Liar Liar: Another gripping serial killer thriller from the bestselling author (DC Charlotte Stafford Series) Read online

  LIAR LIAR

  Sarah Flint

  Start Reading

  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.ariafiction.com

  About Liar Liar

  A faithful dog lies wounded beside the mutilated body of its owner.

  A woman is discovered bound and gagged, dead in her own bed.

  Both are police officers.

  Both have a red rose at their side… worryingly more will follow…

  Lies and accusations abound but who is behind the murders and why are the victims being targeted?

  Charlie, Hunter and the team must find the killer targeting their own before another body is found.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About Liar Liar

  Dedication

  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

  Acknowledgements

  About Sarah Flint

  A Letter from the Author

  About the DC Charlotte Stafford Series

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  To PC Keith Palmer and the many victims affected by the

  Westminster Bridge terror attack. I walked out from the tube station

  into the carnage on 22nd March 2017 and will always remember the

  courage of the wounded and the bravery of the emergency services

  who attended the scene.

  You will not be forgotten.

  Prologue

  September 1969

  The door slammed shut and heavy boots thumped slowly across the wooden floorboards. The woman started, her eyes dull with weary acceptance, her arms thrown up, indicating in panic that the child should run. But it was too late. His voice rang out, a low whistle at first, rising with each footfall to a crescendo, loud and spiteful, every word designed to incite terror.

  ‘Ring a ring o’ roses, a pocket full of posies, Atishoo, Atishoo.’

  He stopped singing as he entered the room and gripped the woman tightly by her arms, forcing grubby nails deep into her skin, pulling her to her feet.

  ‘Sing me the last line,’ he demanded.

  She shrank from his grasp, recoiling from the stench of beer on his breath, her body shaking uncontrollably. She despised every inch of him for what he was doing to her and their child. ‘Please, not again. Please don’t make me.’

  The back of his hand slammed into her face, a stream of red springing immediately from her bloodied nose. ‘I said, sing me the last line, bitch.’ He raised his arm above her again and laughed. ‘Now!’

  The woman shrank even further, her eyes closed tight against what she knew was to follow. It happened every week. Her voice trembled with fear. ‘We all fall down.’

  She dropped to the floor as his fist took the breath from her body and lay curled tightly in a ball on the boards, blood pooling under her face.

  At the sound of his voice singing the words over again, her eyes shot open, fearfully scanning the room, resting finally on the small child hiding behind the armchair. Her eyes beseeched the child to stay hidden as the voice grew louder.

  ‘Ring a ring o’ roses, a pocket full of posies. Daddy’s looking for you. Where are you, you little brat?’ He lifted his leg and kicked the chair to one side, sneering with pleasure as the child started to whimper and sob. ‘Atishoo, Atishoo.’ He raised his foot again, the heavy black boot underneath dark serge trousers poised above the child’s trembling form. He started to laugh maniacally now, before throwing all his weight into the strike.

  ‘We all fall down.’

  Chapter 1

  Saturday 17th June 2017

  It was surprising how easy it had been to get in. He’d expected the security to be better; but then it was summer and people left windows unlocked and insecure, didn’t they? Complacency was his accomplice every time. Just because the bungalow was remote it didn’t mean it couldn’t be accessed… and he’d rarely, if ever, failed. Leaving a window open just made his job easier.

  As he reached through the small window with gloved hands and turned the handle of the larger window below, a waft of air freshener hit his nostrils. The aroma was fruity, citrus-scented, possibly orange. He wasn’t very good at discerning nice smells. His senses recognised only the stench of decay or the disinfected corridors of medical or penal establishments.

  Carefully he pulled the curtain back and peered in. The room was dark. A small, red fluorescent light pulsed out from a digital clock on a cabinet in the corner. It showed 03.32. Its tiny glow reflected against the screen of a large curved TV, the glint refracted at oblique angles across the pastel wall opposite.

  In the past he would have taken the TV and anything else of value, but today he had a job to do, rules to follow.

  He switched on a small torch and flashed it across the room, before climbing through the window and lowering himself down on to a thick dark, shag pile carpet, perfect for cushioning the sound of his trainers.

  The room was decorated exquisitely, almost luxuriously. Every gadget was the latest, every ornament exclusive, every photo framed in gilt. No expense had been spared. The bitch who lived here was clearly on a good salary. The clock clicked on to 03.33, all the threes. Bingo! He heard her stir in the next room, the sound of a body turning on a mattress, a small cough, a sigh, then silence again, save for her slow, rhythmic breathing. He held his breath. The air was hot and heavy. Sweat dripped down his back.

  Soon her breathing would get even slower, weaker. Soon it would stop all together, but not yet. She owed it to society. She was a taker. Now she would pay the price.

  He saw the suitcases stacked neatly in the hallway as he made his way towards her. A rucksack sat on the floor, a passport and documents spread out across the table by the door, a set of keys lying to the side. Everything was ready for a vacation in the sun, but today she would be going nowhere. The taxi would turn up and leave without its fare, the phone would ring but would remain unanswered and the front door would stay shut. Sleeping Beauty would lie ready to be awakened, but this time there would be no handsome prince. He loved the plan.

  He pulled a scarf from his bag and tiptoed across the hallway to her bedroom. Her door was open. He could see her shape under the sheet, curled into a crescent, her back towards him, an arm hanging lazily above her head, her hair cascading in ringlets around her shoulders. A thin raft
of light from the moon filtered in through a gap in the curtains, directly against the pillow on which her head was resting. Its beam lit up her face; her button nose casting a shadow across her cheek and the upper edges of her mouth. Her lips were thin, parted slightly in sleep, her breath louder, more constant now as he approached. Her eyes remained tightly shut, twitching slightly as she dreamed, unaware of his presence.

  A few more steps and he was on top of her, his gloved hand across her mouth to stifle any scream. He rolled her on to her back, his weight pushing her further into the mattress. She couldn’t move. Only her eyes darted around now, wild and wide, trying to make sense of what was happening. Roughly he tied the scarf around her mouth and pulled her flailing arms up in front of her, securing her wrists in metal restraints. Her hands balled into fists, but they were impotent within the handcuffs. Her voice came out in staccato gasps, any words muffled within the material of the scarf. She tried to buck, but he was too heavy for her. He pulled the sheet off her, strapping her legs tightly to each other before binding her whole body to the bed, each limb held in place by electrical cable.

  She lay trussed and immobile, her thin cotton pyjamas tight against the curves of her body, the scarf exchanged for paper wadding, held in place by duct tape wound round and round her head. The job was nearly done. He bent down over her, his face close, squinting through the eyeholes of the balaclava that he wore, his eyes exploring her body. Her physique was good for her age; she had obviously spent time working out in the gym, but she held no sexual attraction to him. She was staring directly at his face, trying, no doubt, to focus on his features. His mouth curled into a sneer. It wasn’t in his instructions, but it would be an amusing addition. He lifted the balaclava up and grinned down at her desperate attempts at concentration, before pulling it back into position. She would not live to give a description, but he liked to think she’d try.

  What he did, needed to be done. He felt no guilt. He hated her and her kind. How he wished he could kill her now, to revel in how she dealt with the sort of intimidation, humiliation and agony that he himself had suffered.

  But he had his orders.

  And, before the clock in the lounge clicked on to 03.59 he’d slipped silently out of the front door, having followed every single one of them.

  Chapter 2

  Tuesday 20th June 2017

  For PC Brian Ashton it had been a normal Monday late shift. Normal in as much as he’d dealt with two adult shoplifters, a violent robbery and a severely disturbed woman threatening to commit suicide. At just gone 10.15 p.m. it had all kicked off. It was the same every evening shift; too early to leave the call for night duty, too late to be able to deal with it properly and still finish punctually at eleven.

  It had taken almost an hour to talk the half-demented woman off Waterloo Bridge, but eventually she had agreed to climb into the back of a police van to be taken for an assessment at the Maudsley psychiatric unit. The malevolent eddies of the River Thames had gone on their way hungry, having had their latest tasty morsel removed from the menu. The hordes of curious bystanders had dissolved back into the crowded footways of the South Bank and the river police, so recently circulating the dark waters underneath the bridge in their patrol boats, had moored up and changed crew. PC Brian Ashton was left to write up the paperwork.

  It was just gone 00.30 when he parked up in the yard at Southwark police station and signed the van over to the night-duty crew. There had been little of the usual waiting at the hospital. The woman had been received into the bosom of the inpatients facility without a hitch. Things were looking up.

  Brian undid the heavy, stab-proof vest that he wore, hooking it over his arm along with his equipment belt as he jogged lightly down the stairs into the basement. The men’s locker room was empty, night shift having long since gone out on patrol. The usual mix of men’s odours, both pungent and perfumed, assaulted his nostrils. He breathed in the different scents, realising the back of his shirt and underarms were wet with sweat. It had been touch and go at one stage whether she would jump. They had all felt the pressure. He pulled off his shirt, balled it up and squashed it into the bottom of his rucksack. Tina would deal with that in the morning.

  A few minutes later he’d replaced his work trousers for jeans, his boots for trainers and thrown on a thin cotton T-shirt with the words ‘World’s Best Dad’ emblazoned on the front. It had been presented toothily to him for Father’s Day by four-year-old Emily and six-year-old Bobby, Tina’s children from her first marriage. It meant the world to him, especially as he didn’t get to see Max, his own son from his first marriage, that often. The police service and the marriage service were no better partners than he and his ex-wife, Lorna, had been.

  He slammed the door to the locker shut and turned the key. Police officers could be thieving bastards sometimes; especially if there was some spare uniform on display. It was only borrowing; they just forgot to give it back. He swallowed hard as his conscience pricked. Everything he did, he did for his family. He shrugged the thought away guiltily and headed for the door, slinging his rucksack over his shoulder.

  His car was parked, as usual, fifteen minutes away in the multi-storey at the rear of Guy’s Hospital, close to The Shard. London Bridge and Borough Market, both scenes of a recent terror attack came into view, Borough Market having only reopened to the public six days previously. He’d been at home when the terrorists had struck but had rushed in to assist when the news broke. Now, despite his proximity to the recent incident he walked the route without thinking, ignoring the regular warnings to vary routines thrown out by senior officers. It was easier said than done. Even though the threat level to police was heightened, no other parking facilities were provided. You parked where you could… and nothing was ever going to happen to him anyway.

  A single lamp flickered forlornly in the entrance to the multi-storey, most of the lights having been vandalised so regularly that the council no longer had the money, or the inclination, to replace them. He walked through the entrance noticing that the last of the damaged CCTV cameras had also been removed. Skirting past the lifts, he headed towards the stairs, holding his breath to avoid the overpowering stench of urine. Even the foul smell of the stairwells was preferable to getting stuck in one of those stinking sweat-boxes. By the time he got to the dimly lit sixth floor his heart was pumping and he was glad to see his car still parked where he’d left it. Several other vehicles stood dark and empty on the same floor, their shapes casting shadows across the concrete.

  He clicked the key fob and the headlights pulsed on and off the usual two times. Although he wasn’t overly nervous in the multi-storey at night, he was still glad to hear the reassuring clunk of the door locks securing him inside. There were too many crazies around these days, and he’d arrested a good percentage of them. Officers returning to their cars late at night were easy meat.

  Settling down into the arms of his trusty old BMW, he selected the ignition key before firing up the engine. The headlights came on and the car park was at once bathed in illumination. The shadows receded and he relaxed, fatigue seeping through his bones. It wouldn’t take long before he was home, twenty minutes at most. A quick beer while walking the dog and then he could slip into bed next to Tina. He wound the window down, letting some of the stuffiness out of the interior. It was a balmy night; he’d enjoy taking Casper, his Labrador, round their normal route.

  As he pulled slowly away he didn’t notice the slight movement of the man crouched behind the old white van in the corner of the car park or the twitch of his arm as he lifted his hand to check the time on his watch.

  *

  The countdown had started and now he needed to go. So far so good. Timing was the key to his success. It had been tempting to take the bastard out on his way to the car, but he had to wait, the cop was twitchy here, ready to defend himself; he could see it in the way his eyes had darted all around, small pinpricks of white against the darkness, the way he held his shoulders, poised ready for actio
n.

  The strategy was correct again. He needed to strike when the cop was unprepared, unguarded, at his most relaxed. He checked his watch once more. Within the hour, that time would come.

  *

  The house smelt of pizza and soap. Tina had ensured the downstairs windows were closed, so the smells were trapped in the lounge, as was Casper, who bounded towards him, his tail wagging his whole rear end when he opened the door. Brian bent down to greet his ageing black Lab, stroking the soft fur on the top of his head and rubbing his belly when he flipped on to his back. The dog had been with him longer than either of his two wives and there was no question that Casper, unlike his wives, knew who was boss. He smiled to himself at the analogy and then tiptoed up the stairs to check on Tina and the kids.

  Emily and Bobby were fast asleep, each in corresponding pink and blue bedrooms, with girls’ toys and boys’ toys surrounding them. Tina was very traditional. Girls should be girlie girls and boys should be fearsome boys. It was not surprising, given this attitude, that she now liked policemen. Her previous husband had been a prize prick. She was not going to make that mistake again. He blew a kiss to each of them and moved on.

  Tina stirred as he entered the bedroom, lifting a silky white arm from under the thin sheet and turning towards him. Her eyes remained closed but he heard his name murmured sleepily.