Senseless

By Luke Delaney

The damage inflicted on a killer has led him into darkness—and a London detective now faces the most puzzling case of his career, in this taut crime thriller.

From the moment he entered the world, Martin was cursed—suffering from withdrawal symptoms because of his mother’s drug abuse, taken home to a world of hunger, pain, and neglect. Eventually landing in care, his sensory abilities are nearly destroyed after years of violence inflicted on him by his mother’s boyfriends.

Tormented by his life as an outcast, Martin dreams of being able to hear and smell and taste like ordinary people—and in a desperate bid to feel alive, he turns to murder . . .

DI Ruben Jameson suddenly finds himself tracking a serial killer. But as he braces himself for the usual escalation and provocation, events take a strange turn—and for the first time, he wonders if he may be dealing with a predator who is trying to stop himself. Now Jameson must find the perpetrator before he slips quietly back into anonymity, never to face justice . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jun 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781504076401

Luke Delaney

Luke Delaney joined the Metropolitan Police Service in the late 1980s and his first posting was to an inner-city area of South East London notorious for high levels of crime and extreme violence. He later joined CID where he investigated murders ranging from those committed by fledgling serial killers to gangland assassinations. He is the author of the D. I. Corrigan series and The Rule of Fear is his fifth novel.

Book preview

Prologue

Thirty-Two Years Ago

It was a freezing cold Valentine’s Day as the icy, sharp rain fired down from the sky like tiny bullets, while inside the maternity department of St Thomas’ Hospital, eighteen-year-old Chloe Thomas pushed the baby boy from her drug-ravaged womb, into an unforgiving world. If only the child knew what life awaited him, he may have chosen to die before it had even begun, just as her first child had done when it was stillborn to a then sixteen-year-old, crack-addicted mother. But somehow, this one had survived nine months in her drug-poisoned womb and now screamed like something born from hell as his tiny body craved the same drug his mother had been feeding him since his conception. Even the experienced midwife and the two nurses who assisted her, recoiled at the horrific sound of the newborn child’s blood-freezing plea for mercy. But even as she expelled the unwanted burden from her body, Chloe had little or no feelings towards the child and as her own pain eased, her mind soon turned to the things she hoped her new situation would bring – the things that had stopped her aborting the developing baby from her womb in the first place. A decent council flat. Child and other benefit payments, most of which she planned to spend on drugs.

She expected no help from the nameless child’s father, who had left her as soon as she’d told him she was pregnant and was never to be seen again. She wasn’t to know that he’d died screaming in agony only a few weeks later, on the rubbish-strewn floor of a filthy squat in East London, having gorged himself on what turned out to be contaminated crack-cocaine – bought with a windfall of cash he’d found while burgling an old lady’s home with two of his friends as their victim had sat frozen in her chair – too scared to move or speak.

As the child’s terrible screams continued to haunt the maternity department, the midwife quickly began to suspect it might already be addicted to some type of drug. But when she’d asked Chloe if she’d been using during her pregnancy, the teenage mother had screamed in her face to mind her own fucking business. She knew better than to try and reason with the likes of Chloe and instead had the child taken away for specialist intensive care for newborn infants where he would undergo weeks of treatment to keep him alive while also curing his addiction. Chloe discharged herself soon after giving birth, fearful of any potential involvement of the authorities and never visited the child throughout the weeks of treatment – only turning up to take him away after the hospital contacted her to let her know he was well enough to be discharged. They had thought this was little more than a courtesy call and all were shocked when she arrived to take the child with her. None more so than the social service workers who had come to take the boy into care, but who were now powerless to stop the natural mother taking him away with her to a childhood of unimaginable pain and misery. A childhood that years later, the world would pay for.

Chapter One

He sat across her torso – his strong hands clamped around her slender throat as he strangled the last strains of life from her body – her blue eyes as wide as her mouth as she tried to take one last breath. Any final sound she made was drowned out by the passenger jet taking off from nearby Heathrow Airport. Even once he was sure she was dead he kept his hands tightly wrapped around her throat as he studied her still beautiful face, not yet turned grotesque by death. Finally, he released his grip and brushed the soft blonde hair from her forehead before pulling himself from inside her and quickly but carefully removing the condom from himself and placing it in the small rucksack he’d brought along, from which he produced a plastic bottle of water and placed it on the ground next to her body. With his latex gloves still on, he rolled her semi-naked body onto her side and removed the insulating tape from her wrists and also placed it in the rucksack. He’d used the same type of tape to cover her mouth for a while but had already removed it just as the noise of the plane had begun to roar overhead. He had imagined what the sound of her scream would have been like as her mouth opened wide. He looked up into the sky to watch the plane disappearing away to the West and knew silence had returned. Normally he’d have expected another to take its place within a minute or so, blessing him with the cover of deafening noise from above. But the air traffic seemed to have reduced. He wondered if it was something to do with the virus spreading from China he’d heard so much about, making people too scared to travel internationally. If the skies grew much quieter, it could become a major inconvenience he would have to overcome in the future. He didn’t dwell on it. Instead he wasted no time in washing what blood there was from his hands with water from the bottle before placing it back in the sack and fixing his clothing as he prepared to flee the scene but not before covering her body in the fallen branches and leaves that lay close by, left over from winter. It wouldn’t do for her body to be found before he’d managed to put some distance between himself and the scene.

Finally, he stood, a foot either side of the victim as he looked down on her. He’d never seen her before today, although he knew the park was popular with runners of both sexes, having been there several times before to plan for today. He’d been waiting in the treeline from where he could see people approaching. She looked perfect. Probably in her early thirties, average height and slim with medium-length hair. The closer she got, the more he could see she was clearly very attractive. The flame that drew the moth. Quickly he set his mobile phone camera to record and placed it in the transparent holder attached to the front of his top. This way he’d be able to film what was about to happen while keeping his hands free. Later, he would be able to relive her taking whenever he wished.

When she was only a few feet away, he stepped out from his hide directly in front of her, forcing her to stop or collide with him. He smiled to disarm her as confusion swept across her face. Too late she realised the danger as he struck her hard in the side of the face with a looping punch that knocked her down and rendered her semi-conscious. He knew she would recover quickly so he didn’t hesitate for a second, grabbing her under her arms and dragging her deep enough into the trees until he was sure they couldn’t be seen despite the fact it was broad daylight. Quickly and smoothly, he rolled her onto her stomach and pulled her arms behind her before looping the roll of insulating tape he had at the ready around her wrists until he was sure she was secured just as she began to mumble the first signs of recovery. He spun her around and tore another strip of tape from the roll and pressed it hard over her mouth. She began to struggle, trying to get to her feet – her eyes wide in terror and alarm, but his hand clamping around her throat made her instantly passive as she felt his strength and knew trying to flee or fight was pointless.

He pushed her back onto the cold ground, holding her down with one hand as the other hand produced a small flick knife from his pocket – the blade of which magically appeared as he held it close to her face and twisted it from side to side as if giving her the opportunity to appreciate its sharpness before, without warning he used it to split open her running top, exposing her skin. He had no interest in removing her bra and left it in place as he stared down at her, growing hard with an unbelievable sense of excitement that seemed more than just sexual arousal. When he was satisfied he was fully hard, he took a condom from his pocket, released himself, tore open the packet with his teeth and pulled it over his erection as the woman lay under him, her eyes clamped shut and her head turned to the side as she realised what was about to happen and what she was powerless to stop. But he didn’t violate her immediately. Instead he looked to the skies, as if he was waiting for a sign from the gods – a sign that came in the form of a passenger jet climbing its way into the heavens. As it grew near, he suddenly removed the tape from her mouth and drew the sharp blade across her chest – watching her mouth form into a wide dark cave as she screamed a scream no one could hear. When she stopped, he drew the blade across her once more – then again and again until the plane passed almost directly overhead. Never too deeply to cause significant bleeding to threaten her life, but always enough to make her scream her silent screams.

When his unknowing accomplice grew smaller in the sky, he dropped the knife next to him and tugged down her tracksuit bottoms and knickers, pushing her legs apart before forcefully entering her – his fingers tightening around her throat to both silence her and maintain his arousal. Only a few seconds later and he had orgasmed into the condom as he now wrapped the fingers of both his hands around her slender neck and tightened his grip until the last of her life was drained.

Now, only minutes later, she was dead and violated and he felt nothing for her. He wouldn’t have even bothered covering her, but for the fear of her too early discovery. She had merely served her purpose. Even her rape had not been an act of sexual gratification. It had been an act of power – of enabling him to feel more alive than ever before. A chance for him to imagine all the things that a cruel early life was now denying him – to hear her scream, to smell her fear and sex – the odour and taste of her blood. Things that were impossible to him in normal life. Things that most other people took for granted. But not him. He would have liked to use the knife to kill her, but while the sight of blood would have been overwhelmingly wonderful, it would have been impossible for him to clean up sufficiently to flee the scene without arousing suspicion and attention if he were to be witnessed. It was regrettable, but there would be other opportunities. He ensured he’d packed everything he’d used, checked the coast was clear and made his way to the footpath, running back to his car that he’d left more than a mile away. He’d been careful not to use any of the close-by car parks, all of which he’d noted were covered by CCTV. He enjoyed the walk back to his car – the warm spring sun on his skin, although he couldn’t feel its heat as much as most others, but thoughts of the woman now dead and covered with leaves, small branches and twigs left him feeling more alive than he’d ever felt before. He already knew, he wanted more.

Chapter Two

Detective Inspector Ruben Jameson sat in a comfortable chair on the opposite side of a large wooden desk in the office of Assistant Commissioner Addis at New Scotland Yard in Vauxhall. It was the first time he’d been to the new headquarters of the Metropolitan Police since returning from his short time in the New Zealand Police. He found the building unimpressive – lacking the stature of the old HQ in Victoria, although Addis’s office was far more opulent than any other police office he’d ever been in before. Either Addis was using his own money to furnish it, or he was sufficiently influential enough to ward away any questions about his personal budget. He decided it was probably the latter.

‘So,’ Addis finally looked up from the file that was his service record, ‘I hear you’ve been assigned to Wandsworth Borough.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Jameson confirmed, although he detected a heavy dose of disapproval in Addis’s voice.

‘Overseeing the robbery and burglary units,’ Addis added, his sharp features giving him a vulture-like appearance. Even when sitting, Jameson could tell he was a tall man.

‘Yes, sir,’ Jameson answered.

‘And how are you finding that?’ Addis asked, his intelligent, cunning eyes locking onto Jameson’s.

‘Well, I’ve only been there for a couple of days,’ Jameson replied. ‘It’s fine.’

Addis looked down at the file again. ‘I see that before leaving for New Zealand you were on the Anti-Terrorist Unit.’

Jameson cleared his throat before answering, knowing what was probably coming next. ‘I was.’

Addis leaned back into his large leather chair before continuing. ‘Where you were involved in an operation that led to the fatal shooting of Saheed Sarwar.’

‘Yes,’ he confirmed curtly.

‘A suspected terrorist,’ Addis more told him than asked.

‘Correct,’ Jameson played along.

‘The subsequent investigation said you were only supposed to be keeping an address known to be used by him under surveillance,’ Addis explained. ‘While the rest of your team covered a more significant target address.’

‘They were in the wrong place,’ Jameson argued. ‘My partner and I weren’t.’

‘DC James Clarke,’ Addis continued in his questioning tone, while never actually asking one.

‘Yes,’ Jameson replied bluntly.

‘So, you decided to arrest him on your own,’ Addis accused him.

‘Yes,’ he confirmed, clearing his throat again.

‘Just you and DC Clarke,’ Addis clarified.

‘The intelligence was that Sarwar was planning an imminent attack somewhere in London,’ Jameson explained. ‘If I’d let him get into the underground system, it would have been easy to lose him or if cornered he could have detonated a suicide vest. I wasn’t going to let either of those things happen.’

‘So you tried to arrest him,’ Addis reminded him unnecessarily. ‘Just the two of you. A suspected dangerous, active terrorist.’

‘We were armed.’ Jameson shrugged. ‘We knew what we were doing.’

‘If you knew what you were doing,’ Addis pressed, ‘then how did DC Clarke end up being killed?’

Jameson fidgeted in his chair. ‘Sarwar got the drop on us. I guess he was even more dangerous than we thought.’

‘But he didn’t get the drop on you,’ Addis continued. ‘In fact, it would appear you got the drop on him.’

‘If you’re referring to the shooting, then yes, I shot him,’ Jameson admitted.

‘Shot and killed him,’ Addis elaborated.

‘It was a lawful killing,’ Jameson quickly replied.

‘I never said it wasn’t.’ Addis smiled his reptilian smile, before closing the file on his desk, leaning forward and interlocking his fingers. ‘You did what you had to do,’ he said as sympathetically as he could manage. ‘In fact, I admire what you did. You didn’t hesitate and you took decisive action. You rid the world of a dangerous terrorist. Sarwar won’t be missed.’ Jameson said nothing. ‘The investigation cleared you, but still you decided to move to New Zealand and join the police there?’

‘I just felt like getting away from everything,’ Jameson explained. ‘A change of scenery.’

‘And yet trouble seemed to find you even there,’ Addis told him, leaning back into his chair again.

‘It was just… circumstances,’ Jameson said, trying to dismiss it.

‘Circumstances that led to the discovery and eventual death of a serial killer,’ Addis detailed. ‘Thanks to you using your instincts. An instinct that may well have saved lives.’

‘Well, I guess we’ll never know,’ Jameson tried to move on.

‘Interesting circumstances though,’ said Addis, staying with the subject. ‘Surrounding the investigation.’

‘I’m not allowed to discuss that,’ Jameson insisted. ‘Not with anyone. Not even you.’

‘I can assure you I know everything about it.’ Addis smiled.

‘All the same,’ Jameson reiterated. ‘I can’t talk about it.’

Addis stared silently at him for a long few seconds before relenting. ‘Fair enough,’ he conceded. ‘I like an officer who can follow orders and I like a detective with instinct and courage.’ Again, Jameson said nothing. ‘Are you familiar with the Special Investigation Unit?’ Addis suddenly asked. ‘The SIU?’

‘I’ve heard of it,’ he admitted. ‘It was around before I left.’

‘It’s been around for a few years now,’ Addis told him. ‘It was myself who originally created it – to form a unit of experienced detectives to investigate crimes that the usual Murder Investigation Units would perhaps not be able to investigate as… fully as we’d like. Stranger attacks of a violent sexual nature that become a series, murders that have the potential to be the work of a serial killer, high profile cases the media have taken an interest in – that sort of thing.’

‘What’s any of this got to do with me?’ Jameson asked, genuinely confused.

‘Well,’ Addis explained, ‘the previous DCI who headed up the unit stood down recently and rather unexpectedly.’

‘You mean he quit?’ Jameson asked.

‘Heading up a unit like this can be quite tasking,’ Addis explained. ‘The cases can be… difficult. I suppose he’d just had enough. The point is the vacant position hasn’t been filled yet. You see, what I need is a detective with instinct and leadership. A detective like you.’

‘Sorry?’ Jameson asked, taken aback.

‘I’m saying the job’s yours if you want it,’ Addis said, spelling it out.

‘But I’m only a DI,’ he argued. ‘Not a DCI and I’ve only recently rejoined the Met. There must be plenty of good DCIs out there who would love the job.’

‘But they don’t have your background,’ Addis insisted. ‘Your experiences.’

‘You mean…’ Jameson asked before hesitating. ‘You mean they’ve never killed a man? But I have?’

‘I was thinking more of your experiences in New Zealand,’ Addis tried to convince him. ‘But seeing how you mentioned it…’ Addis spread his hands, letting his comment hang in the air before choosing his moment to break the silence. ‘So, do you want the job?’

‘I’ll need to think about it,’ Jameson answered.

‘Of course,’ Addis agreed. ‘But don’t take too long. As you said – there’s plenty of DCIs would love the position.’

‘A couple of days,’ Jameson told him.

‘Fine,’ Addis agreed. ‘A couple of days it is.’

Ellie Briggs was walking her dog on a warm spring morning in Langley Park, not far from Heathrow Airport. She and a couple of friends had arranged to meet for coffee, so when Sparkie the Cockapoo ran off into the woods, as he usually did, she was less than amused.

‘Sparkie,’ she shouted after the delinquent dog. ‘Get back here now, you pain in the…’ But the dog ignored her demand and headed further into the small, wooded area of the park. ‘Sparkie,’ she called to him one more time, hands on hips in frustration. ‘Sparkie.’ She realised it was no good. She was going to have to go after him and physically retrieve him from the trees.

She half ran and half walked across the grass until she reached the edge of the wood and peered into the darkness. She felt no fear but wasn’t overjoyed at the thought of fighting her way through the sharp-looking branches that barred her easy entry. The sound of her dog scratching around somewhere inside reminded her of why she was there. ‘Sparkie,’ she tried one last time, but still the dog didn’t respond. ‘What the hell you doing in there, you stupid dog?’ she mumbled to herself before succumbing to the inevitable and pushing her way into the trees, her eyes adjusting to the comparative darkness as she went deeper – her head cocked to the side to better home in on the dog’s digging and growling. ‘Sparkie,’ she tried again, only this time a little more than a strained whisper – as if the trees had warned her against making too much noise and disturbing them. ‘Where are you?’ she quietly demanded, but knew her pet well enough to know he was unlikely to give her a willing clue. She’d have to rely on his increasingly excited-sounding actions.

Finally, she saw the silhouette of the animal as it seemed to be digging away at the ground or at least something lying on it, sniffing and snorting as he did so. ‘What you got there, Sparkie?’ she asked quietly. ‘What the hell have you found?’ She moved forward, suddenly not noticing the ends of the branches that stung the skin on her face – the dimness and quiet of the wood now threatening and foreboding. ‘Sparkie,’ she repeated, more to reassure herself than in expectation of any response. When she’d almost reached the dog, she could see what appeared to be a mound on the ground, longer than it was wide and covered with twigs and dead leaves that had been preserved in the darkness. She approached more slowly now until she was able to reach out and grab the dog by his collar. ‘Gotcha,’ she whispered, but the dog tried to pull away, knocking her off balance and making her fall forward onto the mound, unintentionally clearing the debris of whatever lay beneath. ‘Shit,’ she said as she pushed herself onto her haunches and found herself looking down on the ghostly white face of a young woman, her eyes half closed in death, mouth open in a silent scream of terror. It took a few seconds to register what horror she was looking at. Once she did, a scream that could have been born in hell itself split the silence of the trees that would leave the forest forever haunted.

As Jameson climbed the narrow staircase inside Wandsworth Police Station, an old-fashioned building in need of some long overdue renovation, he was intercepted by his new boss, DCI Samantha Mora, who he suspected had been waiting to ambush him after his return from Scotland Yard. She didn’t try to hide the irritation in her voice, although she tried to sound dismissive of the subject – as if she had much more important things to attend to.

‘Where have you been?’ she asked in her rather clipped accent that suited her polished appearance perfectly. He suspected she was the product of the Metropolitan Police Staff College and the accelerated promotion scheme. ‘You missed this morning’s MIT meeting.’

He breathed a sigh of relief at having missed it. Sitting in rooms with senior officers discussing everything to death was never something he looked forward to. ‘I had to go to the Yard,’ he explained.

‘The Yard?’ she asked incredulously. ‘You’ve only been back in the job a few days. What business could you have at the Yard?’

‘I had to get my warrant card photograph updated,’ he lied.

‘Whatever,’ she waved it away as they headed towards their offices. ‘But I need you here, not going on day trips to the Yard. You’ve got a busy day ahead of you,’ she warned him as they left the staircase and headed through the main CID office, buzzing with busy overstretched detectives. ‘You’ve got a meeting with the Beat Crimes supervisor in less than an hour, then this afternoon it’s the daily Safer Neighbourhoods Teams meeting and after that I need you to liaise with Neighbourhood Watch about a publicity campaign.’

Jameson felt himself dying inside. ‘All these meetings aren’t really my thing,’ he argued. ‘I was thinking maybe I’d be of more use to you running the Robbery Unit and the Crime Squad. Maybe combine the two and do some real work. Take down a few robbery crews and get the reported crime figures reduced. I know the Robbery Unit’s struggling. I could get them organised. Use my experience.’

Mora sighed loudly before replying. ‘I know you’re used to something a bit more exciting from your time on the Anti-Terrorist Unit as a DS, but you’re a DI on a borough now. You have responsibilities here.’ She handed him several dockets from the top of the pile she was carrying before adding, ‘So I suggest you get used to it.’

He watched her walking away before heading to his small office and slumping into his chair as he tossed the dockets onto his desk. He looked down at the pile of papers that he had no interest in as his mind soon began to wander back to his meeting with Addis. The SIU was an enticing offer. Hunting the country’s most dangerous criminals or endless meetings with borough departments? ‘Screw it,’ he said a little too loudly and snatched the handset of his landline phone from his desk and dialled Addis’s direct number. A few seconds later it was answered by the officious-sounding Assistant Commissioner.

‘Yes?’ he asked.

‘Assistant Commissioner Addis?’ Jameson checked.

‘Yes,’ he answered, with a hint of irritation.

‘It’s DI Jameson,’ he told him.

‘And what can I do for you, Inspector?’ Addis asked, instantly sounding more interested.

‘The DI position on the SIU,’ Jameson answered. ‘I’m interested.’

‘Meaning you want the job?’ Addis clarified.

‘If it’s still on offer,’ Jameson confirmed. ‘Then yes. I want the job.’

‘Good,’ Addis told him casually. ‘Report to the SIU office tomorrow morning.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Jameson questioned. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to get away from here that quickly. They’ll want to find a replacement for me before they agree to let me go.’

‘Trust me,’ Addis assured him. ‘It won’t be an issue. I’ll let the borough commander know you’ll be leaving as of tomorrow. Clear your desk and tidy up your paperwork.’

‘If you’re sure,’ Jameson agreed before moving on. ‘But there’s something I wanted to clear up before joining.’

‘Which is?’ Addis asked cautiously.

‘Before I moved to New Zealand, I was an authorised shot,’ Jameson explained. ‘Is my firearms certificate still good?’

‘I’ll make sure it is,’ Addis reassured him. ‘Indeed, with some of the people you’re likely to come across during SIU investigations, it’s preferable you have access to a firearm.’

Addis’s words spread a degree of alarm through his body, but his mind was made up. ‘Then I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He was about to hang up when Addis stopped him.

‘Just one more thing,’ Addis told him. ‘Are you aware of the man the media are calling the Anniversary Killer?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Jameson answered, shaking his head. ‘I’ve been out the country for a while.’

‘You’ll need to familiarise yourself with the case,’ Addis ordered. ‘I’ll have DS Jones fully brief you on it. She was a very able assistant to your predecessor, as I’m sure she will be for you. Until tomorrow.’

Jameson listened to the line go dead and found himself staring into space, wondering what he was getting himself involved in.

Chapter Three

Jameson walked through the door of the Special Investigations Unit and into the main office feeling uncomfortable and anxious as he scanned the room in the hope of maybe spotting a friendly face from the past – someone he may have worked with in some other time who he could lean on for a few days until he found his feet, but he could find none. As he headed deeper into the office, he accosted the first person who came close enough for him to engage – a tall, slim, middle-aged detective in a cheap-looking suit. ‘Excuse me,’ Jameson told the slightly startled-looking man. ‘DI Ruben Jameson. The unit’s new DI.’

‘Oh yeah. DC Alan Jesson,’ the detective acknowledged him in his Liverpudlian accent, before jutting his chin towards a couple of small corner offices, portioned off from the main room with polystyrene-looking walls and Perspex windows in aluminium frames. Only the wooded doors looked like they would survive any serious force. A plain, but not unattractive woman in her late thirties, with her hair tied back in a ponytail, sat in the slightly smaller of the two offices. ‘DS Sally Jones, boss. She’ll sort you out.’

‘Thanks,’ Jameson said to him before heading across the floor to the small, fragile-looking side rooms and knocking on the flimsy frame, making Jones look up.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked politely.

‘DI Ruben Jameson,’ he told her. ‘I’m supposed to be taking charge of the unit.’

‘Yes,’ she replied, suddenly jumping out her chair. ‘Of course. AC Addis told me to expect you.’

‘Please,’ he told her, gesturing for her to sit back down. ‘Don’t get up.’

‘No,’ she argued in a friendly tone. ‘This is actually your office. I share the one next door with DS Zukov. I was just using it while we were waiting for the new boss to arrive.’ She edged around the desk while he placed his briefcase on the floor before hanging his jacket on one of the hooks attached to the door and taking a seat in the still warm chair from where he surveyed the small office that he knew would become his second home.

‘So,’ Jones said cheerfully. ‘Mr Addis wants me to make sure you’re up to date with what we do here and how things work.’

‘Well,’ he replied, ‘I know what the SIU does. Serious crime but not organised crime. High-profile one-offs, such as serial killers. And I assume we use police work to catch them.’

‘Pretty much.’ Jones smiled. ‘Before we were turned into the SIU and centralised, we were just another South London Murder Investigation Team. We did well with a couple of high-profile cases there, so Addis decided to put us under his direct command and bring us to the Yard. Although personally, I always thought that it was your predecessor that he was really interested in, but he’s gone now and we’re still here.’

‘And why would Addis be so interested in my predecessor that he’d go to the trouble of making you a central unit?’ he asked with suspicion.

‘Just my opinion,’ she said, trying to dismiss it. ‘He was just a very instinctive investigator. Like he could fill in the missing gaps of an investigation that no one else could see. It led us straight to the killers’ doors more than once. He was a useful tool that Addis used.’

‘Sounds like an interesting man,’ he said more than asked.

‘He was,’ she replied without sounding like she wanted to expand further. ‘And what about you?’ she quickly moved on. ‘What’s your background?’

‘Did some time on borough,’ he answered. ‘Then some on the Regional Crime Squad before moving to the Anti-Terrorist Unit. I figured I could do more good there than anywhere else.’

‘So why did you leave?’ Sally asked.

‘Oh,’ he told her, trying to sound casual. ‘I had the chance to go to New Zealand and be a detective out there. Seemed like too good a chance to pass up.’

‘It certainly does,’ she agreed. ‘Yet somehow you’re back here?’

‘It didn’t quite work out,’ he explained as he lifted his briefcase onto his desk and popped it open before he began to arrange the contents

Reviews for Senseless

[edwardsgt · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Very clever, complex plot as DI Sean Corrigan tracks a serial killer, not for the squeamish but interesting characters and authentic London locations.

[cainebooks · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

It’s close to brilliant, and a compelling read. Mr. Delaney is a former London murder detective, and his experience shows in myriad ways, giving this read a serious edge over most mystery/detective fiction. There’s no flinching when it comes to the things cops may or may not do. The protagonist, Sean Corrigan, is a complex character. His abusive background can be a bit uneasy for those of us who had one of those, but it’s not terribly bad, nothing on the serious trigger front, at least for me. The antagonist is brilliantly baffling, and the book has one of the best double storyline twists I’ve read in a very long time. If you like a very good mystery/detective fiction book peopled with highly interesting characters, don’t miss this one. Mr. Delaney has the second Corrigan book out this July, and I’ll definitely be buying.

[maneekuhi · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

"Cold Killing" is book #1 in the Sean Corrigan series. He's a London DCI investigating some seemingly unconnected murders, each of which is very different from the others and none of the crime scenes offer up any significant forensic evidence. The writing reminds me ofthe excellent Mark Billingham Tom Thorne series and I suspect fans will enjoy Delaney's series as well. The protagonists are very different - Sean is married with two little ones, and he is appreciated for his successes. He has been advised that management is watching him closely (as someone with advancement possibilities and that he will likely be loaned out to other departments for exposure and testing. The killer in this first story is very creepy, very reminiscent of Billingham's #1, Sleepyhead. Corrigan is more interested in justice than truth and is not above planting evidence. Recommended. Looking forward to #2.

[celticlady53 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Cold Killing is a spectacular mystery crime thriller about the hunt for a serial killer. The author has extensive knowledge of law enforcement and it definitely shows in the writing of this novel. A fast paced thriller of a ride into the warped mind of a serial killer. The story is told in the viewpoint of DI Sean Corrigan and the killer. It may seem that reading the book the reader can figure out who the killer is but as the story goes on, not all is as it seems. The story is well written and the characters believable. I highly recommend this book if you love a top notch thriller. I look forward to more by this author...