Night Shadows

By Chris Lewando

"Fast moving, imaginative, fun, thought provoking. One of those books you don't want to put down from the first time you pick it up."

 

A cold-blooded killer or an unlikely hero, one man has to make a decision that will change the course of history. Tom is an artist with a darker side. He feels no guilt in killing the occasional bad guy to make the world a better place. Helen, onto the scoop of a lifetime, finds herself carrying a murderer's child, and becomes a pawn in an international conflict. On another continent, General Hawke will stop at nothing to put Tom – and his unborn child – under the microscope, even at the risk of an international crisis. Even Tom doesn't know what's driving him, or what the dark shadows from his nightmares actually want from him, but as his adversaries close in, it becomes a race against time to find the answers before freedom, or even his life, are taken from him. A standalone thriller with the compulsive drive of a Tom Clancy – international espionage with a hint of Stephen King.

 

*********************************************************************************************************

This is a dramatic, hard-hitting page-turner

"Chris Lewando is a gifted author of thrillers with a strong basis in reality, a breath of originality and a dash of weirdness. With a firm grasp of the psychology that drives individuals, Chris tumbles readers headlong into an adventure that often defies prevailing rationale."

"I would give it ten stars if I could; this is the best written, best edited and best plotted book I've read recently; highly recommended; vivid, visual, and powerful; sophisticated and psychologically complex."

"Night Shadows captured and held my attention from the very first page. Reading this awesome book was a breath of fresh air in an overcrowded market. Vivid, visual, powerful, with psychological depth. It's as good as any contemporary thriller of its type I've read. Sophisticated and psychologically complex. Ranks on par with Tom Clancy, Vince Flynn and Daniel Silva."

• Language: English
• Publisher: chris lewando
• Release date: Dec 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781393685104

Book preview

What Readers Said

Chris Lewando ranks right up there with the Sci-Fi masters of bygone days. I read all the greats, i.e. Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov, Orson Scott Card, Philip K. Dick, Arthur C. Clarke. I lost interest in the genre when good writing took second place to pyrotechnic displays and Star War like gadgetry, with Chris Lewando’s Night Shadows being the exception to the rule. It captured and held my attention from the very first page because of masterful writing skills. The plot is so well crafted and woven that it comes across as something that might happen. Night Shadows will keep you turning the pages because it’s nonstop action from the very first page until the last page. It doesn’t take any stretch of the imagination to suspend disbelief and believe in the characters and what happens to them. The ending is both surprising and satisfying.

Reading this awesome book was like a breath of fresh air! Far too many authors of science fiction today depend on special effects to hold the reader’s interest instead of depending upon solid writing to do the job. Chris Lewando is an exception to the rule using skills as a writer and a first rate story teller to do the job.

I really enjoyed this book. It's skillfully and artfully executed, with gripping turns and twists, and it has psychological depth. This reminded me of the work of US thriller writer Daniel Silva. Night Shadows as good as his work. It's as good as any contemporary thriller of its type I've read.

"Night Shadows is a fine piece of commercial fiction. Great story concept, great characters, great narrative. The first chapter captured my interest from the outset. It's really a good thriller, sophisticated and psychologically complex. It’s credible, readable, and well-paced."

NIGHT SHADOWS

Chris Lewando

Table of Contents

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

Chapter 53

Epilogue

Contact Author

Published in 2018 by Drombeg Press

Copyright © Chris S Lewando

First Edition

The author has asserted her moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Action, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchases.

Note: all views expressed in this fiction are those of the characters, not the author. The names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Place-names are not always reflected by physical accuracy. Any similarity to events or individuals is entirely coincidental.

WWW.CHRISLEWANDO.COM

Chapter 1

Jason floated in zero gravity, and as the Space Wheel rotated, the Earth swung slowly into view. The blue orb was a satellite picture of land masses and sweeping clouds, so close he could almost reach out and touch it. The illusion infused him with the vastness of space and his own mortality. It was an awe-inspiring experience of profound, almost religious intensity.

He released the small metal housing that had protected a switch unit in transit, and sent it tumbling away, a flashing star in the darkness. Who would discover that piece of space debris? An alien? Or maybe, thousands of years from now, some human would overtake this piece of celestial archaeology, viewing it with a wondrous sense of displaced time.

The Space Wheel he was attached to was skeletal, the frame betraying just a hint of the project’s true scope. Soon enough it would boast a habitable section, with dorms, kitchens, bathrooms, a gym, water recycling and oxygen reclamation. Then the structure would grow exponentially, evolving into a waystation for journeys that defied current rationale; a stepping stone to a future. If humans were to survive, space travel was no longer a fantasy, but a necessity, and Jason was proud to be at the forefront of that new dawn.

They had been here for a week, and his task was done. Re-entry procedures would begin in a few hours. His colleagues on the intercom were waxing lyrical about what they would eat when they got home – nutri-packs sustained life, but at the expense of culinary enjoyment.

‘Burgers, chips and cold beer.’

‘Steak and onion rings.’

‘Roast beef,’ Jason added.

‘Heathens,’ Michelle’s voice bounced back. ‘When are you going to stop eating dead animals?’

‘When we’re dead, I guess.’

Commander Karne came online. ‘Jason? How’re you guys doing out there?’

‘We’re done. Heading back, now.’

Chi-Lee hooked his safety line to Jason’s and gave him the thumbs-up. Jason sent a tiny blast of air from the jet to send them in a controlled glide towards the shuttle.

‘Coming around the sunny side, now.’

There was a white face at the porthole of their docked Mark-8 shuttle, Neptune. He waved. Then the intercom flooded with an excited babble of voices.

‘Jesus, did you see that?’

‘What the heck?’

‘I can’t see – Look, there it is again!’

‘Christ Almighty,’ someone breathed.

‘I don’t believe it!’

There was a small whoomph! In the intercom.

‘You’re worrying me, guys. What’s going on in there?’

Behind the shuttle, a small burst of flame spat, roiled, then was gone. A wave of power sent them tumbling. Uselessly cartwheeling his arms for a second. Jason spat a thrust of air to stop his spin. He felt a faint tug as Chi-Lee hit the end of the line.

When they were stabilised, he called urgently, ‘Neptune, report?’

There was no answer.

‘Earth Control, come in? Come in Control. We have a problem on the shuttle. Are you reading? Over.’

The men hung there, listening to the silence.

Black space pressed frighteningly closer.

The red oxygen-warning light on his console flashed.

‘Chi? Can you communicate?’

‘With you, Jason.’

Chi’s voice was unsteady. All those disaster simulations had been to broaden experience and stretch the mind. They weren’t supposed to happen.

‘We’re approaching Neptune, Control. No voice contact with crew.’

Jason pushed the button on his console to set him moving again, but as he skirted the vessel, cold flooded his gut, cramping his breathing. The shuttle was split open, and there were human-shaped pieces of debris floating away on a dispersing cloud of oxygen.

Two years of intensive training had bonded their select group, consuming their individuality. Time had hung on schedules, programs and lectures, interspersed with too few weekends in the strange normality of home.

But nothing had prepared him for this.

Beside him, Chi Lee was breathing audibly, panicking.

‘Chi! Get a grip,’ he said. ‘We’ll head for the Shuttle, plug into the air cylinders and assess the damage.’

He moved with urgency towards the bay doors, his toolkit trailing behind.

But the oxygen tanks were gone.

As the Space Wheel turned on its axis, the Earth fell away, and he finally saw what had struck his colleagues with incoherent wonder.

‘Jesus! I have two minutes of air left. If you hear me, Houston, just listen. We have an alien craft standing by.’

Chapter 2

The flash of a monitor in a shop window caught Tom’s eye. He was drawn to it, mesmerised. He’d seen it all before: the boosters blasting the orbiter into space, the separation, and the satellite images, but it still held the power to stun him.

And there was the Wheel, the Space Station that had already been years in the making. After the shuttle had been brought out of hibernation, each successive US administration had discussed its viability and purpose – after all, what good was it to people who needed a home now? But each administration decided it was too important to halt, and so it continued to evolve, rotating serenely, catching the light, echoing the dreams of people.

He stared at the screens for a while, but nothing new was aired. The media was scratching for dregs. Everyone knew of the latest shuttle explosion, and about the crew who had set out so cheerfully on their great, final adventure. He would have gladly accepted death as the price for that experience, after all, death was simply the final part of life.

He flattened both hands on the window, with reverence. They were artist’s hands, long, white fingers made for shaping matter into forms of beauty. But no stained-glass he ever created would be as beautiful to him as the sight he saw now. Regret that he’d been born a century too early flushed through his mind, for in spite of his passion, his unspeakable need, for him space would remain a distant, unobtainable dream.

The news flashed onto a different story, and he moved quietly back into his routine. Nights were when his best pieces drew themselves into his mind. It was a time when he could let his imagination float free, when he could interact with humanity, but not be bludgeoned by it.

Tom was a night-stalker by choice.

He turned a corner, his mind still light-years away, and had taken long strides into the lane before he was aware of the scrapping youths. He stopped short, cursing under his breath, as with a single co-ordinated movement all eyes turned towards him. The street-lights’ glow lent a sickly pallor to city-pale faces as the boys’ aggression funnelled towards him.

Irritated by his own lack of care, he sensed the pack mentality and knew if he ran they’d make chase. He walked forward, unhurriedly, eyes to front, his message clear: what they were doing wasn’t his problem. If the two fighting on the floor killed each other, he hadn’t seen it. No one had seen anything.

He drew level, their eyes followed.

Then, without warning, a thin youth jumped out in front of him, eyes challenging. Tom side-stepped to the right, the boy echoed his movement. He stepped to the left, his shadow haunting him. As they performed this ritual dance, the hard edge of something primeval and dangerous emanated from the shallow-chested boy before him.

‘Let me pass. I don’t want any trouble,’ he said softly.

Out of the shadows, a voice whispered, ‘Hear that, Vic? The prick don’t want no trouble.’

Vic puffed a little, swaggered in, and shoved Tom’s shoulder; a statement with no real force.

‘Give us yer wallet.’

‘No. I’m not giving you anything. I’m going to walk away quietly, and no one will get hurt.’

Vic pulled a flick-knife.

‘Who the fuck d’you think you are? Fucking Superman?’

As the blade snicked out, glinting in chill air, an orgasmic rush of power flooded the boy. Tom grimaced. This wasn’t going to end well. His own hands came up, open palm outward, a universal gesture of peace, but rather than deflect aggression, it brought the pack closer. They had scented blood and were now lusting for it. There was an inevitability about what was to follow, but he tried to diffuse the situation again.

‘You really don’t want to do this. I’ve got no quarrel with you guys.’

Vic gripped the knife professionally, blade upward, and teased it back and forth.

Tom’s eyes followed as if hypnotised.

‘Cut ’im,’ another voice said. ‘Show ’im who’s boss.’

Vic was on a high, now, dancing from side to side, flooded with all the power invested by his knife. Then his teeth drew back in a strange half-snarl, half-smile, and he lunged. Tom’s blur of movement was so contained he hardly expended any effort. The youth was spun around, the arm with the knife twisted agonisingly behind his back. The other hand rose slowly before him in supplication, then he froze, arced backwards towards Tom’s chest.

Tom casually put pressure on his bent arm. ‘Give it to me.’

Vic, on tiptoe, released the knife with a whimper.

They stood there, locked in intimacy while the rest of the gang gaped. With a thin smile, Tom pointed towards the road.

‘I suggest the rest of you lot run along home and grow up.’

‘Don’t you fucking leave me!’ Vic yelled, then hiccupped into silence as the blade of his own knife pricked gently at his throat.

‘Run along home, boys, chop-chop.’

The boys’ faces reflected comprehension at last. There was no fear in Tom’s voice and never had been. They backed away, hovering on the balls of their feet, then turned as one and ran.

Vic whimpered, ‘I wouldn’t ’ave ’urtcha. I was only kiddin’.’

‘No,’ Tom said softly. ‘You weren’t kidding. You wanted to see me bleed, but that wouldn’t have been enough. You wanted to kill me. I felt it in you.’

‘No,’ Vic denied, terror keeping him rigid in Tom’s deceptively easy grip. ‘No, honest, really I wouldn’t ’ave –’

‘Life’s been hard for you, I know. I’m sorry for that.’

Victor’s voice filled with desperate hope.

‘Yeah, that’s right. Me Da’s been a bastard ta me Ma, but I’m gonna get a job better ’n ’im, I am.’

Maybe the boy was still young enough to believe he had a chance, but there was darkness in his soul. If it wasn’t the knife now, it would be something worse, later.

‘Vic. You’re going to do one useful thing in your life; something that’s going to make a difference to all the other boys who were with you. You’re going to give them a reason to go straight.’

As if sensing the darker purpose behind Tom’s words, Vic uttered a wordless keening. Then the knife flashed. Vic was dying of shock almost before the gushing fountain of his blood hit the ground. Tom lowered the boy gently, settling him in the puddle of his own fluids.

Why did people make him do this? Why didn’t they bring their kids up to care? He bent down and wiped the blade clean on the youth’s jeans. Snapping the blade closed, he put it in his pocket and strolled away from the body, his coat flapping at his heels.

The shadows that lurked forever in the darkness around him coalesced, undulating around the still-warm corpse, settling on it like a shroud of dark silk. The merest whisper of approval slithered through his mind. He cocked his head, the better to hear, but silence settled, the moment passed. He strolled towards the brightly lit walkways of the precinct. Eventually, in the distance sirens ululated urgently towards the scene of a murder.

Chapter 3

The newspaper office where Helen had worked for the last three weeks was small, noisy, and cluttered with clippings and trophies. She packed up at six o’clock, and switched off her computer, but the day wasn’t yet finished. Richard had called an after-hours meeting in the pub down the road.

Free drinks, with a catch. But it was only a couple of blocks from the newspaper offices, so there wasn’t going to be a parking issue.

The Happy Pig was a typical town pub, quaint on the outside, with a row of stained-glass windows depicting traditional pig breeds, but all its internal walls had been ripped out years ago to create a single barn of a room. It was in need of an overhaul, sporting a liberal scattering of scuffed carpet, torn seats, and stained tables.

Maybe that didn’t matter once the lights were dimmed.

As the small team congregated at the bar, Richard stood disconcertingly close to her. He had all the arrogance of someone who was big, handsome and successful, but there was something about him that made her toes curl. For the first time, it occurred to her to wonder if it was her boobs and blonde hair that had got her the job, after all.

‘And what would you like, Helen?’

‘Half a lager, thanks.’

The tone of invitation in his voice plastered a tight smile onto her face. She didn’t particularly care that he was married, he was the one who should, but his assumption that she was his for the taking was infuriating.

He carried the tray to a table away from the bar, beneath a stained glass that featured a rotund pig with dainty legs, reminiscent of Stubbs’ oil paintings.

‘OK, let’s get the show on the road.’

‘Keep it short?’ Bernie asked. ‘I’m on baby duty. The wife’s expecting me home, soon and sober.’

Of the men in the office, Bernie, their photographer, was the one Helen liked most. Not yet thirty, and fairly new to fatherhood, his artistic side hadn’t yet been expunged by the daily grind of necessity.

Richard raced through several minor fill-ins, before turning to Alastair, a reporter whose dreams had turned sour somewhere over the years.

‘So, these gangland-retribution murders, anything broken on that?’

‘Nope.’ The jaded reporter tipped his chair back onto two legs. ‘I was on that today. You read the piece I did, but there’s no break, it’s all padding to keep it up front. The police are stumped. No evidence, no nothing. They don’t even know if it is retribution.’

‘But all the victims were known criminals.’

‘Small time thugs, mostly.’

‘But it’s in our backyard,’ Richard snapped. ‘Find something! We need a new angle. What about the victims? Why were they targeted? Find a connection.’

‘That rookie suggested it could be a vigilante.’

Richard perked up. ‘Cool.’

‘I don’t buy it, though.’

Helen said, ‘Why did he latch onto those particular murders? I didn’t get the connection.’

Al’s narrow-eyed glance swivelled towards her.

‘Lack of motive?’ His inflection said, obviously. ‘There was a tenuous link to dealing, but these were mostly rapists or muggers, or suspected of. The other homicides within the last three years were accounted for. Family, money, accidental homicide. It’s coincidental at best. There are huge time gaps between the murders, and the method varies. It doesn’t fit with any known serial profile. There isn’t anything concrete.’

Richard became animated, scenting a scoop.

‘Well, get in there, Al, and find something. It’s in our territory, for God’s sake. We’ll use the vigilante angle to boost sales, and we haven’t lost anything if it’s not. Get some side-line articles going, too. And credit that detective with the term Vigilante. I don’t want anyone saying we invented it. Then get hold of a psychic, get confirmation.’

Al threw up his hands and slumped back. ‘Aw, come on, Rich, can’t you get one of the juniors onto that? Helen or Jo? I can’t be dealing with nutters with crystal balls. Women are better at that mumbo jumbo crap.’

‘I’m not a junior, arsehole,’ Jo commented mildly.

‘Not a fucking woman, either,’ Al retorted.

Richard tried unsuccessfully to smother a grin. Not that any of them really knew, but Helen had already heard the gossip: Jo had managed to get nearly to retirement without any of them seeing a bloke in her knickers. Or a woman, for that matter. ‘OK, Jo, you’re on the psychic. And while you’re about it, get your criminal psychologist chap to come up with a real case-study of a vigilante or serial killer with no obvious modus operandi. We need to know what kind of man he is, what he looks like, what kind of background he comes from, and why he’s doing it. Find something juicy that would have set a guy off on a mission.’

Jo grimaced. ‘Why do I always get the woolly jobs?’

‘Helen, run a profile on this Victor dude. All he got was a few lines. Get me a sob story. Poor kid, trying to get on. Give the readers a weepy to get their teeth into.’

‘I wouldn’t mind doing the personal angles on the boys who were with Victor, too.’

‘Excellent. And, Bernie, get me an image.’

‘Have to dig him up.’

‘Find one, moron.’

Helen said diffidently, ‘I’ve also got a good background filler on one of the earlier victims, if we’re going down the vigilante road.’

Al’s head snapped around. ‘What the fuck – ?’

Helen cast him a cool glance. ‘You weren’t doing that. I asked. What you actually said was, you didn’t believe any of it, anyway.’

‘You bloody little –’

‘That’s enough!’

Richard was staring at her. Perhaps he was pleased the latest addition to his team had a mind of her own, or perhaps he was just imagining her taking her clothes off for him. He wouldn’t be worried about Al’s toes being trodden on, though.

‘OK, Helen, that angle’s yours. Al, you get on with the investigation; the police; and the official stuff. Find out what the hell they’re really doing. Jo, you’re onto the profiling stuff. Helen, you’re on the boys, then the other victims. We’re going to get a feature going, see if we can spread it over a week. Oh, and Helen, get a description of the murderer from the other kids and commission a line drawing.’

Helen was pleased; the assignments would keep her out of the office for ages. ‘What about coverage of the Sky Wheel tragedy?’

‘Trash it. Even the Beeb are delving into the archives to keep that one going. It’s dead, like the bloody astronauts. Jo, I need to discuss the Greenway by-pass issue with you. We need a new angle.’

Helen drifted slightly while Richard talked. Her gaze absently settled on the back of a lone man leaning his elbows on the bar. As if aware of her scrutiny, his eyes lifted to the mirror behind the bar to meet hers. He winked.

Her eyes scuttled back to her own group, where Richard finally knocked back his drink, and glanced at his phone. ‘I have to go. Want a lift, Helen? It’s on the way.’

He stood up in an expectant silence, an imposing figure. Everyone was still, waiting for her answer.

‘No, thanks, Richard. I think I’ll hang around a bit. I have to do some shopping. I’m all out of food.’

‘Suit yourself.’

He hesitated only fleetingly, but his body language told her he hadn’t expected rejection. Had he intended to take her on to another pub, or a hotel, or had he expected it for free in her own flat?

There was a brief silence after he left, then Jo burst out laughing. ‘Oh, dear, Helen. You’ve battered his ego.’

‘I can’t think where he got the idea I was an easy lay.’

‘From your last boss, I expect,’ Alastair drawled.

She flushed with anger, but Jo reached over and patted her hand. ‘Look, you can’t blame the guy. Christ, I wish I’d had half your attributes at your age.’

‘You wouldn’t if you had to live with the blonde bimbo label.’

‘I’ll give you a lift home,’ Bernie offered, grinning. ‘You can invite me in for coffee if you like.’

‘Rain check?’

‘You can give me a lift, though,’ Jo said, grabbing her things. ‘And I’ve got some coffee.’

He gave a resigned scowl, muttering under his breath about it not being on his way.

‘Me, too,’ Alastair said, adding to Helen, ‘I’d walk if I were you. Dressed like that, you might make a few bucks on the way home.’

‘Enough’s enough, Al. Shut your bloody mouth. You take care, love, he doesn’t mean it, really.’

‘I did.’

Jo clouted Alastair as he left.

Helen defensively pulled her black plastic mac tighter around herself. Was she supposed to dress in suits and flat sensible shoes because men had problems in their own minds? But she didn’t have to go shopping and was in no hurry to go back to an empty flat. She wandered up to the bar and bought another half, then swivelled the bar stool, so she could lean back and watch the outside world pass by. She’d been a reporter long enough to feel comfortable with her own company.

‘Stained-glass lifts a room, don’t you think?’

She cast a cold glance at the dark-haired guy she’d noticed earlier, dragging her eyes away with difficulty. Despite the overlong hair curling over his collar, he was startlingly attractive.

He wasn’t daunted by her silence. ‘So, you’re going to run with the vigilante theory? I couldn’t help overhearing.’

‘Which paper are you eavesdropping for?’

‘I’m not. I made the windows. That’s why I mentioned them. They were my first real commission.’

She took in the marching line of smiling pigs. ‘You made them? I suppose they have a sort of primitive appeal, and the colours are vibrant, but they aren’t exactly life-like. Not that I’m an expert. The only pigs I’ve known in my life walked on two legs.’

‘They’re supposed to be caricatures.’

She downed the last of her drink.

‘May I buy you another?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Your supposition that I’m after more than your company is actually quite insulting. Men are not all like your charming friend who just left, but it’s your choice.’

She stilled briefly, then swivelled back to the bar. ‘Sorry. My instinct to run from men who offer drinks is usually well-founded.’

As he was ordering, she noticed he had nice hands, long mobile fingers with manicured nails. She had a brief vision of those hands on her own body, and flushed guiltily, thinking it was a good job people couldn’t read minds. As her eyes lifted to his face, his caught hers. She was fascinated by the hint of green lights within the dark hazel, and drew her gaze away, embarrassed. ‘Do you just make windows?’ she asked curiously.

‘I don’t consider my windows just anything.’

She smiled slightly. ‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘I know. Just joking. Tom Wicklow.’ He held his hand over the corner of the counter. It was strong, cool. ‘And you’re Helen Halls.’

Her brows rose.

‘I read an article in the paper with your name on it, and that prick just called you Helen. You don’t have to be a sleuth to work it out. I’ve seen the others in here before, but not you.’

‘I’ve only been with the Word a few weeks.’ She glanced at him curiously. ‘Do you work near here, then?’

‘No, my unit is out the South East side, beyond the city miasma, where you can still see the stars.’

Helen had hardly taken her eyes from his face as they spoke. Despite the dark shadow of stubble, it was almost feminine, with those heavy eyelids and sullen mouth. He was dressed casually in loose cotton trousers and a soft shirt, unbuttoned at the neck to reveal a smattering of dark hair. She couldn’t work out quite what the attraction was, but five minutes conversation with him hadn’t sent her interest level down through the floor. In fact, she mused, it might even have gone up a notch or two. Her hormones were clamouring.

He was giving her as candid an appraisal as she was him.

‘I’m not used to handing out compliments, but you’re a very attractive woman.’

‘That was fairly slick,’ she said dryly.

‘I meant attractive inside, not pretty or sexy. Not that you’re not, of course.’ He paused. ‘I’m digging myself a hole. I should shut up, now.’

She choked back a faint laugh. ‘I don’t know if you’re for real, but it’s OK.’

‘I’m on my own too much. The last lady I went out with, very briefly, told me I was boring.’

‘What on earth did you do to deserve that?’

‘I was reading about the Ancient Mayans at the time. I think I got carried away with the detail.’

‘Is that an interest of yours?’

‘Not really. The lady in question was a librarian, and I thought we’d been building up some kind of understanding, but I missed the point. She collects rare and first editions that she never reads. But me, it’s the content I value, not the paper it’s printed on.’

‘So, what are you reading now? The Ancient Egyptians?’

‘Been there, done that.’

He drew a business card from his pocket, turned it over, and carefully drew a row of hieroglyphics. She was fascinated, seeing the shapes form into beautiful half-pictures. She glanced up at his profile, his concentration absolute, intense. As he finished, and pushed the paper towards her, her gaze flicked downward, hurriedly.

‘Is that for real? What does it say?’

He was still for a second, then a faint curve lifted his lips. ‘I’ll tell you one day.’

‘Let me guess: it’s lewd.’

‘Absolutely not. Here, keep it.’

‘When you learn things, you don’t do it by halves.’

‘No. Never.’

She said ruefully. ‘I couldn’t even learn French at school.’

‘I’m lucky. A good memory is just something you’re born with, like a talent for music. It doesn’t make you a better person. What matters is what you do with the talents you have.’

In his eyes, did clawing your way up the tabloid rungs count as doing something? She somehow doubted it. ‘What do you do with all that learning?’

‘Make stained-glass windows. Do you believe in true love?’

Taken aback, she gave a snort of laughter. ‘I don’t know. I guess I hope. But I don’t believe finding one’s true mate is pre-ordained.’

‘I agree, it’s choice, and compatibility. And judging by the divorce rate, most get it wrong.’

‘Well, I don’t think people should feel obliged to stay together if they don’t love each other anymore.’

‘You mean if they don’t lust after each other anymore.’

‘Same thing.’

‘Not really. Love provides emotional stability, lust is just a biological imperative. It’s easy enough to get laid when the itch needs scratching.’

She choked on a mouthful of lager, then downed the dregs and slipped from the stool. ‘The average man would never accept that of his woman, even if he did it himself. Thank you for the drink.’

‘May I see you again?’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

For a moment she thought he was going to argue, but he said, ‘You have my card. Check me out, then phone me if you want to. I’d like to see you again. And get a taxi home.’

‘You mean the murders?’ she said lightly, having to look up at his face now they were standing.

‘No, because it’s raining cats and dogs.’

She left with a smile hanging between them.

Chapter 4

Tom’s mother had been a pain in his side for the whole of his thirty-five years and didn’t change the habit of a lifetime in order to die. She chose a grim, windy, piss-awful night when he had rolled home late having met a girl he was seriously interested in, and he doubted it was accidental. He leaned back in the seat, stretched and yawned, his body singing a gentle lullaby to the tune of the windscreen wipers in spite of the fact it was still quite a few miles to Leeds. When the tyres drummed at the edge of the motorway, jolting him into alertness, he yanked at the wheel, blinking hard, knowing he shouldn’t be driving at all.

He didn’t feel he deserved the bonus of a therapy session on top of the hangover-like symptoms of fatigue, but it had been drummed into him at an early age that there was a vast unfairness to life, and there were sometimes things you just had to do. He stared in intense concentration at the wedge of dirty yellow light through which he was driving and tried not to think of the nearly-finished stained-glass window that waited for him back in his studio.

Sally’s damned timing couldn’t have