The Woman Who Lied by Claire Douglas

Author:Claire Douglas [Douglas, Claire]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781405951210
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2023-07-05T22:00:00+00:00

32

I’m hoping to get out early for once. I need to see my father and check on how he’s coping, as we have finally persuaded him that it’s best for my mother – as well as himself – that she goes into a nursing home. I’m just packing up my stuff and turning off my computer when Saunders bursts into the office without knocking.

I open my mouth to give him a piece of my mind but stop when I notice the look on his face, the mixture of excitement and horror I’ve come to recognize when he thinks we have a lead on a case that seems unsolvable.

‘A call has just come in. It looks like there’s been another victim. The praying-mantis murderer’s struck again.’

I stare at him in shock. I realize my mouth is hanging open and I close it. It’s been over a year now since Trisha Banks was killed and, despite our best efforts, we’ve never been able to pin down Martin Butterworth for the crimes, even though he remains our prime suspect and we’ve been watching him like hawks.

‘Where?’ I say, pulling on my coat.

‘Well, that’s the weird thing,’ he says. ‘It’s out of our jurisdiction. But we’ve been called in because of the similarity to past cases.’ He reels off an address. It’s going to take us three hours to get there, maybe more. And it’s already 6 p.m. But we have to go. There’s no doubt about that.

‘Come on, then,’ I say, already getting out my phone to call my sister to ask her to visit Dad instead, and to let my girlfriend, Kim, know I won’t be home for a few days.

It’s late by the time we reach the quiet, narrow street. We can tell straight away which house it is because of the hubbub outside. Police tape is stretched around the small front garden, and the uniformed officer who is guarding it lifts it up so we can get through. I’m already exhausted, and spending all that time in the car with Saunders has given me a headache but I try to push it aside as we walk down the steps and into the basement flat.

‘It’s through here, ma’am,’ says another officer. Plain clothes, bald with unusually red cheeks. He introduces himself as Detective Sergeant Shawn Watkins from the Metropolitan Police.

A woman is lying on the carpet in the front room. She’s youngish, mid-thirties at the most. Slim, around five foot two, with short dark hair.

‘How was she killed?’ I ask DS Watkins. I turn to see Saunders rushing from the room with a hand clamped over his mouth and frown. That’s unlike him. I turn my attention back to Watkins.

‘It looks like a blow to the head,’ he says. ‘So, not your usual MO of a stab wound. We wouldn’t have called you but then we noticed this …’ He points to the woman’s ankle. I crouch to get a better look. It appears to be a drawing of an insect’s head.

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