stiletto knife – he could be adapting.’

‘In what way?’

‘He’ll be sixty years old now. He won’t have the strength he once had.’

She took a breath. Bishop was right, she mustn’t get ahead of herself. She hadn’t even seen the crime scene yet. ‘It could be another false trail,’ she said.

‘Mr and Mrs Newsome had three daughters. The two eldest are twins and were having a sleepover about half a mile away. The youngest was asleep upstairs. She’s six years old.’

‘He didn’t kill her?’

‘No, but he watched her. We found bloody footprints in her doorway, size twelves.’

‘That’s his shoe size and we know The Animal doesn’t kill children, which is another psychological tic, but it could be someone else. Why did you come and get me today?’

He turned to her, almost apologetic:

‘You need to see what’s written on the wall.’

Six police cars had blocked off the tree-lined street and reporters and curious neighbours were being held back by crime scene tape.

Bishop parked fifty metres away and they both got out and walked. He showed his warrant card to one of the duty officers as Holly took in the locale: a greenbelt village of wealthy single-family houses all with gravel driveways and separated from each other by thick, high hedges. She stopped when she spotted a narrow tree-lined footpath by the side of one of the properties that seemed to lead to a dense forest.

‘Beyond the treeline are open fields,’ Bishop said. ‘About a hundred acres with no vehicle access. The nearest train station is seven miles away and the buses don’t come within a mile, so it’s safe to say he would have driven. Unfortunately, if his car left any traces they would have been washed away by the rain last night.’

The house was a new build: two storeys high with an added loft conversion and a beautiful front garden.

‘What are the neighbours saying?’

‘They’re understandably nervous, though they don’t yet know what happened. When they see the newspapers I imagine a few of them might add some additional security or pack up and leave. We’ve done preliminary background checks on Mr and Mrs Newsome, but nothing stands out. Lots of friends, no enemies, no debts or marital affairs that we know of.’

He handed her a pair of booties and gloves.

‘You ready?’

She nodded and followed him inside.

The hallway was white pine with white walls and carpeted stairs to the left; the kitchen lay ahead and the living room was to the right past open glass doors. Holly went and stood by them. Her jaw clenched when she saw the sticky riot of blood in the room – the sofa, coffee table and the cream carpet underneath were drenched.

‘When did they take the bodies?’ Holly asked.

‘About an hour ago. Angela thinks the husband was killed first. One stab wound to the neck, and he was left kneeling on the floor with his torso resting on the coffee table. His wife was lying face down on the carpet to his right.’

‘Were the bodies staged? Positioned deliberately?’

‘Impact marks in the carpet and blood spatter confirm they were found where they fell. There were three coffee cups upturned on the carpet. It looks as if they made the killer a drink and brought out some biscuits, but then at some point an argument happened or a struggle and the tray of drinks was knocked over. The daughter entered the room through these doors. You can see her footprints in the blood – there and there.’

He pointed and Holly saw the bloody impressions from her little feet.

‘We need to go through the kitchen so we don’t tread on the carpet,’ he said.

She followed him along the white pine corridor and past a door that opened into the country-style kitchen with black countertops and a . . .