The Domino Killer Read online

  Neil White was born and brought up around West Yorkshire. He left school at sixteen but studied for a law degree in his twenties, then started writing in 1994. He is now a lawyer by day, crime fiction writer by night. He lives with his wife and three children in Preston.

  Also by Neil White

  Fallen Idols

  Lost Souls

  Last Rites

  Dead Silent

  Cold Kill

  Beyond Evil

  Next to Die

  The Death Collector

  COPYRIGHT

  SPHERE

  An imprint of

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK Company

  www.hachette.co.uk

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Sphere

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright © Neil White 2015

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Hardback ISBN 978-0-7515-4951-5

  Trade Paperback ISBN 978-0-7515-4952-2

  Papers used by Sphere are from well-managed forests and other responsible sources.

  The Domino Killer

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Neil White

  COPYRIGHT

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Fifty-two

  Fifty-three

  Fifty-four

  Fifty-five

  Fifty-six

  Fifty-seven

  Fifty-eight

  Fifty-nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-one

  Sixty-two

  Sixty-three

  Sixty-four

  Sixty-five

  Sixty-six

  Sixty-seven

  Sixty-eight

  Sixty-nine

  Seventy

  Seventy-one

  Seventy-two

  Seventy-three

  Acknowledgements

  I write alone. I don’t share my plots or send out works in progress, looking for hints or advice. Instead, I keep everything in my head as I pace and fret, shape and reshape, until I present a completed story to my editors and agent, like a nervous schoolboy.

  My editor, Jade Chandler and my desk editor, Thalia Proctor, have always been gentle with me, as has my agent, the wonderful Sonia Land at Sheil Land Associates. They give me their ideas and suggestions, pointers as to where I could do things better, always thorough and constructive, so I lock myself away again. More fretting, more pacing.

  For the reader, you see the finished book, the end of my endeavours, but I know the changes, the improvements, the advice and small tweaks that make it appear as it does on the shelf or your ebook reader. For the help of my editors and agent, I am eternally grateful.

  As for the people who have to listen to my fretting, my worries, my occasional tantrum, I can only apologise. I’m always glad of the process, the highs and lows, as it’s all part of just that, a process. Those who can only watch don’t get the same from it, but their patience does not go unnoticed, and for that I am thankful.

  One

  He paced. It was hard to stay still. He’d been in this moment before, but those times had been different. He’d controlled them, planned them out. He wasn’t in control this time.

  The wind rustled the leaves above him, like whispers, providing a cover for the thump of his heartbeat and the nervous rasp of his breath. The sun had gone; the park was in darkness, just the glow of street lights in the distance. He closed his eyes for a moment. He couldn’t think about what he had to do. Just do it. There was no choice.

  He needed to summon what had driven him before, to shut out everything else.

  It began like heat, his blood flowing more quickly, his fingers stretched outwards with tension. His thoughts became flashes; bright, stark images that made him want to shield his eyes. And the sounds. They started like scratches, something he could barely hear, but they got louder as the images grew brighter, a constant murmuring so that he had to clamp his hands over his ears to stop the pain. It became a compulsion, and the more he shut them out, the harder they seemed to come at him, wave after wave of need that drove out all other thoughts until he had to do something to satisfy it. An unstoppable force, willpower alone not enough.

  This time it was different. So different. Cold-blooded and brutal. But deep down it was the same need. He shouldn’t feel bad about that, because he knew he couldn’t help himself. There was no hatred for the man he was waiting for, but killing him would get back something he needed.

  Memories flooded through him as he stood in the darkness. Skin soft under his hands, struggling, writhing bodies; his memories like white light, everything bleached out, only the desperate cries making it through. Later, there were the tears, the screams. Ripples, that’s what they were.

  His breaths came faster.

  This time there’d be no blankness, no surge of adrenalin as he finished, no glow of anticipation at what lay ahead. It would be just a swing of the hammer and everything would be remembered.

  The park was empty: he was alone amongst the grass and trees on the very edge of the city, with the dark brood of the moors ahead. Tarmac paths cut through it, flowerbeds running alongside filled with bright colours. The paths ran towards a wooden shelter that nestled underneath birch and sycamore trees, the wood painted black, a brass plaque proclaiming it as in memoriam for those who fell in the last war. Black scrawls showed where bored teenagers made a claim for the living, their nicknames written in marker pen.

  He settled behind the tree, leaning against the bark and looking down at the floor. The police would want to know where he’d waited. The soles of his shoes were imprinted into the soil between the huge roots so he b
rushed at it, to make them indistinct. He needed a cigarette, but the glowing tip would give him away.

  There was some movement. The steady click-click of shoes.

  He peered out from behind the tree. There he was.

  His fingers dug into the bark as he put his head back. He let out a quiet sigh. The man looked uncomfortable as he walked slowly along the path, looking around, a bunch of calla lilies wrapped in green paper held in one hand. That was the sign: the flowers. The clicks of the man’s footsteps became louder. He was dressed smartly, as though he was on his way home from whatever job he did, his shoes shiny black, his suit dark grey, brightened by a yellow tie.

  The man didn’t sit in the shelter straight away. He paced around, fiddled with his tie, preened, looked about, as if checking that he was alone. That was why the park had been chosen, so he was told: no one used it at night.

  Eventually, the man stepped into the shelter and sat down, the flowers across his knees. The wooden bench creaked beneath him and there was the hiss of a breath freshener. The man’s shoes tapped out a fast rhythm, as if he was nervous. He should be.

  He felt in his pocket, just to remind himself that it was the right way. A hammer. Quick and easy. He had a knife in his other pocket in case he needed it. The hammer should be enough, though. It was heavy, the rubberised grip reassuring, but the weight of the metal head made him shudder.

  He crept out from behind the tree, his clothes brushing against the bark. He gripped the shaft of the hammer. A bird flew from a branch above him but it didn’t distract him. His shoes squeaked on the grass, making more noise than he wanted. He zipped his jacket up to his neck and slipped on the mask, a ghoulish Halloween mask he’d bought for this, so that if it went wrong he might avoid identification, but he knew it was going to be all right. He had the size advantage, plus the element of surprise.

  He paused at the edge of the shelter. He could still walk away. The man inside would get to go home. Then he thought of why he was doing it. His mind became more focused, the view ahead like looking along a tunnel, bright light ahead.

  This was it.

  He rushed into the shelter, pulling the hammer out of his pocket. The man’s eyes widened in surprise, then in shock, but it didn’t stop him.

  The first swing caught the man on his arm and he yelled in pain. The flowers fell to the floor, the petals crushed under his rubber soles as he stepped forward for another blow, the man leaning back now, trying to protect himself. It was no good.

  The next swing made him crumple, the hammer finding his skull.

  From then it was frenzied, his mind taking nothing in. Everything was white. His arm rose and fell, liquid struck him, covering the mask, hitting his eyes and making him blink, the shaft of the hammer slick with blood. The sound of wet thuds broke the silence of the park but still he carried on. His breaths came as grunts, and he didn’t stop until his hammer struck tarmac, with nothing left of his skull to stop its path.

  He stood ramrod straight and looked up at the sky. The white light receded and his chest rose quickly as he sucked in air. His arm ached.

  Once his breathing returned to normal, he looked down. The man at his feet was unrecognisable. The lilies were stained deep red, as were his shoes and trousers. The man’s head was just pulp, the tarmac now a red pool. How could a body contain so much blood?

  He wanted to know who this man was. Why was his death so important? He gritted his teeth and reached into the man’s pocket, the metallic smell of blood making him gag. He took his wallet. He was about to step away when he noticed the watch. It looked expensive. He unclicked it and pocketed it.

  He stepped out of the blood and moved away, walking backwards all the time, then he turned and ran for his car.

  Two

  Joe Parker wiped his eyes as he locked his car door. Just before six o’clock in the morning, it was no time to be parking up in a town centre, even if it was close to the police station. There were threats in the shadows. As a defence lawyer he couldn’t use the police station car park, so he left the car on a side street flanked by shops protected by steel shutters. There would still be those who stalked the streets in the early hours, looking for unlocked doors; this was the regular nightshift for those wanting something for nothing.

  He yawned and looked around. The coffee he’d gulped down before he set off was starting to take effect, but thirty minutes earlier he’d been in bed and hoping that the next sound he heard would be his alarm.

  Police station visits were disruptive. Either they took place during office hours and wrecked his plans for the day, so that an evening or weekend was lost to catching up, or they were at some God-awful time of the night. But the best way to get a client was to be there at the beginning of the case, so if he got a call, he always turned up.

  This visit didn’t seem anything special. A burglar, so he’d been told. He must have been caught inside the premises, whatever they were, because a cold forensic hit, like DNA, would have resulted in a daytime arrest, when there would be the resources to deal with him. He would have to say sorry and hope for a sympathetic judge, or keep quiet and buy himself a few weeks to come up with some lies.

  Joe jabbed the button on the intercom and drawled, ‘Joe Parker from Honeywells,’ when the speaker fizzed into life. A loud buzz told him that it was time to push. A short corridor led towards another door, where another buzz allowed him into the custody suite.

  Wherever Joe went, custody suites were the same. A high desk, so that prisoners couldn’t leap over easily and attack the sergeant, and a large space in front, enough room for the brawlers to carry on their disputes with whoever had handcuffed them. Most prisoners were led in meekly, but there had been a few occasions when Joe had stepped into the cell corridor to avoid the flying fists and feet as someone protested their arrest. They always started the same way, with the steady rumble of the police van and then shouts as the rear doors opened. The worse they behaved, the harder the ride in, with the driver aiming for speed bumps and plenty of stamping on the brakes, so that the prisoner’s anger had turned to rage by the time the doors were thrown open. Metallic clatters announced the struggle into the station, and then there’d be the strangled obscenities as a tangle of uniforms and dirty clothing tumbled into the custody area.

  This morning it was quiet, and Joe preferred it that way. He’d seen enough fights – they were no longer exciting, and being a witness ruled him out of a case. The money wasn’t good in criminal law, so there was no point in cutting yourself out of a case just because the human drama became more interesting. Lawyers learned to look away.

  Someone banged on a cell door and shouted something, but it was strangled rage. The sergeant ignored it, just part of the soundtrack of a night behind bars. The noise would get louder before it stopped.

  Two plain-clothes officers were waiting for Joe: the duty detectives. Any hope they’d had of spending the night catching up on paperwork had been ruined by whatever his client had done. They didn’t make to shake Joe’s hand and he didn’t proffer.

  ‘Is he mine?’ Joe said, tilting his head back towards the source of the screams that echoed along the tiled corridor.