The Principle of Evil: A Fast-Paced Serial Killer Thriller

This time she was sure the man with no eyes that haunted her, who she ran from, was some twisted version of her father – Peter.

How long had it been now since they’d spoken?

She couldn’t remember and part of her felt guilty for not caring. Everything that had happened last year he’d brought upon himself, Claire knew that.

I did all I could, she reasoned with herself. Then why do I see the two of them – Father and the Other, whose name I can’t bring myself to speak – in every nightmare?

Sweat cooled against her skin, and she felt the shiver travel up her spine.

It was the morning of Nola Grant’s PM. She’d concentrate on that. It was all that mattered right now, not her broken inner self.

After she wiped the sweat from her face and chest, she headed downstairs. She then sat curled up in the window seat of the bay window in the living room, swathed in a blanket, nose buried in a book.

There was a small lamp dimly lit beside her and the curtains were open, despite it still being dark outside. A cup of coffee that rested beside her had long gone cold and she’d pushed it aside. When the first snowflake had settled on the window, she set aside her book in favour of watching the snow cover her garden in a blanket of white.

She could hear her mother, Iris, get up and start down the stairs, then her feet shuffling in her slippers against the hardwood floor as she entered the kitchen. When she heard the coffee machine whir into life, she sighed to herself, her solitude soon to be broken. She snapped her book shut and stood just as Iris entered the room.

Iris had invited herself to stay with Claire, forcing herself away from her home in Spain. Claire had never been to her mother’s house on the Costa Brava, and didn’t intend to if she could help it.

Since Iris had been divorced, she rarely made the effort to see her only child, and even when Claire had gone through her own messy divorce, Iris practically left her to go it alone.

Knowing how her mother felt about England nowadays meant Claire could relax, safe in the knowledge her mother only made an effort to visit once a year, at a time of her own choosing.

She insisted Claire never take days off to spend time with her while she was here, and was quite content to amuse herself. As long as she stayed in Claire’s house, she’d be happy left to her own devices.

Claire’s father, Peter, had moved to Aberdeen in Scotland, into a warden-controlled complex. It saddened Claire immensely but her decision to sever all ties had been for the best.

The last time they’d spoken had ended with cross words after he’d said some rather nasty things about Iris. Despite knowing her mother had been difficult to live with, Claire was having none of it, and had defended her.

‘It’s snowing,’ Iris said, with some irritation, wrapping her dressing gown tightly around her small frame.

‘It’s been forecast for over a week now.’

‘You seem to get snow earlier each year. Bloody global warming.’ She raised her finger at her daughter. ‘You should move out to Spain, love, much warmer climate. Not like England’s changeable weather. It’s bloody tedious.’ Claire rolled her eyes and turned on the television.

Iris paused, watching her closely. ‘You’re up early. Couldn’t you sleep?’

‘No. I had a nightmare… Silly really.’

‘Weren’t you supposed to be seeing some doctor about all this?’

Claire shuddered, suddenly feeling very cold. ‘I’m fine.’

Iris’s face softened a little. ‘What happened wasn’t your fault, you know. Everything that went on with that man and that thing, that woman, what she did–’

‘I said I was fine, Mum, really. You talking about it doesn’t help me, it takes me back there, and it’s not somewhere I want to go.’

‘I just think–’

‘Anyway,’ Claire cut in, ‘I’ve got to attend the post mortem of Nola Grant and it’s an early one. I didn’t see much point in staying in bed when I couldn’t sleep.’

She flicked through the channels until she found Sky News. ‘Are you going to be able to amuse yourself today, Mum? I’ll be away until late this evening.’

Iris looked up, frowned but backed down. She sat in a nearby chair and nodded. ‘I’ll be all right. I may pop into town, do some early Christmas shopping.’ She paused to listen to the headlines, then said, ‘Who’s Nola Grant?’

Claire’s eyes narrowed. ‘Since when do you take an interest in my work? Thought it depressed you?’

‘Oh, it does,’ she said, now more animated. ‘But that doesn’t mean I can’t ask, does it?’ Claire looked at the television screen ahead.

She knew her mother was just making idle small talk, pissed off Claire wouldn’t talk to her about last year. Iris needn’t have felt offended. Claire made it a habit never to discuss it with anyone. It was officially off limits.

The only part of Claire’s life Iris usually showed interest in was either her love life (or lack of) or the house. When her eyes crossed back to her mother’s, she noticed Iris genuinely looked intrigued.

‘Grant was a prostitute. Her body was found dumped in Haverbridge Lon Bonfire Night.’

Iris held up her hands, and shook her head. ‘OK, sorry I asked. It’s far too early for gore. Nasty business.’ There was a long pause. ‘I take it she was murdered?’

Claire stopped and stared at her from the living room door. ‘Some things never change with you, do they, Mum?’

CHAPTER 10 (#ulink_42327ee9-8194-5f6d-a659-84aaf4b4f7ea)

Stefan Fletcher hated standing in on autopsies. It wasn’t because watching the whole process unfold was unpleasant – nobody liked doing it, not even the ones with an iron stomach – but because it made him think about his own life and regrets. Life was fragile. Death could take anyone of any age at any time.

Death didn’t discriminate.

He thought about Nola’s life, cut short having never achieved much. She had no second chances, no time to say her goodbyes. It wasn’t as if death had claimed her after a battle with illness, when she had time to prepare for the inevitable. Death had struck quickly and indiscriminately. There was no coming back. She had no time to lay to rest any past grievances, or right any wrongs.

Life was cruel and the motto “live each day as if it were your last” felt evermore poignant. Today would be no different, and as soon as he saw the naked body of Nola Grant laid out on the slab in Haverbridge Hospital’s morgue he suppressed the urge to walk out.

He stood alongside Claire, dressed in protective clothing, masks over their mouths. Danika had come to escort them from reception and down to the mortuary. She was one of the good guys: respected, intelligent and one of the best Claire had ever worked with by a long shot.

She didn’t hold grudges and Claire sometimes wished she could be more like her in that respect. Claire could take a grudge and bury it deep inside her, but it never went away. If you wronged her, she’d take the hurt it caused her to the grave.

Danika appeared as normal: hair tied back, face and body clear of make-up and jewellery. The mortuary technician, Paul Farringdon, had already helped her photograph and swab the body in the external examination and now stood patiently beside the body, hands clasped loosely in front of him.

‘While we waited for you,’ Danika said, turning to address Claire and Stefan head on, ‘the body was photographed, samples taken from under the fingernails, and surface traces of debris collected from her body and hair. Despite being in the water, we still managed to collect some samples.

‘We also used the ultraviolet light. Mainly to check for any signs of sexual activity, which came up negative for any traces of semen externally, but since she was in the water, this could have easily washed away or been contaminated. I will check internally for any signs of trauma, but so far, I’m not convinced she was raped. I know some people have already been speculating,’ she said, casting a sly look at Paul before continuing. ‘She does have some minimal bruising around the groin, but given her choice of job, it’s to be expected.’

‘Some men like it rough,’ Paul said.

Stefan smirked.

Claire’s face was stony.

Danika visibly shuddered. ‘Yes, thank you for that.’

‘OK,’ Claire cut in, ‘let’s assume the bruising is old until you check internally.’