The Soul Killer

Ross Greenwood

Description

'A real page turner which kept me glued to my seat and got my heart racing.' ★★★★★
A murder made to look like suicide. Another that appears an accident.

DI Barton investigates the tragedies that have shattered a family’s lives, but without obvious leads the case goes nowhere. Then, when the remains of a body are found, everything points to one suspect.

Barton and his team move quickly, and once the killer is behind bars, they can all breathe a sigh of relief. But death still lurks in the shadows, and no one's soul is safe. Not even those of the detectives…

How do you stop a killer that believes life is a rehearsal for eternity, and their future is worth more than your own…?

Ross Greenwood writes gritty, heart-pounding thrillers, with twists aplenty, and unforgettable endings. Perfect for fans of Mark Billingham and Stuart MacBride.

Praise for Ross Greenwood:

'Move over Rebus and Morse; a new entry has joined the list of great crime investigators in the form of Detective Inspector John Barton. A rich cast of characters and an explosive plot kept me turning the pages until the final dramatic twist.' author Richard Burke

What readers are saying about The Soul Killer:

'A very cleverly written book, filled with excitement, murder and action.'

'The Soul Killer is a dark and deviously twisted crime thriller with a great psychological twist.'

'Twists a plenty for this story and it is such an addictive read. It had me guessing and double guessing and changing my mind.'

'This is dark, it is addictive and it is a wonderfully captivating read and one that I would definitely recommend.'

'This book exceeded all my expectations, absolutely brilliant read, you won't be able to put down.'

'A real treat for fans of the crime thriller/Detective thriller genre and heartily recommended.'

'This is a killer story from a very unusual angle and I really enjoyed it.'

'Wow! What a story!'

'The Soul Killer is a dark and enthralling read that had me constantly on the edge of my seat.'

'I couldn’t devour it quick enough.'

'A real page turner and an easy five star read'

'Another five star read which I devoured in one sitting.'

'A real page turner which kept me glued to my seat and got my heart racing. Plenty of heart in your mouth moments and full of tension and suspense. Highly, highly recommended.'

'The Soul Killer is a 5 star read and I highly recommend to everyone who enjoys a good gritty crime thriller'

'Wow - fantastic, I read it in a day.'

'What a wonderful read! I love everything about this book.'

'This is a fast paced, gritty and twisted read.'

'A totally unputdownable read'

'A good, tense ending made this a book that I had a hard time putting down. Highly recommended!'

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Thriller
• Policier
• Mashups
• Psychological
• Private Investigators
• Hard-Boiled
• Amateur Sleuth
• Traditional
• Thrillers
• Coming of Age
• Suspenso
• Inglaterra
• Street crime
• General officer
• Serial killer
• Psychology
• Organized crime
• Espionage
• City Life
• Murder
• General
• Serial Killers
• Crime
• Cambridgeshire
• England
• Suspense
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 07 mai 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838895464
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Soul Killer
A Di Barton Investigation


Ross Greenwood
To my wife, Amanda. This one’s for you
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

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


Acknowledgement

More from Ross Greenwood

About the Author

About Boldwood Books
Repent in this life
Rejoice in the next
1
The Soul Killer

My earliest memory is from my reception year at school when I was five. That was twenty-five years ago. It was the day we broke up for Easter. Many people’s first recollections are dramatic or bad. Perhaps that’s why they stick in the mind. But it’s not the pain that remains vivid all these years later. It’s the shock and confusion. I simply didn’t understand. However, I believe that was the moment I realised I might be capable of murder.
My mother picked me up from school, and we marched back together. We never held hands, but we talked. Well, she talked. The air of tension around her was already present. It matched the stark streets where we lived. She asked what I’d done that day. My eyes watered with the cold wind as I struggled to remember. When we reached home and entered the narrow kitchen, I opened my satchel and stared at the small Easter basket that I’d made. I stroked the shiny surface of the foil egg, knowing on some level I should keep it hidden.
‘What’s that in there?’ she said.
Guile is beyond most young children, and I was no different so I closed my bag.
‘Give it to me.’ She grabbed the handles, removed the little cardboard box, and held it as though it might detonate.
‘I made that,’ I said.
‘I warned the school about this sort of thing. They’ll regret not listening to me.’
I didn’t see her point and I was desperate to have the basket. ‘Can you give it back to me, please?’
‘It’s confiscated.’
I remember thinking that I owned it. I’d built it using cardboard and foil with the other boys and girls in the classroom. The sense of excitement in the air as we’d queued to leave that afternoon had prickled my skin. The teacher had helped me with my coat and wished me happy Easter but although I’d heard the phrase many times in lessons, the idea of Easter being happy confused me. Easter, when mentioned at home, was said with solemn awe, and triggered fear in me. There was no talk of chocolate and Cadbury’s creme eggs.
I knew not to upset my mother. She never shouted, but I would receive a look – one that warned me of impending discipline, which would stay on her face, sometimes for days, before I received my penance. My brain hunted for something to say.
‘It’s for a joyful Easter.’
She stopped in the doorway. I’d heard the word joy many times at church, but her reply was a growl. ‘We do not celebrate it in that way. Don’t let me hear you mention it again.’
‘Why not? I want to be happy. I want to be like other children.’
Back then, I hadn’t learned the value of silence. I also hadn’t learned that I wasn’t like other children. Only my father was relatively normal in our house.
She returned to stand in front of me. Her ageless brown shirt and jacket combined with severely pulled back greying hair made her seem featureless, despite the large glasses she wore. Perhaps these enabled her to see sin more clearly. Through these her piercing light blue eyes stared down and, with total certainty, she made things abundantly clear.
‘God does not approve of that. It’s for pagans. We are pure.’
At that moment, I decided I’d be a pagan. And I still wanted what I made. A flash of pure rage swept through me, I believe for the first time. My foot lashed out, and I kicked her in the shin. Quiet seconds followed. It’s hard to remember if she smiled or grimaced. Whatever, I cowered to my knees and wrapped my hands around her thick tights. She kicked my arms away.
‘Wait there,’ she said.
The anticipation is worse than actual physical pain, which only really hurts for a while. I’d experienced the impact of rolled-up newspapers and cooking spoons on many occasions, and so my mind had stopped imagining the worst because I thought I’d seen and felt it all. I didn’t know about the cellar.
As she seized my jumper at the back collar and dragged me past my father in the dining room, I noticed someone had moved the dinner table. A trapdoor yawned open. Wide eyed, I implored him to save me as he rose from his seat.
‘You go too far, Marjory.’
After a final glance at me, he left the room and strode out of the house. He might have returned to get his things at some point, but I never saw him again. When I look back, I remember hints of happiness and positivity, but he had retreated from us, like an ever so gradual cloud drawing over the sun. The eclipse came that day.
I stared down into the abyss. There were no steps, only blackness. She shoved me hard and firm in the back, and in I dropped, landing on a thin mattress. I gasped in agony as my knees compressed the material and jarred on the floor. Inside, I could just make out the contours. The space was about two metres high and wide. I slumped onto my side and, with an outstretched grasping hand, pleaded for her to pull me up. She loomed above me, so large and powerful. Her voice boomed down.
‘Repent in this life, rejoice in the next.’
Her words meant nothing. She was always boring me about one thing or another. I glanced around with blurred eyes as she dropped the trapdoor in place. The only other items I could see before complete darkness enveloped me were a pair of my father’s shoes and a blanket. Had he been down here too?
I knelt in the chilled space and imagined the walls pressing in. I believe any other child, whatever their age, would have screamed, but I did not. It makes me think I’ve always been different. I reached for the blanket and kept silent while listening to the sounds of the table scraping back into place. Sitting in the dark, I focussed on how I could recover my basket.
I wasn’t fully aware of my intentions at that moment. The only sound in my prison was the rhythmic ticking above of my mother’s pendulum clock. It was a noise to go mad to. Recalling my thoughts is difficult. My whole body tensed. I stifled the scream that yearned to erupt, knowing my mother would recognise its fury, when she craved to hear fear. After a while, I unclenched my jaw and rolled my shoulders. A surprising emptiness washed over me, leaving only a cold, controlled motivation. That focus made me understand, for the first time, that I was capable of anything.
2
The Soul Killer

I’ve no idea how long I waited down there that first time; no more than a few hours, probably. Using spaced hands in the pitch black, I checked the floor for other objects but found myself in an empty square except for my father’s things. I sat and thought about my actions and accepted the truth. Mother made the rules, and I had disobeyed them. Kicking her was just plain dumb. Five year olds might be inexperienced, but they aren’t necessarily stupid. I knew from then on that if I wanted special things, I’d need to keep secrets. She would have to be obeyed, or at the very least think she was.
The table scraped the floor, and the trapdoor creaked open. The light above stung my eyes. Judging eyes scrutinised me, but she remained silent.
‘Sorry. I won’t do that again,’ I said.
She nodded. She knelt and held out her hand. I was always strong. Jumping up, I pulled myself out and found dinner set for two. Already the place appeared drabber without my father. He’d been working away much more of late, staying in hotels or leaving early. I could tell my mother missed him too because her eyes strayed to his seat, so we ate in silence, except for that clock. Eventually, I had to ask the most important question a child will ever need to know; words they should never need to speak.
‘Do you love me, Mother?’
She opened her mouth and closed it without saying anything. Finally, she spoke as though reading from the good book, but she looked unconvincing.
‘God’s love is all you require.’
There was no television in our house, but I had jobs to keep me busy. Later, if I’d worked hard, she treated me to biscuits and milk. Then she’d follow me up the stairs and tuck me into bed. Each night we read a story about years gone by. My favourite was always the tale of David and Goliath.
Afterwards, we’d stare at each other and I’d smile as though I understood the message she was trying to impart. The Bible stories she read seemed contradictory to me. Some taught to turn the other cheek, whereas others seemed to condone slaughtering at will. Few suffered damnation for their sins. God forgave most, but He could be the cruellest of all.
Sometimes, I’d see a half smile as though she wanted to connect. I believe she loved me a