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  ‘Yes, the flesh was cut away using a scalpel-like blade. Starting at the forehead and cleaving the flesh away from the bone down towards the chin.’ He mimicked the action with his hands like a macabre game of charades.

  ‘Got a name?’ she asked.

  ‘The vic’s name is Madeline Eve, we linked her dental records to the name on the property lease and the personal effects at the flat. She’s twenty-six years of age, single, worked in an advertising firm here in Blackpool. Time of death is difficult to tell; the body was already in the advanced stages of bloating and beginning the transition into active decay. And by the blow fly and house fly pupae found in the body, plus the quantity of insects present at the flat, I would estimate she’d been dead around nine days, putting the date of her death to be Sunday 1 May, give or take a day. There’s no indication of her being restrained, no ligature marks on the wrists or ankles, no defensive bruising or evidence of a fight.’

  ‘Any sign of sexual activity?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please tell me this happened post mortem.’ Kray nodded towards the head.

  ‘Probably but I can’t be sure. The blade marks are clean which would suggest she was immobile when it happened.’

  ‘Do you have anything to give me – skin under the finger nails, fibres on the body, anything?’

  ‘No nothing. I’ve not fully completed my examination, but so far I’ve drawn a blank.’

  ‘I don’t get it. Whoever did this cut her face away from the bone, but I found no blood at the scene.’

  ‘And that brings me to this …’ Harry went over to one of the stainless steel workstations and returned with a glass jar. He handed it to Kray.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, holding it up to the light.

  ‘It’s blood.’

  ‘Blood? That doesn’t look like any blood I’ve seen.’

  ‘Nor me, but it’s blood alright.’

  The jar contained a thick, dark red, jelly-like substance. Kray tilted the jar one way then the other watching the congealed glob slop about.

  ‘I don’t get it?’

  ‘Neither do I, which is why I’m reluctant to give you a cause of death. My guess is massive organ failure caused by the blood coagulating to the consistency of porridge. And there’s something else …’ Harry went to the corpse and shone a pencil light onto the woman’s neck. ‘A single puncture wound consistent with a needle piercing the jugular vein. There is swelling and blistering around the entry wound.’

  ‘So let me get this straight. The murderer killed her by injecting a substance capable of coagulating her blood, filling her veins with this stuff?’ Kray once again examined the gelatinous blob. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yep, it effectively turned her into a human jelly mould. Until I do more tests I can’t be sure, but judging by the organ degeneration and tissue damage, whatever it was acted like a hemotoxin and choked off the main arterial flow to the organs. The heart, kidneys, lungs are choked full of this stuff.’ He took the jar from her hand.

  ‘A hemo what? Where the hell do you lay your hands on that?’

  ‘Snake venom.’

  3

  My name is Jason. It’s the name my mother gave me when I was barely a visible bump in her belly. I’ve always hated that name even more than I hated her. It’s the name on my birth certificate and my passport, on my credit cards and my work pass - but I never use it. I should be named after an all-powerful God, that is, ever since I started to decide whether people should live or die.

  For as long as I can remember I’ve always thought drowning would be fun, but the water here is too cold. Even in the summer months, when the diehard sun worshippers slap on chip fat to roast their parchment-coloured flesh, it’s still too cold.

  I live in a place where the grey of the town bleeds into the grey of the sea. Where children trudge along the Promenade with their parents in tow, all of them in search of something to make them happy.

  But they seldom find it, even in summer.

  I like watching the runners in the morning, in their budget trainers, dodging the rain and dog shit as they enrich their lives along the sea front. It is mid-June, in a holiday resort on the west coast of Britain, and the place is empty.

  It’s not as though I’ve not tried - drowning that is.

  I remember my twelfth birthday, Mum did a beach BBQ. She thought it a good idea having watched it on TV. The fact that the programme depicted life in Brisbane and our miserable lives butted hard up against the Irish Sea seemed to pass her by. The party was all burnt meat, freezing skin and blown sand. In the years that followed, she paid for it dearly.

  We played games in the biting wind. One involved running into the sea and back to win a prize. I remember thinking - what would happen if I kept on running?

  I felt the water slapping against my legs, then my stomach, then my chest. I pushed on and the waves caught me full in the face washing my hair flat to my head. If I kept going, I’d be under.

  Today I die. The words resonated deep inside my head. Driving me on. The force of the sea made it hard to stand. The whole world seemed to shift beneath my feet, my toes grasping at the sand for balance. The raw taste of salt in my mouth. And then, suddenly, with a swell of the tide, I was under. A dull silence washed through my head.

  Even now when I drift off to sleep I can still feel the biting, lapping cold like it was yesterday. I remember thinking - if I’m successful, there won’t be any singing Happy Birthday. No, ‘open your presents, Jason.’ No, ‘say thank you, Jason.’

  All I heard was the water coursing through my ears, the cold tightening a vice-like grip around my body. The chill tearing at my skin.

  Today I die. What a perfect gift on my special day.

  But the water was too cold and my mum had bought Iced Slice. And I love Iced Slice. I turned and fought my way back to the shore, fighting against the pull of the waves dragging me further out. Gasping, I reached the beach and looked at the faces of the children wrapped in towels. No one had missed me. I wasn’t going to die today, even if it was my birthday. Besides, I would happily kill for an Iced Slice.

  And two years later, I did just that.

  4

  It was 7.30am and Kray was already on the rampage. Her commute into work was just long enough to bring herself to the boil nicely. That’s the problem with being able to read your work emails while sitting in your pyjamas, drinking your first coffee of the day.

  She marched up to DCI Jackson’s office and barged right in.

  ‘Morning,’ he said, surprised with his early visitor.

  ‘I got your email,’ she replied ignoring the niceties of returning his greeting.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one that said you had given the murder case to Colin Brownlow.’

  ‘Ah yes, I was meaning to talk to you about that.’

  ‘Bit bloody late now.’

  ‘Come on, Roz let’s go get a coffee.’

  She stood her ground. ‘That case was mine. It is mine. Why have you given it to him?’

  Jackson retreated back behind his desk.

  ‘Look, Roz, no one admires you more than I do for getting back in the saddle so quickly after …’ he hesitated, ‘well you know.’ A silence hung between them that seemed to last a hundred years. Kray was not going to be the one to break it. ‘God only knows I would not be back in work if that had been me. Everyone is on your side, we just need to be sure you’re …’ He hesitated again.

  ‘Up to it!’ This time she completed his sentence for him. ‘Is that it? You need to be sure I’m up to it?’ She spun the plain gold band on her finger, twisting it round and round.

  ‘No, Roz it’s not like that. I have a duty of care towards you and—’

  ‘Or maybe you need to be sure I won’t screw it up for everyone else. Is that it?’

  ‘No, Roz you have this all wrong.’

  ‘Well, excuse me, boss but I think I’ve got this all right. That case is mine and you
know it. Brownlow already has his head firmly below water, he’s struggling to cope with his current case load and now you’ve given him this murder on top. That makes no sense. I’m asking you to think again. This case is different. The woman had her face removed for Christ’s sake, you need somebody who is able to be on point twenty-four seven.’

  ‘We don’t have the manpower for that level of commitment.’

  ‘You do, you’ve got me!’

  ‘DI Brownlow is an experienced officer who—’

  ‘Oh come on, William, there are bodies in the morgue with more life in them than Brownbag.’ A nickname that referred to the way he brought his lunch to work. ‘He’s biding his time until his golden handshake while desperately trying not to fuck things up. I want this case, it’s—’

  ‘That’s enough, Kray.’ Jackson banged the palm of his hand on the desk. ‘I will not have you rubbish another office in my presence. I’ve cut you some slack but don’t push it or you and me are going to fall out – big time. That’s my decision, Brownlow is SIO on the murder, supported by you. Keep your head down, do a good job and wait your turn. Is that clear?’

  Kray was visibly shaking. The ring spun round and round.

  ‘I’ll go see him, DI Brownlow, and get things moving.’

  ‘You can’t. He’ll be in later, he’s at the doctors this morning.’

  Kray knew when it was time to shut up and leave. She skilfully avoided bumping into the door frame on the way out, which was no mean feat, as her eyes were cast towards the ceiling.

  She sat at her desk trying to calm down, repeatedly rearranging the pens, post-its and mouse mat. No matter how she positioned them it was always wrong.

  She had a healthy professional dislike for DCI William Jackson. He had transferred to Lancashire police from the Met to escape a torrid divorce and a toxic ex-wife. He was known as Jacko to his friends but no one in Lancashire ever called him that.

  He’d moved up to Blackpool to start afresh and ended up starting a war. London to Blackpool is a journey of two hundred and forty-seven miles, however, in policing terms the two forces may as well be two hundred and forty-seven light years apart. Jackson’s style and approach grated on everyone he came into contact with. Kray knew exactly why Jackson had given the case to Brownlow: he saw her as a threat. He was hell-bent on making a name for himself which for him meant he was the only one allowed to shine. While Brownlow drowned under his workload, Jackson would skim off any good news stories and feed them straight to the Chief. Old habits die hard.

  Kray had clashed with him before she went off work. Now she was back it was only a matter of time before she clashed with him again.

  She pulled on her jacket and headed out of the station, looking for something to take her mind off what she was going to do to Jackson’s genitalia and where she was going to stick them. A fresh crime scene would do the trick.

  The uniformed officer checked her badge as he pushed open the door to flat seventeen. Kray pulled on the white suit and overshoes and entered the hallway, immediately reminded of the smell of putrefied flesh. She put her hand to her face, an automatic reaction. Her fingers found the light switch on the lounge wall – click – nothing. She looked back at the front door and spotted the culprit; the main breaker was off in the distribution unit. It was mounted high on the wall, too high for her, but for a six-foot two-inch police officer it was well within reach.

  Lights at last flooded through the flat.

  Kray slipped into the bedroom, her mind running riot with the images from the night before. A brown stain on the carpet marked the outline where the body had been. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop the sound of buzzing raging in her head.

  She moved around the room touching objects with her gloved hand. She had a nagging sensation that something wasn’t right. What was it? She patted the soft fabric of the quilt and pulled aside the curtains. She gazed at the make-up laying on the floor – something didn’t add up.

  What the hell was it?

  Kray crept back into the lounge and repeated the process, touching each of the woman’s possessions in turn. Tuning in to her surroundings, hoping they would speak to her. Tell her what had happened. But it was no use. She cursed herself for being off her game – she couldn’t join the dots up. She glanced at her watch, it was mid-morning, time to knock on a few doors to see if the neighbours could shed any light on the victim. Kray was jolted from her thoughts by her phone ringing. It was Brownlow.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hi Roz, can you get yourself over to Hounslow and Partners to gather statements from the people who worked with Madeline Eve. Then develop a known associates list and start knocking on doors. I’m meeting with the parents later today, they’ve been informed and have agreed to identify the body.’

  ‘On my way.’ Keeping the conversation brief was a conscious decision on her part. It prevented her from telling Brownlow to piss off.

  In the car, on her way to the advertising agency, Kray’s mind wandered around the flat, reminding herself of every detail – the mugs in the living room, a single toothbrush in the bathroom, the items left on the dressing table. There was something that didn’t fit, something out of place.

  The thirty-minute journey passed in an instant and she soon found herself edging the nose of her car through the gates of a large office block to the car park at the rear. She pulled into a spot marked ‘visitors’.

  Her phone rang on the hands-free. Brownlow again.

  ‘Hey, Roz change of plan. Can you get yourself over to seventeen Dennison Heights? I got someone else covering the workplace and thought it would be good for you to go to the scene. You know, get a feel for the place, maybe talk to the neighbours.’

  Kray wished she had spent more time chatting to Brownlow on the phone the first time he called, because then she could have told him to piss off.

  Kray collapsed into bed at 11.25pm, the day had been long and frustrating. Brownlow had her running errands for him all over the place, it was less like an investigation and more like a badly organised treasure hunt. His style of management could loosely be described as command and control, although a more fitting description would be command and no fucking control whatsoever. That, coupled with his utter lack of time to devote to the case, made for slow, tedious progress. Kray stared blankly at the cracks in the ceiling, the sound of a million flies buzzing in her head.

  She’d arrived home two hours ago, just enough time to watch some bollocks on the TV and down a cheeky bottle of Chardonnay. It was supposed to help her sleep, but the images of the day danced before her, ensuring that was not going to happen any time soon. She knew she should eat dinner, but the effects of the alcohol numbed her appetite. She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten food three times a day.

  She threw back the duvet and strode into the living room, flicking on a side lamp. Her laptop was on the low coffee table. She pushed the mouse with her index finger and the screen ignited with a blue hew. She tapped at the keyboard, reached for a pen and a new notebook. Wikipedia pages opened and closed in a blur, to be replaced with another then another; the same with medical reports, research findings and YouTube videos. The scribbled notes spilled onto a second page and then a third.

  Kray clicked away at the screen, gorging herself on the information. Hunched over her laptop, pictures and documents flashing before her eyes, she lost herself in her search.

  Eventually she sunk back into the soft cushions, the photograph on the screen filling her vision. ‘Gotcha,’ she said to no one.

  Kray looked across at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece, rubbing her eyes. It read 2.45am. She leaned forward and wrote two words in capital letters on the fourth page of the notebook and double underlined them. It was time for bed, three and a quarter hours’ sleep was enough for anyone. Instead she curled up on the sofa and drifted off to the sound of buzzing flies.

  5

  My alarm goes off at 3.30am. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. I hang las
t night’s clothes in the wardrobe and pull on jeans and a T-shirt. It’s so early no one gives a toss what I look like.

  I hate my house. After fourteen years it still stinks of my mother. The lounge carries the stench of her slippers, the kitchen reeks of burnt shepherd’s pie and the bedroom wraps you in a hundred wet carpets of fabric softener and rose water drawer liners. How does that happen?

  I down a cup of strong coffee and stand watch at the bay window. The street is empty and quiet. The rubbish bins stand like sentries by the side of the road awaiting the arrival of the council lorry to take away the filth.

  How can one household discard so much?

  Take the people at number nineteen. They must have the cleanest hair in the UK, I once counted three bottles of shampoo in one week. What is that about? And the couple at fifty-one binge so much on ready meals they should each be the size of a house. Who the hell eats that much Moussaka in seven days? And the two new guys in the bungalow must be intent on shagging themselves into an early grave. Their bin is always crammed with more condoms and empty lube containers than the back of an Ann Summers shop.

  I think about sex all the time, and for me it’s a solitary practice to be enjoyed while something is dying. Nothing else comes close, excuse the pun.

  I have never understood the pubescent riot that ensues over a torn copy of Readers’ Wives or the adrenaline thrill of a late-night bar pickup. The prospect of the walk of shame has never entered my head and a furtive glance that says, ‘fuck yes’ has never darkened my face.

  Whether it was blundering my way through my formative years only to drown in a sea of raging hormones, or careering through my catastrophic teenage development and into adulthood, I have never wanted any of it.

  I class myself as sexually normal but not in the same way that normal people do. Give me my mother’s clothes and something helpless, and I will give you a happy ending every time. I tell myself this every morning as I stare up the street, waiting for my ride.