Dead Scared

If she’d switched on the light straight away, she almost certainly wouldn’t have seen the black-clad figure perched on one of the lower branches of the cedar tree, staring in through the kitchen’s uncurtained windows. Even with the kitchen in darkness, she might not have noticed the crouching form, so still it was almost melting into the shadows. She might never have known it was there, had it not been for the mask.

The mask was black too but with fluorescent paint picking out the contours of the human skull. There was just enough light for Evi to be absolutely sure that a bone man was less than two yards from her kitchen window, watching her.

West Wales, twenty-three years earlier

‘HUMPTY DUMPTY SAT on a wall.’

The boy flopped down the stairs, scratching his head, his armpit, his arse, in the usual way of teenage boys fresh out of bed.

‘Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.’

His overlong jeans slapped on the polished wooden boards of the downstairs hall. The tall old clock by the front door told him it was somewhere between half past eleven and twenty to twelve in the morning. It couldn’t be relied upon any more accurately than that. He vaguely remembered Mum saying something about going on to campus for a meeting; Dad would be in his study. His three-year-old sister was somewhere close, if the warbling was anything to go by. She’d want him to play fairies again. The latest craze. To dance round the garden and build fairy dens under trees.

‘Humpty Dumpty fell off the wall.’

She hadn’t quite got it yet.

The boy stopped outside Dad’s study door and sniffed the air. Stale coffee? Normal. Well-done toast? Normal. The loo his sister had forgotten to flush? Normal. Gunpowder? No, not normal.

A year ago, when he was twelve, his father had started taking him out shooting and his mother always complained that they brought the harsh cordite smell indoors with them. Not cordite, Dad had corrected her, cordite hasn’t been used since the Second World War. Gunpowder is what we smell of.

But Dad hadn’t used his guns for six months now. ‘I don’t want your father taking you shooting until he feels better,’ Mum had said. And so the guns were locked away in a secure cabinet in the study and the boy had no idea where the key was kept. ‘Guns and teenage boys don’t mix,’ his mother reminded him regularly.

‘All the king’s horses and all the king’s men.’

His sister was in the study. The boy pushed open the door, stepped inside and saw what was left of his father.

Saturday 12 January (ten days earlier)

‘IT’S TWO O’CLOCK in the morning, Flint.’

‘Were you busy?’

There was the sound of someone stifling a yawn. ‘Just dreaming about you as usual,’ Joesbury said.

I ignored that. ‘Why didn’t you tell me she’d been raped?’ I asked.

‘No evidence to suggest she had been. You won’t be investigating a rape, Flint, or any aspect of Bryony Carter’s attempted suicide. Your job will be …’

‘… to experience Cambridge student life for myself. Find out if there’s any substance to Dr Oliver’s subculture bollocks theory. Will I actually be studying something?’

‘Psychology,’ Joesbury replied. ‘Dr Oliver’s subject. That way we make it as easy as possible for the two of you to spend time together.’

‘How long will I be expected to be there?’

‘If you’ve absolutely nothing to report back on after three months, we’ll pull you out.’

I could hear bedsprings creaking and Joesbury making a very soft grunt in the back of his throat as, presumably, he pushed himself upright on the bed. And suddenly there were pictures in my head I could do without. ‘Who do I report to?’ I asked.

‘Me. Mainly by email. You won’t be expected to do any academic work, I’m sure you’ll be relieved to know. So when your room-mate is hammering out her essays, you can write me nice long reports.’

‘Room-mate?’ I was nearly twenty-eight. I wanted to spend the next three months sharing a room with a teenager like I wanted to spend the next three months emailing Joesbury on a nightly basis.

‘Just a living space. Separate sleeping accommodation,’ replied Joesbury. ‘And the girl you’ll be sharing with was Bryony Carter’s room-mate. She’ll know as well as anyone if anything dodgy is going on.’

Silence for a moment.

‘It’s worth repeating that you will not be an investigating officer, just there to observe and report back. The psychiatrist, Dr Oliver, will be the only person at the university who knows who you are,’ continued Joesbury. ‘Local CID will know nothing about the operation, so won’t be available as backup. Not that you should need it.’

‘How soon do you want me there?’ I said.

Seconds more ticked by. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

‘My spider sense is tingling,’ I said. ‘And it’s not like I have anything to keep me in London.’

A few more seconds, then: ‘I appreciate it, Flint,’ he said, in a voice that had chilled down a degree or two. ‘Term’s only just started so you’ve only missed a week. We can get you there by Monday evening, if you’re up for it.’

I agreed that I was up for it and, after arranging to meet on Sunday for a detailed briefing, Joesbury wished me good night and hung up. I walked through my small flat to the conservatory at the rear.

Over the Christmas break I’d put solar lights around the small lawn, and even in January they gave off a faint glow throughout the night. There was frost gathering on the leaves, turning their various shades of green into intricate white lacework. The grass looked like frosting on a Christmas cake.

I’d never been to Cambridge. I’d grown up in and out of foster care and children’s homes. I hadn’t struggled at school – I was bright enough – but I’d never really taken academia seriously. The UK’s premier universities hadn’t been an option for someone like me, but now I was going to be a student at one of them, amongst people who, intellectually, could wipe the floor with me.

Jesus, what was I thinking? I had no idea how to be an undercover officer. SO10 trained its officers rigorously. The programme was tough and not everyone who applied made it through. Whilst it wasn’t unusual for run-of-the-mill detectives to go undercover, they were rarely sent into situations that would last any amount of time. Besides, I’d joined the Met to work on serious crimes against women. If I spent the next few months off the grid, I could miss the chance to transfer to one of the specialist units. Why had I agreed?

Like I needed the answer to that one. I was doing it for Joesbury.