Flowers for the Dead by Barbara Copperthwaite Read Free Book Online Page A

he can unload some of his frustration. In front of his team, Simon must remain confident so that they continue to have faith in him but the pressure of leading a murder investigation is great. So Mike stays silent, allowing Simon to fill it.
    “Detectives have tracked the movements of several hundred registered sex offenders within our jurisdiction to determine the individuals’ whereabouts on the day of Julie Clayton’s death.”
    Mike nods to himself. Although she had not been raped there was a strong chance the attack had a sexual element to it. But the detective sergeant’s instincts are tingling, telling him Simon has more to say.
    “You worried he’ll strike again?” he probes.
    Simon sighs down the phone. “Worried he already has. Obviously, we’re looking into the vic’s background: friends, family, lovers, colleagues, the usual suspects, just in case it is a straightforward case. But… I know I don’t need to tell you to keep it under your hat, but it looks like we may have a serial killer on our hands.”
    “Rare,” breathes Mike.
    “Rare, and a bloody nightmare.”
    Both men know that if it is a serial killer the chances are there will be nothing at all connecting the women. That sort of murderer tends to pick victims at random. The police’s only chance of catching him is him killing again, and again, and again, until he slips up or they get a lucky break.
    “The MO is fairly unique, with him cutting off the victim’s lips,” continues Simon. “So we’ve been scouring the country for similar open cases. Turns out there have been a few. A Sandra Yang, killed in Sheffield, in April 2012. Then two in 2013: Alex Deane, from Skegness in Lincolnshire, murdered in the February, and Sharon Humphreys in Wimbledon, South London, in August. Lips removed every time. We’re looking for connections between the women, but so far there doesn’t seem to be anything. I’ve eighty people on this, but…”
    But it is like looking for a needle in a haystack. Without something definitive, some firm physical evidence or a way of connecting the women, all anyone can do is wait for the killer to strike again.
    Mike cannot help thanking his lucky stars that his biggest case right now involves fake iPads, and that he is merely a spectator in the investigation into Julie Clayton’s death.
     
    ***
     
    TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO
     
    The door was only slightly ajar, but it was enough for the sounds of the argument to float through to six-year-old Adam, who was curled up on the floor, face pressed to the crack.
    “He barely says two words! How can you say he doesn’t need help? It’s not normal,” said his gran. She wasn’t shouting, simply speaking, but there was an authority in her voice that made it carry.
    “And I suppose that’s my fault, is it? Graeme, how can you stand there and let her accuse me of being a bad mother?”
    “She isn’t saying that…” his dad began, but got cut off.
    “Oh, of course you’d side with her.”
    “Bickering isn’t helping anyone,” Ada said. “Adam should be seen by a doctor or child expert or something.”
    But his mum was not listening. Adam could hear her starting to cry gently. “Of course it’s my fault. I’m a terrible mother. I just don’t know how to be a mother, I never had anyone to learn from.”
    Her voice grew muffled and Adam knew it would be because his father was holding her, comforting her.
    “I-I was pushed around from pillar to post, different foster carers, different homes,” she snuffled.
    “This isn’t about you…” said Ada.
    “It is; it’s about my parenting skills. I know I don’t have any. I was so young when I had Adam. But I’ll try harder, I’ll…” The words disappeared into sobs.
    “Mum, leave it for now. You’re upsetting Sara.”
    “For goodness sake, Graeme, this is about your son.”
    “Mum.” Adam’s dad’s voice was sharp. He realised it, started again. “I’m sorry. You’re right, we need to pay a bit more