The only option left was to cling to Tony’s conviction that the killer would strike again before Christmas. It was always hard to persuade her bosses to mount surveillance operations because they were so costly and because they took so many officers off other cases, but at least this one had a fixed end point.
And so they watched. They watched David Sanders go to work. They watched him drink in the pub with his workmates. They watched him work out at the gym. They watched him do his Christmas shopping. What they didn’t watch him do was abduct and murder anyone.
Then it was Christmas Eve, the last day of authorized surveillance. In spite of the privileges of rank, Carol put herself down for a shift. It was already dark when she slid into the passenger seat of the anonymous car alongside DC Paula McIntyre. “Nothing moving, chief. He got home about an hour ago, nobody in or out since.”
“The house doesn’t look very festive, does it? No sign of a tree or any lights.”
Paula, who had known her own share of grief, shrugged. “You lose your only child? I don’t expect Christmas is much to celebrate.”
The Sanders’ four-year-old daughter had drowned during a swimming lesson back in September. The instructor had been dealing with another kid who was having a come-apart when Sanders’ daughter had hit her head on the poolside. By the time anyone noticed, it had been too late. According to a colleague discreetly questioned by Sergeant Devine, it had ripped Sanders apart, though he’d refused to consider any kind of medical intervention.
Before Carol could respond, the garage door opened and Sanders’ SUV crawled down the drive. They let him make it to the end of the street before they pulled out of their parking place and slipped in behind him. It wasn’t hard to stay on the tail of the tall vehicle and fifteen minutes’ driving brought them to a street of run-down terraced houses on the downtrodden edge of Moorside. On the corner was a brightly lit shop, its windows plastered with ads for cheap alcohol. Sanders pulled up and walked into the shop carrying a sports holdall.
“I think this is it,” Carol breathed. “Let’s go, Paula.”
They sprinted down the street and tried the door of the shop. But something was jamming it. Carol took a couple of steps back then charged the door, slamming her shoulder into the wooden surround. Something popped and the door crashed open.
Sanders was standing behind the counter, a cricket bat in his hand, dismay on his face. “Police, drop your weapon,” Carol roared as Paula scrambled to the far end of the counter.
“There’s someone here, chief. Looks like he’s unconscious,” Paula said.
The cricket bat fell to the ground with a clatter. Sanders sank to the floor, head in hands. “This is all your fault,” he said. “You never make the right people pay the price, do you?”
Carol collapsed into Tony’s armchair and demanded a drink. “He didn’t even bother with a denial,” she said. “Being arrested seemed almost to come as a relief.” She closed her eyes for a moment, memory summoning up Sanders’ haggard face.
“It generally does when you’re not dealing with a psychopath,” Tony said.
Carol sighed. “And a very merry bloody Christmas to you too.”
“You stopped him killing again,” Tony said, handing her a glass of wine. “That’s not an insignificant achievement.”
Tony raised his glass, his smile matching hers. In their line of work, making the best of a bad job was second nature. This wasn’t exactly a happy ending, but it was closer than they usually managed. He’d settle for that any day.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
INTRODUCTION
MR E. MORSE, BA OXON (FAILED)
GHOSTS
THE BLOOD PEARL
THE COMMON ENEMY
BLOODSPORT
THE RAT IN THE ATTIC
ENOUGH OF THIS SHIT ALREADY
HOGMANAY HOMICIDE
FRUITS
A PLACE FOR VIOLENCE
FOUR HUNDRED RABBITS
THE MASQUERADE
TAKE DEATH EASY
THE PARSON AND THE HIGHWAYMAN
SPECIAL DELIVERY
A BLOW ON THE HEAD
CHICAGO
THE HOUSE THAT GOT SHOT
THE OCTOPUS NEST
WALKING THE DOG
THE VELOCITY OF BLAME
SOMEONE TAKE THESE DREAMS AWAY
ANIMAL INTELLIGENCE
12 BOLINBROKE AVENUE
APPETITE FOR MURDER
THE OTHER HALF
LOVE HURTS
FUNERAL WEATHER
A YEAR TO REMEMBER
TIME OF THE GREEN
VIVISECTION
STAR’S JAR
THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS A VICTIMLESS CRIME
AND HERE’S THE NEXT CLUE . . .
FRECKLES
HAPPY HOLIDAYS