Chapter 1
Christmas Eve
The run-up to Christmas is always a strange time. Not nearly enough dead bodies. Plenty of house break-ins, though: people out partying, leaving gifts visible under Christmas trees, posting on social media about heading off to visit relatives ā burglars have a fine old time of it in December. But generally, summer is the best season for murder, it seems. It depends where you are, of course; Iāve scanned dozens of articles today, looking at the stats, just to pass the time. It varies in different parts of the world, but it seems that, overall, killing is more popular in warmer weather. Riots too. Higher temperatures, higher violent crime rates. In fact, one study from South Africa showed that for every one-degree rise in temperature, thereās a 1.5% increase in the number of murders. Interesting, isnāt it?
Interesting, but not very festive. I sigh and sign out of my computer.
Shall I just go home?
I glance around the room, wondering if thereās anyone who might fancy a chat, but there are only a couple of other people here this morning, and both are currently on the phone. One of them obviously turned on the Christmas lights when they got in though; in the corner by the window the elegant seven-foot blue spruce I helped Eleanor decorate three weeks ago is twinkling and sparkling, hundreds of tiny white lights entwined in its branches. I only popped into the office earlier to pick up some presents I left here yesterday; I didnāt want to lug them all with me in my bag when a few of us went for Christmas drinks after work last night. But with no real plans for today until this evening, I decided to have a quick browse online before I left, hoping there might be something I can get my teeth into when I come back to work next week.
The result? Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Itās been like this for a few weeks now, and itās getting a little tedious. Iām a freelance crime writer, and a good one, even if I do say it myself. I work hard, and over the past ten years Iāve built a reputation for getting to the heart of a story: in-depth interviews with relatives of victims, with detectives ā and, on occasion, with the killers and rapists and fraudsters themselves, carried out in prison visiting rooms ā have become my specialty. But itās been ages now since Iāve had a good inside story, one the tabloids and magazines are keen to get their hands on, and Iām getting a little twitchy. Iām OK for money; itās not that. But I like to keep busy, and thereās been far too much sitting around recently. I sigh again and tap the screen of my phone to wake it up. No messages, and itās nearly two.
I might as well call it a day. Head home and get glammed up for this evening.
āAll right, Mary? Gifts from your secret admirers?ā
I jump, and turn to see Edward Cooper standing behind my chair, just a little too close as always. Heās carrying a mug, obviously on his way back from the kitchen downstairs, and heās wearing a Christmas jumper. Itās red, and a tad too small for his tall, bony frame, with a drunken-looking reindeer on the front under the slogan āon the pisteā. Thereās a faint odour about him today, stale and sweaty, and I swivel round in my chair and edge it away from him slightly as I reply:
āHi, Edward. Gifts, yes. Not sure about the admirers though.ā
I smile, trying to sound friendly. Iām never quite sure how I feel about Edward. Heās relatively new to The Hub, the shared workspace where Iāve rented a desk for the past two years. Weāre all ācreativesā here ā Edward is another writer who joined in October, but heās in marketing, writing public relations copy for sports brands. There are a few other freelance PRs too, including another newish arrival called Satish, who I havenāt really got to know yet but who seems OK. Then thereās a little group of web designers, nerdy but actually pretty good fun on a night out. And then thereās Eleanor, of course. Eleanor is fabulous: a tiny Welsh ball of energy who runs a thriving make-up artist agency from her desk by the end window. Her girls ā and they are mostly girls ā pop in and out now and again to pick up samples or just for a gossip, all glossy lips and swishy hair and practical black sweat suits. I love Eleanor ā she makes me laugh, and laughs are often hard to come by in my job.
Others come and go too, and that makes it interesting. I could work from home, I suppose ā sometimes it does seem like a bit of an extravagance to pay nearly three hundred pounds a month for a chair and desk here, when I have a perfectly adequate home office in my box room ā but most of the time I think The Hub is worth it. I work better in a formal workplace environment, and I like being around other people in this big, bright space. We have two floors of a five-storey building in the heart of Cheltenham; as well as the main office and small, modern kitchen thereās a meeting room, a couple of ābreak-out zonesā with squashy sofas, and even access to a roof terrace where I sometimes take my laptop on balmy summer days. Unfortunately, thereās now also Edward Cooper. Oh, heās fine really, I suppose. He just has this habit of looming over people, and I edge a little further away, reach for my handbag and start putting the presents into it. Thereās a bottle of prosecco ā my gift from The Hubās annual Secret Santa ā a few boxes of chocolates sent from editors Iāve written pieces for during the year, and a book-shaped object, probably a desk diary, in a cardboard wrapper. I havenāt opened that yet, so Iām not sure who itās from, but I can do that later, I think, as I shove it in my bag, suddenly keen to escape.
āExciting plans for Christmas?ā asks Edward.
I think itās partly his voice thatās a bit off-putting; it has a whiny, nasal quality. I donāt like his eyes either ā theyāre small, too close together, and so dark theyāre almost black. Even as I think that though, I instantly feel mean.
He canāt help what he looks like, or what he sounds like, can he?
I force myself to smile again.
āJust spending it with friends,ā I say. āWeāre going out for dinner tonight and then having a quiet couple of days at my place. Itāll be fine.ā
He nods slowly, his eyes flitting from my face to the handbag resting on my knee and back again. My hair is tucked behind my left ear and I flick it out, letting it fall across my cheek, feeling self-conscious. I know thatās my problem though, nothing to do with him, but I really want to leave now, so I zip my bag closed and stand up, reaching for my coat which is draped over the back of my chair.
āNo family get-together then?ā he whines.
āNo family get-together. And I need to get off now, Edward. Have a good one.ā
I could explain; could explain that I donāt really have a family, that Iām an only child, that my mum died when I was three years old and my dad when I was eighteen, but why should I? Itās none of his business. And anyway, he could find out all that for himself, if he cared to pop my name into an internet search engine. Itās all there. Iām surprised he hasnāt done it already, actually. I donāt need to explain it to him. Iāve already shared more than I should have about my Christmas plans. My past has been well documented. My present, I like to keep private.
āOK. Well, happy Christmas, Mary. See you on the other side.ā
He doesnāt move though, and I wince inwardly as I have to brush past him, our shoulders touching.
āHappy Christmas, Edward.ā
I walk swiftly away, and I donāt look back.
Chapter 2
Sunday 31st January
āIām sorting out a bag for the charity shop ā anything you want to chuck in?ā
I turn to look at Pete, whoās just come in from a run, and he takes a swig from his bottle of water and shakes his head.
āDonāt think so. You getting rid of unwanted Christmas gifts? Hope mine isnāt in there, Mary Ellis. Iām off for a shower.ā
He grins at me and heads for the door, and I watch him go, his thighs taut and muscular in his short shorts. He always runs in shorts, tight and black, even on a cold, frosty morning like this one, and I canāt say I object. I donāt fancy Pete, not really, but you can enjoy looking at someone without fancying them as such, canāt you? Weāre housemates, thatās all. Friends for years. And anyway, he has a girlfriend, Megan.
āMegan Walker, although Iām not much of a walker. Prefer to run everywhere, a bit like Pete,ā she giggled, on our first meeting.
Despite this somewhat irritating way of introducing herself, she seems nice enough, and sheās very beautiful. Blonde, blue-eyed, creamy alabaster skin. I envy her skin ā I envy anyone with smooth, perfect skin ā but sheās all right, although I donāt know her very well yet; theyāve only been dating a few months, and she lives alone so when they spend the night together itās usually at her place over in Prestbury.
āDonāt want to disturb you. Things might get a bit ā¦ noisy,ā Pete said with a wink, the first time he told me heād be staying over.
āUgh. Way too much information, Chong,ā I groaned, and threw a tea towel at him, and he laughed, his greeny-brown eyes crinkling at the corners. His face is as nice as his legs ā his late dad was Korean and his mum is Irish, and itās an excellent combination. Heās six foot two, has thick, dark hair, a sharp jawline, and a smattering of freckles across his nose. Heās a good guy, Pete Chong, and I am definitely not putting my Christmas gift from him into my charity bag ā it was the loveliest, softest wool jumper, black with gold and silver stars down the sleeves. I am, however, putting in a cinnamon-scented candle I got from Dinah, our next-door neighbour ā Dinah is lovely, but I really hate candles ā a second, smaller candle that was included in a very nice hamper of chocolates and hand creams (given to me, to my surprise, by Megan), and a jarful of star-shaped cookie cutters that Virginia who runs the corner shop pushed into my hands when I popped in for a newspaper just before Christmas.
āI got them in in case anyone needed last-minute presents,ā she told me. She had a flashing snowman brooch pinned to her navy tabard. āBut I canāt shift āem. Merry Christmas.ā
Iād smiled and accepted the squat glass jar, but Iām not much of a baker.
Let someone else enjoy them, I think now, as I put them into the bag. What else? Ah yes, the desk diary.
Iām sitting on the little sofa in front of the TV in our big open-plan kitchen/diner/downstairs living space, having gone round the house earlier collecting all the things I want to ditch and piling them on the coffee table. I reach for the diary, the one someone sent to the office for me as a Christmas gift. Along with not being a candle or baking person, I am also not a diary person ā well, I am, but I use the diary on my phone these days, not a real paper one ā and I havenāt even really looked at it properly yet, I realise, feeling guilty. I should have thanked whoever sent it by now, but I donāt remember seeing a card or note when I slipped it out of its cardboard wrapping and dumped it on my desk upstairs on Christmas Eve.
āWhere did you come from, then?ā I ask it, out loud. Itās actually a nice-looking diary, a page a day, boxed and bound in black leather. I remove the plastic lid of the box and slip the diary out, opening the front cover, wondering if there might be any clue to the senderās identity inside. Instead, Iām surprised to see a bright-yellow sticky note on the first page.
It says, in block capitals:
What?
Weird, I think.
Frowning, I flick through the first few pages containing the usual calendars and lists of notable dates and religious festivals for the coming year, until I reach the 1st of January. And then I freeze.
What the hell is this?
Thereās an entry on the page, just three words, in black ink and block capitals just like the sticky note.
I stare at the words, and then at the date. The 1st of January. New Yearās Day. A little shiver runs up my back, and I slowly lift my gaze to the television screen in front of me. The BBC lunchtime news is on, and Iāve only been half listening, but I know which story theyāve just been running. Itās the story of Lisa Turner. A story which shocked and saddened a hungover nation when it first broke a few weeks back. Lisa Turner, a twenty-eight-year-old woman who was found dead in Oxford early on the morning of New Yearās Day, murdered as she made her way home from a New Yearās Eve party. Lisa Turner, whose killer still hasnāt been found.
My chest tightens. I look down at the diary, at the words, again, and then turn a few more pages. My hand is shaking, my mind racing.
Who sent this?
It came in the post ā landed on my desk the day before Christmas Eve, the 23rd of December, if I remember correctly. Around then, anyway. That was more than a week before Lisa Turner was murdered.
So how ā¦?
I freeze again. Iāve reached February now, Monday the 1st. Tomorrow. And thereās another entry.
What the hell? Is this some kind of sick joke?
I read the words twice, three times, nausea rising. Then I start turning pages again, frantically now. Blank, blank, blank ā¦ then, on Monday the 1st of March, the same black ink, the same neat lettering. Just a different name, a different city.
I swallow hard. Iām starting to feel light-headed.
Whatās going on here? What is this?
Flick, flick, flick, more blank pages, my fingers slippery with sweat now. And then I stop, littl...
