Evil Valley by Simon Hall Read Free Book Online Page A

reasserting its shape. The bristles were still hard and stiff and scratched against his hand as he ran it over the forehead. The eyes were closed, screwed shut, as though the creature had known its fate and wanted to shut it out, find some escape. The blood of the severed neck was dry, hard, smooth, it flaked a little as he probed it.
    He took the small notepad and pen from the table, put them into his pocket. Important those, silence was vital, he couldn’t risk a word. Not at this stage. But she would still have to know what it was he wanted. It was almost comical, committing a crime where you had to write down your demands. But they wouldn’t be laughing when he’d finished. Quite the reverse. He picked up the stocking too, put in into his other pocket.
    He checked the address one last time, but he knew exactly where he was going. He’d carried out the reconnaissance of all his targets thoroughly. That was one of the first things the army drilled into you. Plan well. Be prepared.
    Only the letter now remained, lying on the table, neatly addressed. The white envelope was pristine and he wouldn’t fold it. It was too important. It would be delivered as it was now, in immaculate order. He liked the touch of politeness he’d added, too. It showed a certain class, befitting his beautiful plan. Not just “Dan Groves”, or “Groves, Wessex Tonight reporter”, nothing so crass.
    Mr Daniel Groves,
    Wessex Tonight,
    Crime Correspondent,
    And Pig Lover.
    He stared at the letter, then turned slowly to the frieze which covered the wall. It was filled with images of Dan, lines of his posed publicity shots from Wessex Tonight, the awkwardness of the forced smile forming its boundaries. Inside was stuffed with a tumble of images, enlarged and photocopied cut-outs of his head, fading articles from newspapers about the cases he’d worked on, a couple accompanied by pictures of Dan kneeling beside Rutherford, the dog’s tongue hanging out as he panted at the camera.
    The cutting at the frieze’s centre was from the Daily Bulletin , a full-page splash, detailing how Dan had solved the riddle of the Death Pictures.
    ‘Let’s see if you’re as good with my little puzzles,’ he muttered to the article. ‘I hope you are. Because the stakes are going to be so very much higher this time.’
    He picked up another photograph from the battered old table, the final touch to the masterpiece of artwork, the pride of his collection. It showed Dan bending down, talking to a party of primary school children, their engrossed faces all rapt in attention. He’d taken the picture himself, when he’d visited the Devon County Show to meet the unknowing star of his planned spectacular doing his reluctant publicity work on the Wessex Tonight stand.
    He’d even had a brief chat, nothing more than “Good morning, and keep up the fine work”, and shaken hands, struggling to contain his bubbling rapture at the knowledge of what was to come. That had been months ago, and since then he’d wondered so many times if his beautiful plan would ever really come to fruition. But now, at last, it was time.
    He paused, then added the photograph to the last corner of the frieze, nodded knowingly and smiled, as if at an old friend.
    They both had so much to look forward to in the coming days.
    Detective Sergeant Claire Reynolds thought it was the tamest raid she’d ever led. No smashing down of doors with sledgehammers, no sweaty, constricting body armour, no running in and shouting, no desperate struggles with drug-ridden suspects in the semi darkness of paint-peeling kitchens. Just a key in a well-oiled lock and a gentle walk into a pleasantly decorated hallway.
    Martin Crouch’s home was classic Plymouth suburbia; semi-detached, two bedrooms, probably dating from around 1900. It was well maintained, better than her flat, certainly. The house was a lemon yellow; the guttering a newly painted black to match the front door and wrought-iron gate. The border