The Reaper
A damaged detective and a brutal serial killer collide in this nail-biting thriller debut.Detective Inspector Damen Brook thinks he’s left his past behind him in London. But it seems a serial killer has followed him north…Brook’s seeking sanctuary. Years in the MET have left their mark - so much so that he's fled to Derby leaving behind his marriage, his teenage daughter and very nearly his sanity to wind down a once promising career in the peace of the Peak District.But one winter's night, Brook is confronted by a serial killer he hunted many years before - The Reaper - a man who slaughters families in their homes then disappears without a trace.To find this killer Brook must discover what the Reaper is doing in Derby, why he's started killing again and what, if anything, connects the butchered families.As Brook becomes entangled in a deadly game of cat and mouse, he is forced to face his own demons by revisiting the previous investigation and confronting a past that destroyed his family and nearly cost him his life…A heart-stopping thriller from a stunning new crime talent, for fans of Stuart MacBride and Thomas Harris.
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STEVEN DUNNE
The Reaper
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 Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF
An earlier edition of The Reaper was first published by Troubador Publishing Ltd 2007
Copyright © Steven Dunne 2007
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
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 ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, 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 ebooks
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: 9781847561633
Ebook Edition © 2009 ISBN: 9780007336845 Version: 2018-06-26
Dedicated to my beautiful wife Carmel, whose wholehearted and constructive support made this book possible.
Table of Contents
The cat froze, suppressing its instinct to run, and peered into the swirling gloom towards the noise. To break cover, even in this fog, could be its undoing. That’s what its own prey did. That’s when it had them. The animal stared, unblinking, head locked in the direction of the approaching footfall.
From the gasps of fog a figure emerged as though exhaled from the bowels of the earth. The boy was tall and though his clothes were baggy, he was identifiably lean as the cold breeze folded his roomy, low-slung trousers around his legs. He scuffed his Nikes along the rutted pavement, as though wiping something from them, before stopping to sniff the air. The peak of his grimy baseball cap came up as he looked around, sensing the animal nearby.
For a second he stopped hunching himself against the cold and looked towards the cat. He saw its eyes and stood perfectly still.
Softly the rumble in the boy’s throat grew until his armoury was fully loaded and he let fly. An arc of spittle landed near the cat’s front paws, splashing its legs. The cat tensed then leapt to the side, wide-eyed.
To banish any chance of feline forgiveness, the boy darted towards the animal and aimed a kick at its retreating rear.
‘Here puss puss,’ coaxed the boy bending down to click his fingers, scouring the dark ground for missiles. Surprisingly there were none. The boy had alighted upon the only spot on Derby’s Drayfin Estate that wasn’t crumbling.
‘Shit.’ The boy continued to grope but with dwindling enthusiasm. He cursed the absence of street lighting, forgetting it had been he and his crew who’d spent a diligent evening the month before breaking as many as they could find still working. The only illumination now shone from limp Christmas lights winking out from the odd door and window. No-one on the estate put on much of a show at this time of year. It didn’t do to advertise.
The boy stood up without ammunition and shrugged his shoulders. The cat had already taken the hint. No point trying to catch the little sod anyway–he’d run out of lighter fuel. Plus it was no fun torching the little bastards without your crew there to see it.
He peered down at his pale hand clutching an old tab end from the ground. Too big to throw, so he buried it deep in the pocket of his Stone Island jacket for future consumption.
After a noisy piss into a puddle–pissing quietly didn’t unsettle nervous residents–he adjusted his baseball cap and hunched himself into the position offering greatest protection against the biting wind. By happy coincidence, it was also the posture designed to radiate maximum menace, the posture of choice for that invisible brotherhood of disaffected youth around the world. Wicked.
