Whisper For The Reaper Jack Gatland (interesting books to read txt) 📖

more officers, mainly forensics, working the case while other officers kept the public out of sight. Recognising one officer through the white PPE suit she wore, he waved to gain her attention. Regan was a solid SOCO, and he didn’t want to piss her off if he could help it, so he kept as far away as he could.

‘What’ve we got?’ he asked. Regan walked over to him, glancing back as she did. On the floor, lying on his back, his arms outstretched and his throat slashed, was a teenage boy.

‘Craig Randall, fifteen years old, throat slashed from right to left,’ she said, making the motion with her hand. ‘Went out with the dog two hours back. Dog arrived back in the campsite about an hour ago. Family went looking for him, couldn’t find him, tried calling his phone, no answer. Eventually that caravan there heard the ringing and entered the woods, thinking someone had lost a phone. Instead, they found this.’

‘Nice,’ Freeman stared at the body. ‘Cause of death?’

‘We think it’s some sort of razor,’

‘Think?’ Freeman looked back to Regan. ‘No weapon found?’

‘None yet,’ Regan admitted. ‘But then he could have slashed his throat and then thrown it into the bushes or even the stream.’

‘You think this was self inflicted?’ This surprised Freeman. Regan waved for him to follow, moving a little closer to the body, but not close enough to contaminate the scene.

‘See there? The cut is from right to left,’ she explained. ‘It’s jagged, so it wasn’t committed; almost like he started, stopped and then continued through.’ She pointed to the left hand, currently against the ground. ‘Blood started spurting out on the right-hand side, then spurts to the left as he continues to cut, where it splatters all over his fist and arm. But his palm is absent of any sign of it.’

‘Because he was gripping the blade,’ Freeman nodded. ‘Any reason he’d do this?’

‘Apart from the fact that he’s apparently a little shit with a bit of a rep for being a bully?’ Regan shrugged. ‘Better ask the parents.’

‘No note?’

Regan pointed to a tree where, on the bark, was etched one word.

SORRY

‘That do for you?’ she asked.

DI Freeman sighed. ‘Anything else?’

‘Actually, yes,’ Regan waved to an assistant who passed over a clear plastic bag. In it was a piece of card the size of a business card, blank except for one image; a little red man with what looked like a hat on, arms out to the side, and holding a scythe. ‘We think this is some kind of collectable—‘

‘It’s murder,’ Freeman said, his face draining of all colour. ‘This wasn’t suicide. I need to call Walsh.’

‘Walsh? Why does he need to get involved?’ Regan was irritated now, aware that she’d missed something, but unaware of what it was.

‘Because we’ve seen that picture before,’ Freeman replied, pulling out his phone and dialling. ‘Yeah, it’s me,’ he eventually said into it. ‘Get Detective Superintendent Patrick Walsh on the line, now.’

He looked back at the body.

‘Tell him we have another Red Reaper.’

1

Kidnapped

Declan didn’t know how long he’d been in the van for. All he knew was that he’d been sedated immediately after they had thrown a bag over his head.

And that pissed him off.

The van was driving straight; he knew this because even though he was hooded, he couldn’t feel the sway of the van as it turned corners, only the occasional slight movement that was comparable with changing lanes on a motorway. Was he heading into London down the M4? It’d make sense. He went to pull at the hood, but realised that he couldn’t move his hands. Not that they were restrained, but that they simply weren’t responding.

Some sort of nerve agent.

Okay, so he was in a van, hooded and restrained. But at the same time it was one that was connected to Trix, and she’d recently helped him escape custody, so there had to be a reason for this. What it was, though, he had no idea.

Declan leaned back in the seat; to be honest, it was a comfortable seat, and there was a seatbelt on, as he could feel it pressing against him. They’d wanted him to be secure, but not uncomfortable. He concentrated on the sensations he could feel. The hood had a slight ammonia smell to it, but that could be remnants of whatever sweet smelling sedative was used on it, back in Hurley.

Hurley.

He’d been at a funeral, that much he could remember. That was to say, he wasn’t at the funeral, but watching it from afar. Kendis Taylor. A woman he’d loved for over half his life, even if a lot of that was spent doing it equally from afar. A woman who was now dead, a death that he’d avenged.

A death that he’d caused, as well. If he’d kept Kendis from the Andy Mac case at the start, she wouldn’t have continued on with it. She wouldn’t have—

No. She would have done it either way. That was what Kendis did. That’s why he had admired her so. She was always destined for this, no matter what Declan did to save her.

He’d been so angry, convinced that this was folly when he had last spoken to her. He should have stayed with her. Ensured that she didn’t go to Brompton Cemetery alone.

But he didn’t. And she did. The past was written, and he had to move on, think about the present. Which, currently, was in the back of a van with a hood on his head.

He could feel his fingers now as life crept back into his extremities. Outside the van he could hear traffic; it was busier; the van moving slower. Central London, perhaps? A swing to the right. Heading southwards now? Possibly. He thought about what he’d been wearing. What did he have on his person? He had keys, a small Leatherman utility tool that he always carried, and the tactical pen he wrote his notes with. In his inside jacket was a USB with