Perfect Bones: A Tense Psychological Thriller That Will Keep You Hooked Read online

  Perfect Bones

  Samantha Willerby Mystery Series - Book 3

  A.J. Waines

  Bloodhound Books

  Contents

  Also by AJ Waines

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2018 A.J. Waines

  The right of A.J. Waines to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Also by AJ Waines

  Standalones:

  The Evil Beneath

  Girl on a Train

  Dark Place to Hide

  No Longer Safe

  Don’t you Dare

  Samantha Willerby Mystery Series:

  Inside the Whispers

  Lost in the Lake

  Writing as Alison Waines:

  The Self-Esteem Journal

  Making Relationships Work

  Prologue

  Friday, June 15 – Three weeks earlier

  It’s not often a journalist is offered first bite of the cherry – not on a plate like this.

  Pippa French glanced over her shoulder, wondering if anyone else could feel the dynamic shift in the air. The water-cooler gurgled. Someone behind the photocopier sneezed, but no one seemed to notice the electric charge fizzing around her. No one spotted the way she tightly squeezed the receiver, nor heard the galloping thud of her heartbeat.

  Her secret was safe.

  He was speaking again. ‘It’s a genuine Cézanne and it’s been hanging in a lawyer’s front room for a decade. She’d mistaken it for a copy all this time. Make a great headline don’t you think? Interested?’

  Interested? Of course she was interested! This was the real McCoy. The exclusive that could take her career to the next level.

  When Mr Morino told her not to say where she was going, to keep the whole thing hush-hush, it didn’t ring any alarm bells. Pippa wasn’t listening out for them. All she heard was the velvety voice in her ear telling her what she wanted to hear.

  ‘You can bring your colleagues up to speed once you’ve seen the painting and have something to squeal about,’ he said. ‘We don’t want anyone else jumping the queue.’

  His caution was understandable, to be expected. It was common practice for journalists to follow a lead without even telling their boss – to make sure no one else snatched the glory. Journalism is a cut-throat business. Everyone knew that.

  So, she didn’t say a word to anyone.

  Pippa’s follow-up checks were just as convincing as the phone call from Philippe Morino. She’d heard of the Sotherby’s expert before. One of her rivals from Art Monthly had done a piece on him. Still, she’d decided it would be better to call him back on the main Sotherby’s number just in case – she’d been scammed before by fake leads.

  But by the time she’d finished her meeting with the editor, Mr Morino had left for the day. Just missed him, apparently. She checked her watch. That would add up. In his earlier call, he’d arranged to meet her at Languini’s wine bar, only a short walk away, in ten minutes time. He’d be on his way by now. There was no question in her mind. She had to follow this through, before anyone else got their hands on this exclusive.

  It wasn’t difficult to slip away. Most of her colleagues had already gone home. Before she left, she wrote the time and location on a Post-it note and stuck it to the computer monitor. It was just a precaution. The office operated a hot-desking system, so whoever got to the spot first in the morning would see it. Then she realised it was Friday and no one would see it until Monday. It would be a bit late by then if she’d run into trouble. She screwed it into a ball and threw it into the bin.

  As she rounded the corner of the street and the green-striped awning of the bar came into view, Pippa got another call.

  ‘Ever so sorry… change of plan,’ he said, his voice plummy and polite. ‘Much better if you come straight here. I’m sending a taxi for you. It’ll pick you up outside the wine bar any minute now.’

  She slowed her step, a flicker of doubt crossing her path. It was all getting a bit cloak ’n’ dagger. Some tiny part of her knew it was too good to be true. She should turn around. Let it go. Something wasn’t right.

  But she ignored the niggling voice and didn’t turn back. She was blinded by the prospect of her own personal scoop and wasn’t thinking straight. Part of her – the ambitious, tenacious, go-getting side of her – hung on to the belief that she’d struck it lucky.

  But her instincts were wrong.

  This was a well-coated honey trap.

  1

  Present Day – Thursday evening, July 5

  I should have known it was never going to happen. As I rolled up two more T-shirts and tucked them under my gold sandals, I ignored the niggling voice that said this suitcase wouldn’t be leaving the flat tomorrow morning.

  Getting away on holiday is straightforward for most people, but that’s rarely the case in my experience. Something always gets in the way; a terrorist attack, hospital colleagues calling in sick or Miranda – my effervescent but unpredictable sister – having a mini meltdown. This time, I’d been forced to cancel twice due to work and Miranda had begun making snide quips about me finding excuses to not go. But this time I was adamant. We were absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent going to make that flight.

  I dragged my case to the front door, ready for the crack-of-dawn taxi I’d ordered and returned to my checklist. Sun-cream, passport, European plug adaptor; all ticked.

  I’d originally hoped for a week in Prague, sightseeing, but my sister wanted ‘more fun’, so scuba diving, beach-volleyball and jet-skiing on the Greek island of
Lefkas won through.

  I emptied the bins, made sure there was nothing in the fridge that would turn green in my absence, pegged up the last of my washing on the indoor airer and flicked on the TV in the sitting room to catch the late-night news. A map of north London filled the screen, then cut away to the newsreader in the studio, but my mind was elsewhere; did I need to leave a note for Mrs Willow upstairs to remind her to water my plants or would she remember? Were there any online deliveries I should have re-arranged?

  That’s when it happened.

  A camera zoomed in to reveal a scene I knew only too well, cordoned off with blue police tape. I snapped to attention. The outside broadcaster sounded grave:

  ‘…where an artist from the Camden Community Art Project was found critically injured on the towpath last night. Police are appealing for witnesses…’

  A stab of panic pitched me to the edge of the sofa. CCAP. I resisted the impulse to grab my phone. She’d be fine. She wouldn’t have gone out last night, she would have been packing. My sister was hopeless at deciding what to take away with her and always started several days early, making various aborted attempts at filling her suitcase and tipping everything out again. She was probably knee-deep in her wardrobe this very minute putting back dungarees and trying to track down her sarong.

  I made the call anyway. No reply.

  I went to the bathroom to splash water on my face; my early night was out of the question now. There’s no way I’d be able to sleep until I knew for certain that she was okay. Over the buzzing of my electric toothbrush, I heard my phone ring.

  It was Terry’s number on the screen. Again.

  ‘Terry. Hi.’ My voice was flat. I needed to keep this short.

  ‘I’m glad I caught you,’ he said, the words wilting apologetically at the end. ‘Listen, Sam, I know I saw you earlier, but I’ve got someone who’d like to speak to you.’

  ‘Now? It’s late, Terry. I’m going on holiday tomorrow. You know that.’

  ‘Sorry, but it’s important. It’s a colleague in the Metropolitan Police. Someone pretty high up, actually…’

  ‘Police?’

  There was a scuffle at the other end and before I could get an explanation from him, a fresh voice came on the line. A woman; stern and loud.

  ‘This is Detective Chief Superintendent, Elsa Claussen. I’m calling from the Central North Command Unit in Camden…’ I let my weight fall into the wall beside me. Oh, God – Miranda.

  I couldn’t swallow. I didn’t hear any more.

  I felt my body slide down the wall, my stomach about to cave in, when I realised my mind was going in the wrong direction. A chief superintendent wouldn’t break this kind of news over the phone. Surely, there’d be uniformed officers looking pained and awkward outside my flat door. Then I registered her next words.

  ‘…your help.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘We need your help,’ she said once more.

  ‘Help?’ It came out like a whimper.

  ‘We need an expert in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Your name came up.’

  I forced myself to stay focused. ‘This isn’t about my sister, Miranda Willerby?’

  ‘I think we’re talking at cross purposes.’

  I was confused. ‘Can you put Terry back on, please?’

  There was a clunk. ‘What’s going on?’ he hissed. ‘This is really important, Sam.’

  ‘Is this about Miranda?’

  ‘No, it’s–’

  ‘Is this about the woman found last night on the towpath near Camden Lock?’ I said, bulldozing over him.

  He stalled. ‘Yes, it is. We–’

  ‘Who is it? Who was critically injured?’

  ‘She was from the Camden Community Art Project–’

  ‘I know, but who is it? You know my sister… she’s an artist at CCAP. She uses the towpath. I can’t reach her.’

  ‘It’s not her,’ he said firmly.

  I got him to repeat it. ‘It’s not Miranda. This woman had long dark hair, she was–’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  I blew out a bucketful of air. If the victim had long dark hair that was all I needed to know. My sister had a blonde buzz cut; her hair couldn’t have been more different.

  The phone went back to Claussen. I had three seconds to shift from panicky relative to self-assured professional.

  ‘Are we on the same page now?’ she said stiffly. She didn’t wait for a response. ‘We need a PTSD specialist as a matter of urgency.’

  ‘Right, well, I’m sorry, but I’m about to go away on my first annual leave in three years and–’

  Her voice ploughed over mine, informing me that two other prominent PTSD specialists were unavailable. ‘One is in the Caribbean and the other was rushed to hospital this evening with a burst appendix. In terms of professionals we can call on… well, it looks like you’re all we’ve got.’

  Mmm – probably not the best way to win me over.

  ‘Like I said to Terry – he knows this – I’ve got a flight booked tomorrow at eight thirty in the morning. There’s another person involved. I can’t let her down. It’s only for a week.’

  ‘I know. We called St Luke’s earlier today to see if you were available.’

  ‘You’ve already checked up on me?’ I was having trouble keeping up.

  She sniffed. ‘We’ve cleared this with your department.’

  ‘You’ve what?’

  ‘We did our utmost to find someone else, believe me. That’s why I’m calling so late. As I say, the guy we had lined up has been carted off to intensive care. It’s a crisis situation.’

  ‘But, there must be someone else. There’s a register of PTSD experts in London the length of my arm – they can’t all be having surgery. Let me switch on my laptop and–’

  She sounded agitated. ‘That’s not going to help. It’s a tricky scenario.’

  I let her hear my heavy sigh. ‘What is the scenario, exactly?’

  ‘A nineteen-year-old appears to be the only witness to a savage murder attempt. This witness was moored on a boat on the Regent’s Canal – right where it happened. Found at the scene in a catatonic state.’

  ‘She’s your sole witness?’

  ‘It’s a he actually. We’re convinced he saw the whole thing, but was traumatised by the situation.’ I heard a sharp intake of breath. ‘When I say savage attack, I mean savage.’ Her voice wavered. ‘The victim was almost decapitated – her head practically taken right off. She’s in intensive care – no one can believe she survived.’

  I flinched at the thought of it. Claussen carried on. ‘The witness was seen by our psychiatrist, but he hasn’t been able to tell us what happened. His brain has kind of shut down. Heavy trauma, we gather. It happened at an isolated spot, at dusk, beside the water. No one else has come forward and we don’t expect them to. It’s a miracle there were any witnesses at all.’

  My voice came out as a whisper. ‘Why do you need me? This witness could talk to any number of PTSD specialists, surely?’

  ‘None of the other experts can give us a devoted period of time away from their commitments. We need someone to work with him immediately and intensively.’ Claussen didn’t sound like the kind of person who failed to get her own way too often. ‘As you already had annual leave booked, all your patients and staff are expecting you to disappear for a while.’

  Her next words come out cool and slightly smug. ‘Besides, the witness is an art student and we understand you have specialist art therapy skills.’

  Ah, there we have it. Thanks, Terry. I reran the conversation I’d had with him only nine hours ago. It was meant to be a friendly catch up, but I should have cottoned on as soon as he started asking an inordinate amount of questions about my work. Just interested, eh? I’d been set up.

  ‘You can’t push someone with PTSD,’ I pointed out. ‘He will only be able to reveal what he saw in his own time.’

  ‘I’m afraid that tim
e is exactly what we don’t have. As I said, he’s our only witness. Witnesses are unreliable at best, but leave it too long and they start thinking red was green, up was down – and every bit of the incident goes pear-shaped.’

  She was absolutely right, of course.

  ‘We need to get a statement from him as soon as possible,’ she persisted. ‘We need to catch whoever did this and we think this witness saw the whole thing. We’ve already lost a day and if we don’t get information soon, whatever he can offer us is likely to be worthless. We reckon you’ve got a week with him. That’s our cut-off point. Seven days.’

  She wasn’t making sense. ‘If this witness is suffering from PTSD, it’s going to take a lot longer than a week for him to face a police line-up or describe exactly what happened. I’ve known colleagues who’ve worked for months with patients following a trauma. You can’t give him a deadline.’

  Besides, this might only be a week, but it was my week; my week to be with my sister.

  ‘There’s a further complication,’ she added, gravely. I suppressed a strong desire to groan down the line. ‘We don’t think it’s simply a case of PTSD.’