Prey (29 page)

The small tent that had been erected over the coffin was unnecessary. After three days of solid rain, the clouds had finally dispersed and it was another beautiful fall day. Winter glanced up at the wide swath of blue stretching above his head and reckoned that Granville Clarke would have approved.

At a rough estimate there had to be at least a couple of hundred mourners here, all dressed in black, faces grim, eyes fixed on the coffin. He wasn’t sure what Clarke would have made of all of this, though. No doubt he would have been dismissive of everyone making such a fuss, but deep down he would probably have been pleased.

He was watching from the shade of a sugar maple a couple of hundred yards from the grave site. He was far enough away to be able to see what was going on, but too far away to hear what the preacher was saying. He didn’t feel as though he was missing much. These things tended to pretty much follow the same bleak script. The grave was halfway down the hill. Over his shoulder, he could see the big old cemetery gates. Main Steet was quiet, presumably because everyone who was anyone in Hartwood was here.

He’d flown in from Paris so he could attend Omar Harrak’s funeral service yesterday. The Paris investigation was still ongoing, but they’d hit a lull and he reckoned he could afford a couple of days off without it causing any real problems. Winter wasn’t in the habit of turning up uninvited at funerals. He wasn’t in the habit of attending funerals, period. The last one he’d been to was his mother’s, and that had been so depressing he’d vowed never to go to another. And now this. Two funerals in two days.

Omar’s funeral had been a very different affair. Clarke had been old and sick. He’d been the first to admit that he was on borrowed time. Omar, on the other hand, wasn’t. His death was a complete bolt from the blue, and the faces of the mourners had reflected this. Winter had snuck in at the start of the funeral prayer, and snuck away again before the mourners began to file out. No one had known he was there. He had paid particular attention to Omar’s wife and children. What he saw in their faces confirmed that Omar had been a good husband and father. Their grief was real, raw and heartfelt.

The laptop had been a bust. All the police had found on it was a folder that contained information on him. Amelia had scoured the internet and managed to put together a sketchy biography based on the information she’d collected. She’d also got hold of two photographs. In both of them he’d been wearing his leather jacket instead of the sheepskin one. He was sure there was another laptop somewhere that could be used to connect her to her other victims. A laptop that could help them find all those other Ryans she claimed were out there. But where? She’d managed to successfully hide her father for six years, how hard would it be to hide a laptop?

Caroline Mathers’ parents had confirmed that one of Amelia’s disguises was made up of clothes that had belonged to their daughter. Three of the other outfits had been connected via the passports to young women who had also hung themselves. All four women had a history of depression, and all of them frequented internet chat rooms dealing with the illness. There was no evidence to suggest that Amelia had witnessed their suicides, but Winter was betting she had. She wouldn’t have missed an opportunity like that.

Amelia had recently been moved to the maximum security unit at New York’s Bellevue Hospital to undergo a psychiatric evaluation. As far as Winter was concerned, the question wasn’t whether she was insane, it was whether she wanted people to believe that. For her, it would just be an opportunity to assume a new personality. He wasn’t surprised that she’d been moved to Bellevue. If anything, the only surprise was that it hadn’t happened sooner. Doctors and nurses were always going to be easier to handle than prison guards.

Even though he couldn’t hear what was happening at the grave, he got the sense that things were winding up. Sure enough, a short while later the coffin was lowered into the ground. A couple of mourners stepped forward to drop dirt on to the coffin. Violet was one of them. Winter didn’t recognise her at first because the context was wrong. He was used to seeing her in the diner. He waited until the last mourners left before heading over. The headstone had Jocelyn Clarke’s birth and death dates chiselled into the marble. There was space underneath for her husband’s name and dates to be added.

Winter took the two chess pieces from his pocket and turned them over in his hand. They’d been hand carved, the old wood smooth to the touch. While the mourners were gathering at the chapel for the memorial service, he had broken into Clarke’s house. The chessboard in the living room was frozen mid-game, just like it had been on the night they’d eaten Chinese and drunk whisky together. He had played the game through to its logical conclusion then pocketed the black king and the white queen.

He held his hand over the grave, the chess pieces lying flat on his palm, then slowly tilted his hand and watched them fall. They hit the coffin lid with two sharp cracks, one after the other.

Winter took one last look at the coffin then turned and made his way back up the hill. He’d gotten halfway to the gate when his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. There was one new email. It was from Amelia. At first he thought his eyes were playing tricks, but they weren’t. He hesitated a second, his thumb hovering over the screen, then opened it and read through it quickly, speeding over the words. It was short and to the point, the tone casual, the subtext anything but.

Winter read through the email a second time, wondering how the hell she’d managed to send this. It had to be her lawyer. She must have requested a meeting, and when it was just the two of them, she gave him the message and the email address. The rest of the time she would have had people watching over her. Cops, prison guards, medical personnel. Given time, Winter didn’t doubt that she could manipulate one of them to do something like this. But it was too soon. The lawyer was the only way she could have gotten this email to him, because that was the only variable she could currently control. Lawyer/client privilege could be a real bitch.

She was screwing with him. Again. She wanted to show that, even though she was locked up, she could still reach out and mess with his head. So, how did you disempower a psychopath who liked to play games? Simple. You didn’t play along.

Winter glanced at the email one last time, then hit delete.

I couldn’t do this without the support of my family. Karen, Niamh, Finn . . . I love you guys.

I’m fortunate to be represented by the best agent in the business. Camilla Wray, please step forward and take a much deserved bow.

Katherine Armstrong has done yet another fantastic editing job.

Thanks also to Hannah Griffiths, Miles Poynton, Kate O’Hearn, KC O’Hearn and Nick Tubby; and to Clare, Mary, Sheila, Emma and Rosanna at the Darley Anderson Agency.

Finally, a huge thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read the books. Your continued support means the world to me.

It takes a genius to catch a psychopath

Jefferson Winter is no ordinary investigator.

The son of one of America’s most notorious serial killers‚ Winter has spent his life trying to distance himself from his father’s legacy. Once a rising star at the FBI‚ he is now a freelance consultant‚ jetting around the globe helping local law enforcement agencies with difficult cases. He hasn’t got Da Vinci’s IQ‚ but he’s pretty close.

When he accepts a particularly disturbing case in London‚ Winter arrives to find a city in the grip of a cold snap‚ with a psychopath on the loose who likes abducting and lobotomising young women. Winter must use all his preternatural brain power in order to work out who is behind the attacks‚ before another young woman becomes a victim.

As Winter knows all too well‚ however‚ not everyone who’s broken can be fixed.

Everybody’s got something to hide . . .

Ex-FBI profiler Jefferson Winter has taken a new case in sunny Louisiana, where the only thing more intense than the heat is a killer on the loose in the small town of Eagle Creek.

Sam Galloway, a prominent lawyer from one of Eagle Creek’s most respected families, has been murdered. All the sheriff’s department has to go on, however, is a film of Galloway that shows him being burned alive.

Enter Jefferson Winter, whose expertise is serial criminals. But in a town where secrets are rife and history has a way of repeating itself, can Winter solve the case before someone else dies?

(
A JEFFERSON WINTER NOVELLA
)

The first in a special eBook only series. The Jefferson Winter Chronicles, featuring Jefferson Winter from
Broken Dolls
, and introducing his mentor, Yoko Tanaka. Together they make an unforgettable team.

Special Agent Yoko Tanaka is one of the best profilers in the FBI. She’s observant, smart and professional, but doesn’t really play well with others. She’s been called in to consult on the case of ‘Valentino’, a killer who steals his victims’ hearts. Literally.

With five women already dead, time is running out for the police to catch the killer before he strikes again. Within twenty-four hours of Yoko’s arrival they have a suspect in custody: a precocious nineteen-year-old kid called Jefferson Winter whose IQ is off the charts. He’s also a textbook psychopath and the son of one of America’s most notorious serial killers. Not only does he confess to the murders, he knows details of the crimes that only the killer could know. It’s an open and shut case‚ or is it?

(
A
JEFFERSON WINTER NOVELLA
)

Don’t say a word . . .

FBI profiler Yoko Tanaka is in Tampa, Florida helping the local P. D. with their ‘Sandman’ case. Three mothers and their daughters have been found murdered in their homes. The mothers have been brutally stabbed while the little girls’ have been smothered in their beds and posed to look like they’re sleeping.

Defying FBI protocol, Yoko makes a detour to Sarasota to entice Jefferson Winter to join the case. Winter has now graduated from college and is playing piano in a tourist bar. At first he’s reluctant to get involved but that’s the thing with Winter, what he says and what he means are usually two different things. All Yoko knows is that he’s the only person who can help her before the Sandman claims another two victims . . . but what Winter doesn’t know is that Yoko might also be able to help him.

‘Leaves you desperate for more.’
Daily Mail