The Trophy Taker
A serial killer is on the loose. His target? Lone Western women lured to Hong Kong by the promise of easy money. As The Butcher's killing spree escalates, bags of mutilated body parts are found all over the island - and more girls are disappearing.Taking on his first homicide case, Detective Johnny Mann is determined to stop The Butcher's brutal reign. Haunted by the memory of his father's death by the Triads, he's the only man who can track down a killer who's paralysing the city with fear.Madeleine Johnson has left her tragic past in England to start afresh in Hong Kong. But soon her life is in peril as she is sucked into the sinister world of the city's hostess clubs.Venturing into dark and dangerous places, Mann unearths chilling evidence about the killings. And then another body is found, one which brings the murders closer to home…Bolt the doors, turn on the lights and pray for mercy - you'll be up all night with this disturbingly addictive debut from a writer being hailed as the female James Patterson.
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LEE WEEKS
The Trophy Taker
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
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2008
Copyright © Lee Weeks 2008
Lee Weeks 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
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Source ISBN: 9781847560780
Ebook Edition AUGUST 2008 ISBN: 9780007281879 Version 2018-05-24
For my dad, Brian Davies Bateman, who gave me the gift of self-belief.
Contents
Chapter Hundred and Twenty One
Chapter Hundred and Twenty Two
Chapter Hundred and Twenty Three
Hong Kong 2003
Glitter Girl crouched in the darkness. Sweat trickled down her back to the base of her Lurex halter-top and her denim miniskirt rode up around her waist.
She didn’t dare move. She couldn’t see a thing. She tried to rub away the melted make-up that sweated into her eyes and made them sting, but she couldn’t – her hands were tied tightly behind her back. So instead she blinked as hard as she could and stayed absolutely still and hoped that it would come to her in a moment – something would tell her where she was and how she got there. So far, nothing. She did her best not to cry. She could hardly breathe as it was, through the tape over her mouth. She would definitely suffocate if she cried.
As her eyes searched the gloom, shapes began to appear, outlines to form. She looked down at her bare feet and saw that she was squatting on a thin mattress. Long ago it had had some sort of willow pattern, but now there were only dark-rimmed stains, bleeding into one another. To her right, two metres away, was the door through which she must have come, if only she could remember. She twisted around to her left to see what her hands were tied to and recoiled from what she saw. The wall behind her was covered in photos of women. They weren’t nice pictures – not even porno ones like the sort that Darren had up in his garage. The women in these photos stared out, slack-jawed and cloudy-eyed. They were all dead.
