The Disciple
DI Brook thought the nightmare was over- but the Reaper has left behind a horrifying legacy…A nail-shredding thriller for fans of Stuart MacBride and Thomas Harris.When an accidental drowning is found to be murder, Brook’s past relationship with the victim makes him the prime suspect. A fact made worse when he receives a chilling message urging him to continue the work of the serial killer The Reaper, the deranged vigilante who had previously terrorised the UK.When a copycat murder on a Derby estate surfaces shortly afterwards, Brook is left with no alternative but to reopen the case- and to find a serial killer he knows is already dead.But as Brook delves deeper, he unearths the secrets behind a series of savage murders stretching back to 1975. Terrifyingly, it seems that The Reaper’s influence has inspired a new band of willing disciples…
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STEVEN DUNNE
The Disciple
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.
AVON
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
Copyright © Steven Dunne 2010
Steven Dunne 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
ISBN: 978-1-84756-164-0
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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9781847561640
Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2010 ISBN: 9780007411023 Version: 2018-07-09
In loving memory
Jean Robertshaw
(1930 – 2009)
Table of Contents
The man eased the door closed, guiding it gently onto the latch. When he heard the lock click he sucked in a lungful of the sharp salty air to clear his head. He could hear the occasional gull in the distance but it was a lonely note, the early birds not yet on the wing, the light insufficient to make out the pickings left by the receding tide.
He looked at the sky, dark and damp, no hint yet of the grey dawn peeping over the horizon, then hitched his jogging bottoms higher and retied the strings. He smiled as he rearranged his genitalia, feeling the tacky moisture of recent sex along his groin – even at the age of forty-three, the thrill of illicit conquest still bestowed a childish buzz – then stepped onto the wet road and crossed to the far pavement.
He turned to see the girl in the first-floor bay of the guesthouse, barely covered by a worn curtain that had doubtless shrouded hundreds of copulating lovers from the eyes of the world. He grinned but motioned her away from the window in mock censure. She, in response, let the curtain slip to show him a breast, then let the curtain fall completely and stood before him naked.
The man put his hands on his hips in feigned disgust, then looked around and pointed down the road, as though someone else would be walking around at this ungodly hour.
The girl shrugged her shoulders and laughed. She turned her back, bent over and pressed her buttocks against the window.
The man shook his head and turned to jog away, realising that his departure was the only way to end the cabaret. Kids today!
As he turned onto King’s Road, jogging gently towards the burnt-out skeleton of the West Pier, Tony Harvey-Ellis glanced at the grey-black ocean, wondering whether to risk a dip after his run. The water would still be mild even in late autumn.
He pulled in a huge breath and looked around in vain for another soul. He loved this time of day when he could have Brighton to himself. The early hours were the best time to venture out onto the streets. The throngs of tourists had eased after the hot months but Brighton still drew frenzied hordes of hens and stags all year round, carousing long into the night – enough to deter most residents at the weekends.
This was his time, time to think; increasingly his only time since his life had become so complicated. With all the new accounts needing his attention and the constant juggling of the demands of his wife and stepdaughter, he had become unused to solitude. At least Terri’s age was one less problem to concern him – she was legal now. Her real father would find it difficult to pin anything on him after so long … assuming he still cared.
Harvey-Ellis paused briefly, stretching his upper torso and flexing his knees. The sweat was beginning to dot his forehead and his knees felt ready for some real work. He checked his watch – it was five o’clock – and prepared to set the stopwatch on his chunky Tag Heuer.
A noise that was neither the sea nor a car made him turn. A figure, indistinct in a tracksuit and baseball cap, was jogging along the promenade a couple of hundred metres behind him, feet slapping at the ground, breath steaming in the sharp air.
