Pretty Little Things Read online

  It’s bad when the girls go missing.

  It’s worse when the girls are found.

  Six months ago, Charlotte almost lost everything. Now, she’s determined to keep her daughter, Elle, safe. So when local girls close to Elle in age and appearance begin to go missing, it’s her worst nightmare.

  Charlotte’s fears are confirmed when a frantic search becomes a shocking murder investigation. The girls’ bodies have been found – half-buried, and with traces of mud and wildflowers under their fingernails.

  As Charlotte’s obsession with keeping her daughter close pushes her marriage to the brink, local DI Madeleine Wood embarks on a gruelling search for the killer. And, as they dig deeper into the lives of the people they call friends and neighbours, they uncover secrets more terrible than they ever imagined . . .

  Pretty Little Things is the nail-bitingly terrifying new serial-killer thriller from T.M.E. Walsh – the perfect read for fans of Close to Home, Behind Her Eyes and The Child

  Also by T.M.E. Walsh

  The DCI Claire Winters series:

  For All Our Sins

  The Principle of Evil

  Trial by Execution

  Pretty Little Things

  T.M.E. Walsh

  ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

  Copyright © T.M.E. Walsh 2018

  T.M.E. Walsh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  E-book Edition © June 2018 ISBN: 978-0-00-823892-6

  Tania (T.M.E.) WALSH began writing full time after becoming a casualty to the recession in late 2008 and pens dark and raw twisty thrillers.

  She successfully self-published the first two novels in the DCI Claire Winters series before being picked up by HQ – a division of HarperCollins – in 2015.

  Tania is currently working on a fourth book in the DCI Claire Winters series with plans for another standalone thriller to follow her latest novel, Pretty Little Things.

  In 2011 Tania was the winner of the Wannabe a Writer Blurb competition sponsored by Writing Magazine and judged by Matt Bates, the Fiction buyer for WHSmith Travel.

  Tania has previously produced digital artwork that was published on a DVD-ROM for ImagineFX magazine’s FXPosé section twice in the early and latter part of 2007, which has been published worldwide.

  Tania lives in Hertfordshire with her husband and young daughter.

  For the latest information on T.M.E. Walsh, you can follow her on Twitter @tmewalsh, or visit her website www.tmewalsh.com and Facebook page www.facebook.com/tmewalsh

  For Team Walsh.

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author Bio

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Part 2

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Part Three

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Letter from the Author

  Excerpt

  Endpages

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  ANON

  It’s the blood that gets to you first. It’s messy, gets everywhere. Under your nails, in each line, every crevice. It’s a bitch to clean. It’s practically impossible to remove. No matter how much you scrub, on hands and knees, sponge in hand, if you look hard enough, you’ll find a trace.

  That’s why I’m careful about where I do it, where I make the final cut, where I end it all.

  It’s in a cabin in the woods.

  I know what you’re thinking – cliché? Am I right? OK, sure, I can see why you’d think that. Frankly, I don’t care what you think. I never set out to be original. This life chose me. I’m not a product of my environment.

  I was born like this.

  Now, isn’t that a scary thought?

  So . . . the blood.

  After the blood, comes the elation. That feeling of pure ecstasy, running through your veins – at least, that’s what it’s like for me. Each of us is different. Someone else like me might tell it differently. One thing we all have in common, though, is the knowledge that we can’t stop.

  Doesn’t matter how many times I hear an innocent beg me to spare their life. It doesn’t matter how many times I hear them cry, or scream, or feel them lash out, trying in vain to fight me off.

  No, it doesn’t matter.

  The result is the same every time.

  They are dead and I’m riding that euphoric wave I can’t ever find the words to describe accurately.

  They are dead . . . or they are dying.

  Like this bitch is right now, her body twitching under my weight. There’s no sound except for the gurgling as her blood gushes out, bright-red, arterial spray decorating the plastic sheeting I’ve pinned
up around the walls and floor of the cabin.

  Her name is Bryony Keats.

  She’s just celebrated her seventeenth birthday. She didn’t listen to her mother about getting into cars with strangers.

  *

  How many? I’m not sure I can rightly say. It’s either three or four. Reason why I say it’s possibly four depends on how you look at it.

  Number four had a fucking asthma attack midway through it all, which, frankly, spoilt the whole thing for me, it really did.

  Did she die because of me? Well, yes and no. I’m sure her body wouldn’t have gone into overdrive had I left her alone. BUT, she had asthma – an underlying health problem.

  Properly managed, she could have lived another fifty-plus years. So, I can’t take complete ownership of it.

  Mother Nature played her part.

  She could just as easily have had a fatal attack next week, next month, next year . . . had she not fallen into my path.

  Her name was Katie. Pretty sweet little thing she was. She was my youngest, about fifteen. Just.

  Young.

  Did I mention that I like them young? Well, youngish – I’m not a total monster – but I do get off on that sweet smell of youth. The skin has to be soft to the touch, like a peach. Ripe fruit meant for tasting.

  That first sweet bite.

  It gets me every single time. That and the precious moment when the light, the life – everything that makes that person them – has slipped away.

  Speaking of which, Bryony here has just left us.

  Her legs under my weight have fallen still at last, and her nails have stopped trying in vain to claw my eyes out.

  I’d kept my face out of harm’s way, head cocked to the side, just so, watching as she bled out.

  *

  I picked her up on a winding country road in the Chilterns, en route between the county of Buckinghamshire and Kennington, Hertfordshire, not to be confused with Kennington, London, not far from MI6 – I should be so-fucking-lucky – ’cos that’d be pretty cool.

  I’d been out on one of the drives I like to do when not at work.

  I can literally just drive for miles, with no real destination in mind, just enjoying where the roads take me.

  Admittedly this means I can scope out the area, understand my limits, respect the boundaries I have to force on myself so I don’t get caught, but it’s a real pleasure.

  A Sunday-morning drive is how I found the cabin in the woods.

  It was an old site that used to hire out wood cabins to families, on a self-catering basis. It was supposed to be all about getting back to nature, immersing oneself in the woods, leaving the rat-race behind – that type of shit.

  This place thrived in the nineties. Then we hit the noughties, and it went to the dogs under new management.

  This place was soon forgotten. It’s not even on my satnav.

  Completely isolated, forgotten, broken and unloved. Until I found a use for it.

  Anyway, I digress.

  So, Bryony . . .

  She said she’d had her thumb stuck out for about thirty minutes before I stopped at the side of the road.

  When she lowered her head to give me the once-over, her eyes did show a flicker of recognition.

  I did the same. I was pretty sure I’d seen her somewhere before.

  ‘Where you heading?’ I’d asked.

  ‘Anywhere but here,’ she’d replied, breezily, not seeing me as a threat.

  I asked her what she meant. She told me she’d had enough of her mother’s new boyfriend, and was running away. Then she dropped her rucksack on the backseat of the car, and climbed in beside me.

  Just like that.

  Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly . . .

  I admit, my smile was beaming. Ear to ear.

  Bryony – she told me her name, with a flick of her chestnut-coloured hair over her small shoulders – was beautiful.

  ‘Take me as far as you’re going,’ she said.

  I felt duty-bound to oblige.

  After some small talk, she said she needed a piss. With no services nearby, just narrow country lanes, I pulled over and she ran into the thick of some trees.

  I knocked her unconscious with one blow to the back of the head with my heavy-duty torch (top tip, always be prepared) catching her mid-flow, jeans and knickers around her ankles.

  Not my greatest or proudest moment, I’ll admit. Necessary, though.

  After an initial struggle with her jeans, I got her in the boot, wrists and ankles bound tight.

  When we got to the cabin, I waited about four hours before I caved in and killed Bryony, cutting her throat from ear to ear.

  It was right after she said she knew where she’d seen me before.

  She’d sealed her own fate right at that moment, because just before that I’d been in two minds about whether to let her go or not.

  She was a runaway, and I can relate to that and the reasons why she was doing it. We had found some common ground, but then she went and ruined it for herself.

  I still don’t quite understand what she had been saying to me – places she said she’d seen me – but she was scared shitless. I doubt many people make much sense when they’ve reached the limits of trying to control such obvious fear.

  I look down at her now, at the blood on the plastic sheet. I stare into her glassy green eyes.

  With her last ounce of strength, Bryony’s frightful stare had found mine, and her eyelids flickered.

  Had that been a silent fuck you?

  Too late to ask her now, but I like to think that’s what she meant. Even at the end she had a bit of fight left in her.

  I eye the ring in her fleshy lower lip. That’ll have to come out. It’s about the only thing she has that I have considered keeping.

  After I’ve carefully removed the little piece of silver, I press my hand, encased in surgical gloves, against her peach of a cheek. She’s going cold already.

  Oh, Bryony. You tragic thing, you.

  *

  The cabin in the woods – isn’t that a film? – is about twenty-odd miles away from civilisation of any real kind, unless you count the wildlife – who, incidentally, can be a massive help if I want to dispose of smaller body parts.

  There have been four girls before Bryony. Later, I’ll have them all moved to a different place, a wasteland about forty miles from where I live.

  Then it’s just a matter of time before they’re found. I don’t think it’ll be long.

  Bryony’s a bit different though. When I move them, I don’t want to leave her with the rest. She fought back more. She was in a different league.

  I pick up my spade and go outside the cabin. The air outside is heavy with damp, but it’s mild enough.

  I go to the back of the cabin and out towards the undergrowth.

  I step over the four raised mounds of earth near the line of trees and begin to dig. Nothing fancy, or too deep, just enough like when you sow a row of seeds.

  All I can hear, now the blood in my ears has stopped pounding, is the spade slicing through the soil.

  It takes no time at all and I go back to get Bryony.

  When I’m done, and have scattered a layer of soil over her, I take a few steps back and lean my weight against the spade.

  I look at the five mounds of earth, from the bottom where their feet are, right up until I reach their faces.

  Five bodies buried up to their necks, five faces left uncovered, looking skyward. They remind me of marble statues or the effigies you see adorning the top of a sarcophagus.

  They are less than perfect, obviously. I can’t stop decomposition.

  This is my garden, they are my seeds. Pretty things might grow here, even after they’ve gone, and join the sea of reds and pinks that are here already.

  I head back inside, leaving the spade outside for later.

  I go to the mirror on the cabin wall and take a moment to study my face.

  So, there it is. This is me.
What I do.

  It’s a primal instinct. Something tuned in, buried deep, part of my DNA, never to be erased.

  People write books on it – the reasons why people kill. Reality is, they’ve only just scratched the surface. They don’t know how deep down the rabbit hole it goes.

  They don’t know about me.

  As I said, it’s a primal instinct.

  And that’s what makes me so dangerous.

  PART ONE

  Ring-a-ring o’ roses,

  A pocket full of posies,

  A-tishoo! A-tishoo!

  We all fall down.

  …We all fall down.

  We all fall.

  We. All.

  Fall.

  CHAPTER 1

  CHARLOTTE

  The taste of acrid smoke, like ash in my mouth.

  This is what I always feel in that first waking moment after a nightmare.

  The ashes in my mouth. That and the heat from the fire.

  Since the accident it’s all I can think about when I shut my eyes at night.

  I remember . . . I remember opening my eyes, seeing twisted and bent metal keeping me prisoner in the wrecked shell that was my old Citroën Xsara.

  I say was, because in the immediate aftermath, from where I was lying, it didn’t resemble anything like a car.

  I remember the heat of the fire, seeing the flames licking ever closer. I remember looking at twisted metal, torn upholstery and flames drawing dangerously close to the exposed fuel pipe.

  It’s like I was in a daze. I couldn’t think about what I had to do next. I was, I guess, frozen in that moment, unable to move.

  Then I was dragged out of what remained of my car by the man who had been in the vehicle behind mine. Assessing the damage, he knew I had maybe a minute before the car’s petrol tank exploded.

  He’d cleared us to a distance of about thirty feet before the inevitable happened.

  In one deafening explosion, the car was completely engulfed in flames, and I breathed a sweet sigh of relief that I was not burning to death.

  It was a miracle I was alive or that things didn’t turn out worse considering my injuries. I suffered concussion, cuts, bruises, fractured ribs and a punctured lung, but the worst was my face . . .

  I’d survived a collision with an HGV that had misjudged a bend in the road while coming from the opposite direction. The driver, Paul Selby, caught my car, crushing the side, and the force had spun me around before I came off the road, going through a fence and down an embankment. The car had flipped, rolling several times before coming to a standstill. Wreckage was strewn across the road I’d previously been driving on, and I was now stationary in a field.