Her last request, p.1
Her Last Request, page 1
Praise for Mari Hannah
‘Involving, sophisticated, intelligent and suspenseful – everything a great crime thriller should be’
Lee Child
‘A gripping, twisty police procedural – fans of the Kate Daniels series will love this one’
Shari Lapena
‘Mari Hannah has a rare gift. She can write compelling, page-turning suspense with the very best, but she adds heart to every page. Kate Daniels is a character to cherish, and Mari is a writer at the very top of her game’
Steve Cavanagh
‘With a cast of compelling characters and a chilling plot, Without a Trace sets off at a cracking pace from page one and never slows down’
Rachel Abbott
‘Mari Hannah is in the uppermost echelon of British crime writers and Without a Trace demonstrates why. It’s her best book yet – compelling, emotional and intricately plotted with a procedural authenticity few can match. A stunning novel’
M.W. Craven
‘I loved it – both compelling and incredibly moving’
Elly Griffiths
‘Without A Trace is a deft blend of emotional drama and crime procedural that kept me hooked to the very end. Mari Hannah has a talent for writing about the light and dark of life, and creates characters who feel so realistic they almost pop from the page’
Adam Hamdy
In loving memory of my mother
Contents
Praise for Mari Hannah
Dedication
Title Page
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
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Acknowledgements
Credits
About the Author
Also by Mari Hannah
Copyright
Prologue
Friday, 10:45 p.m.
We all want to escape sometimes, even you. The difference between us is that my life depends on it. No, wait! If you’re reading this, that sentence should be framed in the past tense because by then it’ll all be over. If that’s what’s happened, you’ve already found this note. My days were numbered from the moment I set eyes on HIM.
Does red mist cover this note?
Has he read it too, you’re wondering. I wonder that also, though there’ll be no bloody fingerprints for CSIs to lift. He’s savvy. Meticulous in everything he does. I wonder about other things too – about YOU mostly. I feel you rather than see you, if that makes sense. I wonder who you are and what you look like. I wonder if you’re one of the murder detectives I’ve seen on TV. I wonder if you feel guilty scrutinising my thoughts, my note. No need – it was written for you.
You did well to find it.
Or did HE get to it first? If that is the case, he’ll have torched the van with me in it, though I choose to believe that this note will reach you, otherwise there’s no point. I really hope it has. I don’t want your pity, but I feel your heart race as you read on. Bizarrely, even though we’ve never met in person, I feel I know you. When I think of you, you’re in silhouette, backlit by a bright light. Immobile. Moved by what you see. You didn’t expect to hear from me . . .
Not like this.
I picture your eyes bearing down on me. As you turn your head away, I imagine your sadness. Your outrage. I second-guess the many questions my death has raised in your subconscious. Mentally you’re processing the scene, wondering what went on here, trying to figure it out. I’ve asked myself over and over how you sleep nights, why you put yourself through it. I’ve wondered how often you’ve yearned to walk away, as I have. You won’t. I know you can’t. Not now you’ve seen what’s left of me.
Not easy, is it?
You’re as trapped by circumstances as I am.
Darkness isn’t new to either of us, is it? We’ve both hidden in the shadows, hearts pumping, watching, waiting for the red flag. HIS triggers were visible only to me, so be warned.
This single sheet of paper is enough for one day. Still, I feel a need to communicate with you, though I’m in no doubt that you’ll find the key to what went on here.
There you go again, unable to tear your eyes away.
Are you searching for clues?
You won’t find any . . . from HIM.
I guarantee it.
He warned me the end would be slow and painful, that it would eclipse my worst fears – and some. Is it everything HE said it would be? Messy, I imagine. I told myself I wouldn’t plead for mercy. He’d get a kick out of that. I suspect I did it anyway. With every blow, I probably begged him to spare me.
As you can see, he didn’t.
I feel as if you and I are now one, joined by an invisible and dangerous thread; life at one end, death at the other – a space familiar to both of us. Take a good long look, because if you go after him, he’ll come for you too. I’m begging you to take care. Does that give you pause for thought? It should. Do you still want to get to know me? On the one hand, I doubt that. On the other, I know you won’t be able to help yourself.
You’ll discover that I’m not entirely innocent.
Which of us is?
Are you judging me? Are you? Can’t say I blame you. I imagine it comes as second nature. The fact that you’re blameless doesn’t make me guilty. The fact that you’re strong doesn’t make me weak. Do you think I had any choice in the matter? Calling you earlier would have signed my death warrant, so I fought back in the only way I knew how.
Please don’t criticise without investigating the facts – all of them.
Make no mistake, I dreamt of a better life. I dream of YOU often, intangible though you are. I tried my best. It wasn’t enough. I prayed that I’d get lucky, that I’d manage somehow to slip away, for good this time. I did, often. He found me.
HE always does.
He’ll find you too, so watch your back.
I have one last request: find Aaron.
1
As an experienced Senior Investigating Officer, Kate Daniels was unflappable, ready for any eventuality, but the contents of the note had kicked a hole in her heart from the inside, delivering a sharp pain to her chest. She was boiling up, gasping for air inside her mask, pulling at the neck of her forensic suit, feeling hot and clammy in the small, claustrophobic space. Who and where was Aaron?
She glanced briefly at the victim, then shut her eyes tightly. She’d seen the results of excessive violence many times, but this was off the scale. The message passed on from the control room in no way prepared her for what was to come.
It wasn’t this.
Never this.
The shell of the caravan closed in around her. Dealing with shit like this was hard enough at the best of times. When it came off the back of a fourteen-hour shift, when Kate was wrung out and emotionally vulnerable, keeping it together was almost impossible. Her heart was pumping fast. Too fast. The rhythm wasn’t right. P alpitations were not something she’d experienced before.
The ringing in her ears stopped, replaced by Detective Chief Superintendent Bright’s voice, calm and reassuring. Steady your breathing, Kate. That’s it. In. Out. Gently does it. First impressions are vital. Assess the scene. It holds many clues. What’s it telling you?
It was telling her to rip the mask from her face and get the hell out. It was telling her that she didn’t have to wait for her professional persona to kick in. It was telling her that if she didn’t want to do this fucking job anymore, she was free to leave at any time, had it not been for the fact that the author of that note had nailed her to the floor.
She was right too: Kate couldn’t help herself.
Her mentor was no longer sitting on her shoulder.
The words she was hearing were her own. She reminded herself to breathe, to take as much time as required. The victim was in no hurry and neither was she. She was ready to take a look . . .
You got this.
Forcing herself to concentrate, Kate looked down at the transparent evidence bag she was holding in her gloved hand. Instinctively, she knew that the single sheet of cream-coloured paper inside would temporarily become more important than the dead woman whose handwriting flowed seamlessly across the page . . .
Assuming she was the author.
Desperate to know if there were other notes secreted there, potential clues to a brutal killing, Kate summoned her colleague, Crime Scene Investigator Paul O’Brien, asking where he’d found it.
‘Almost missed it . . .’ His voice was muffled through his mask. ‘It was taped to the underside of the shelf beneath the sink.’
‘It’s quality stationery with a watermark.’
‘Yeah, possibly from the writing pad I lifted from the seat over there.’
He pointed to a perfect oblong shape, the only space on the seat not covered in blood. The profile of the flowery fabric against a red background would haunt Kate, a symbolic and indelible reminder of what had gone on here. How desperate must the victim have been for the attack to end?
For a long moment, Kate couldn’t speak.
She cleared her throat, holding up the note. ‘Keep your eyes peeled. There may be more of these.’
‘There are none, guv. I swept the place twice.’
Despite his confident claim, that wasn’t what the first paragraph of the note implied, Kate thought, but didn’t say. Knowing O’Brien to be thorough, with twenty-five years’ experience, she didn’t challenge him. Instead, she photographed both sides of the page, an ice cube slithering its way down her spine. Shivering involuntarily had nothing to do with her imagination, or the uncomfortable narrative running through her head, though there was that too. It was zero degrees in the van, even colder outside, the weather closing in, heavy snow expected across north Northumberland – and yet the victim wore no outdoor clothing.
Kate bent down to examine a gas fire, the only heating appliance in the room. ‘Did you see this, Paul? The valve regulating flow is turned on and the temperature dial is on its highest setting.’
O’Brien nodded. ‘It was like that when I arrived, guv. It must’ve run out . . .’ He thumbed toward the door. ‘I asked one of my lads to check the LPG cylinder outside. It’s empty.’
She didn’t answer.
Her eyes had drifted to the Canada Goose coat hanging on a self-adhesive peg beside the door – a thousand quid’s worth or more. It looked new. In her head, Kate imagined the IP wearing it, entering the van, perhaps lighting the fire, allowing the place to warm up before taking off her outdoor gear, which would rule out her being pushed inside by someone lying in wait.
Her attention was on O’Brien. ‘Did you check her coat yet?’
Another nod. ‘I found a key that fits the door, a few quid and some loose change in the right-hand pocket.’
‘Not enough to live on,’ she said.
‘No, but I recovered in excess of five grand in a pocket sewn into the hood. Whoever searched the place was in a hurry.’ He blushed. That was her territory, not his. He was there to collect evidence that might identify the victim and perpetrator, not interpret the scene. ‘There’s blood on and in the drawer of the bedside table. We have photographs of everything. Don’t hang your hopes on prints. It’s no more than a smudge. Looks like gloves were worn. There’s so much blood here, it would be almost impossible not to transfer some of it.’
Kate turned her head, avoiding eye contact.
Her pulse was racing, her mouth dry. She wasn’t ready to study the victim, though the ‘invisible thread’ mentioned in the note was securely attached, set to become unbreakable. It was tugging at Kate’s heart, pulling her in a direction she didn’t want to go. She felt tethered by it, like a prisoner in rigid handcuffs, unable to break away.
Her internal dialogue was interrupted by O’Brien’s voice. ‘I’ll bag the coat now you’ve seen it. Guv, I found no bag, purse or credit card.’ He went on to explain what he did and didn’t have. ‘I’d show you, only I’ve been passing the exhibits out to my crew.’
Kate could see why. There was no surface completely free of blood where he could set them down for collection later.
Through the window, O’Brien’s colleagues were working under arc lights, blue flashes lighting up the night sky. They had reached the scene before her, discovering tyre tracks, evidence that two vehicles had recently been parked outside; one next to the caravan where deep grooves suggested a regular parking spot, presumably the victim’s car, the other further away. On arrival, the Crime Scene Manager had told her that they had both been driven away at speed, tearing up the grass.
An accomplice then . . .
Two vehicles.
Two drivers.
‘I’m done with the note,’ she said.
In reality, she was undone by the note.
She fought hard to keep her composure. ‘It’s top priority. Get it processed. I need a replica in my hand urgently. Give everything the full works. Whatever you need to do, do it. Check the writing pad for indentations in case she or anyone else has written other notes in or on it. We need categorical proof that it was written by the deceased and not her killer.’
O’Brien bagged and sealed the exhibit. Kate watched him make a note of when and where it was found, adding his name and lastly the date, Tuesday, 18 February 2020. He put his pen away, prompting her to ask if he’d found one that might’ve been used to write the note. He’d found two, a Sonnet ballpoint and an Elmo rollerball. Expensive. Only one with blue ink.
‘It’ll all be in my report.’
Kate studied him. He’d said “my report”, not the report, personalising the comment. Owning it. Her mind flew to the victim’s note, a phrase she’d used that jumped out at her. Was she overthinking this? She didn’t think so. She’d double-check when she got to base and, if still of the same opinion, raise it with her team.
Her mobile rang, pulling her attention away.
Lifting it to her ear, she listened a moment, then hung up, her focus on O’Brien. ‘How much longer will you be? Stanton is ten, fifteen minutes away.’ As pathologists go, he was the best.
‘Should be done by then.’
‘Good. Hank’s outside. As soon as we can move the body, I want the caravan uplifted. Left here, it’s vulnerable to a break-in. Tell him to set it up for me. You can finish the job off-site, right?’
‘That would be perfect. I’d rather examine it on our own premises, away from the prying eyes of the press, any inquisitive locals and the finder, in case he’s in any way involved.’
‘I don’t envy you this one, Paul. The sooner I can get out of here the better.’
On the one hand, Kate didn’t want the case. On the other, there was no way anyone else was having it. Her relationship with the woman on the floor began the minute the note was found.
As far as Kate was aware, she didn’t know her.
She did now.
The victim represented every murdered female the DCI had ever come across. Crime scene images scrolled before her eyes, hideous injuries to every part of the female form: broken bones, smashed skulls, stab wounds numbering one to fifty. These women had endured months, if not years of unimaginable pain and suffering. Their screams kept her awake at night.
‘Guv?’
She swung round, unaware of how long she’d been reliving those cases, some solved, some not. Then there were the women who’d seemingly vanished off the face of the earth and were never found, the most deplorable of all.
‘I’m off,’ O’Brien said.
‘Thanks, Paul.’
When he’d gone, Kate took in every inch of the scene, trying to work out what else it might tell her. Everything in her eyeline was covered in a fine spray of blood. Small items of crockery, cutlery and food lay smashed on the mini-draining board and in the sink where it had been scooped out of the cupboards by whoever had searched the place. O’Brien had all he needed for now. The entire contents, including the caravan itself, would be forensically examined in due course.
