Last of the Magpies Read online

  ALSO BY MARK EDWARDS

  The Magpies

  Kissing Games

  What You Wish For

  Because She Loves Me

  Follow You Home

  The Devil’s Work

  The Lucky Ones

  The Retreat

  In Her Shadow

  A Murder of Magpies (Kindle Single)

  With Louise Voss

  Forward Slash

  Killing Cupid

  Catch Your Death

  All Fall Down

  From the Cradle

  The Blissfully Dead

  Text copyright © 2019 by Mark Edwards

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Amazon Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  eISBN: 9781542015882

  Cover design by Tom Sanderson

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  FROM THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1

  Jamie Knight spotted Detective Inspector Imogen Evans as soon as he entered the coffee shop. It was impossible to miss that mane of red hair, even here in this crowded, noisy Starbucks. He wanted to go over and immediately start firing questions at her, but she was reading something on her phone and hadn’t seen him, and he forced himself to go to the counter to buy a coffee. Decaf. It was all his jangling nerves could take.

  ‘Mr Knight,’ she said, looking up as he approached her table. The remains of a Frappuccino streaked the insides of the plastic cup in front of her, and crumbs from a half-eaten muffin were scattered across the tabletop.

  He sat down. ‘Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me. I’ve tried calling the officer who’s looking after the investigation dozens of times but he always fobs me off. I’m not even sure if—’

  She held up a hand. ‘Jamie. Please. Can we at least exchange small talk for a minute or two first?’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Sorry.’ A small smile. ‘I can’t help myself.’

  ‘I know. I get it. But please, just looking at you is making my blood pressure rise. Drink your coffee, chill out. Talk about the weather or something. Moan about the Tube. Or did you come by bus?’ She sighed, peering over his shoulder at busy Upper Street. ‘You know, I miss this city so much. I even miss London transport. Crazy, huh?’

  ‘Crazy,’ he agreed, relaxing a little.

  ‘But you decided to stay. I thought you were going to head back to Australia. Perth, was it?’

  ‘Fremantle. And, yeah, I was planning to, but . . .’

  ‘Something made you stay.’

  Their eyes met and he thought, She understands.

  ‘I can’t go back until she’s found,’ he said.

  She held his gaze. ‘Which means you might be here for a very long time.’

  There was a beat of silence, which Jamie broke by saying, ‘So . . .?’

  Imogen Evans glanced around at the other people in the coffee shop. ‘There are too many flapping ears in here,’ she said. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

  The weather was unusually warm in London this autumn, and Imogen was one of the only people on the street wearing a coat. It was tight on her, he noticed. She must have gained weight since he last saw her. That was just after Lucy escaped, when they were still searching the woods and villages near Ludlow.

  They walked up the street, past the Screen on the Green, towards St Mary’s Church. It was lunchtime and there were hundreds of people around, hurrying back to their offices clutching sandwiches or sushi.

  ‘Do you live near here?’ Imogen asked.

  ‘Yes. I’m renting a one-bed in Archway.’

  ‘Nice?’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘And what about work? Are you still running your online security business?’

  ‘I am.’

  For the second time, she sighed. ‘All right, I’ll dispense with the small talk. You want to know where we are with the search for Lucy. You know I’m not actively involved with the investigation, right? Not anymore.’

  ‘I know. But they keep you informed, don’t they? I mean, it was two of your officers who let her get away.’

  Imogen’s face darkened and Jamie immediately regretted his choice of words.

  ‘I’m sorry. I mean . . . she overpowered two of your officers. How are they?’

  ‘They’re fine. Neither of them was badly hurt. But yeah, Jamie, I’m kept informed.’ Her tone was curt. ‘And I’m talking to you because I think you have a right to know what’s going on after what happened in Shropshire and your history with Lucy Newton. But please don’t betray my trust and pass any of this on. Don’t talk to the press or post it online, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  They passed the church. ‘Good. Well, the headline news is that we still don’t have any idea where she is. We went house to house in all the surrounding villages but nobody said anything sensible. There was an elderly couple who thought they saw an unfamiliar blonde woman cycling through the village the morning after she disappeared.’

  ‘But Lucy had dyed her hair brown.’

  ‘Exactly. A false lead. And, as you know, we went over all the CCTV. Nothing. We interviewed cabbies, bus drivers, checked all the footage and spoke to staff at local train stations . . . We put out appeals to see if anyone had picked up a hitch-hiker. In cases like this, fugitives often contact family, but all Lucy’s relatives have been dead for years. We spoke to people she was friendly with in prison, including the guards, and asked them if she’d ever talked about any places that were significant to her. You know she’s from Bromley originally? Well, the police there are keeping an eye out in case she decides to return home. But honestly, Jamie, it’s like she evaporated. Poof. Into thin air. And that’s despite her photo being plastered on the front of every newspaper and website in the country.’

  He had been expecting this, but it still made his spirits sink. He knew, from monitoring the press over the last twelve months, that there had been plenty of false alarms from people who claimed to have seen Lucy in a variety of places and scenarios: begging on the streets of Manchester; working at a petting zoo in Staffordshire; beach-combing in Cornwall; a face in the crowd at a Sussex Bonfire Night procession. None of these sightings had got Jamie’s hopes up.

  ‘You know she told me she was going to leave the country?’ Jamie said as they approached Islington Town Hall. He was wearing a light jacket and was sweating. Imogen must have been baking in her heavy coat. ‘She said that she and Anita were going abroad once they’d finished with Kirsty and me.’

  ‘Yes. You told me that. But she didn’t have her passport on her when we arrested her. We made her empty her pockets before she got in the police car. In fact, I found out later that she didn’t even have an up-to-date passport. It expired while she was in prison and she never renewed it.’

  This was news to Jamie. ‘So if she really was planning to leave the UK, she was intending to do it without a passport?’

  ‘Yep. Which means either she was lying to you or she planned to do it illegally.’

  ‘Smuggled out of the country?’ The papers were always full of stories of migrants getting into England
concealed in the backs of lorries or on boats. Could Lucy have done this, but going in the other direction? Jamie quite enjoyed the image this conjured, of Lucy crammed into a tiny, hot space, struggling to breathe and being jostled as the lorry crawled down the motorway.

  Imogen went on. ‘Either that, or she was planning to use a fake passport – and we searched both her and Anita’s homes and found nothing. Anita’s passport was there, but nothing for Lucy.’

  Jamie stopped walking. ‘Maybe she had one hidden somewhere. It wouldn’t be picked up, would it, if she left the country using false documents?’

  ‘No. And maybe that’s the most likely explanation. That she’s long gone. Hiding in Ecuador or somewhere. Except . . .’

  ‘Except what?’

  ‘I checked her passport history to see if there were any countries that she’d visited regularly. Favourite destinations. She’s only left England twice in her life. Once was a day trip to France when she was at school. The other time was her honeymoon.’

  Jamie was surprised to hear that the Newtons, whose marriage had been one of convenience, had gone on honeymoon. He guessed they’d done it because it was what normal people did. That was one of the traits of psychopaths – they imitated in order to fit in.

  ‘They went to the Canary Islands,’ Imogen said. ‘Tenerife. A place that’s crawling with British tourists all year round, which makes it an unlikely place for her to hide out, though I’ve sent her photo to the police over there just in case.’

  They started walking again.

  ‘I think she’s still here in the UK,’ Imogen said. ‘This is where she feels comfortable. She’s not a traveller.’

  ‘I think that too,’ Jamie said. He clenched his fists. ‘Actually, I feel it. Sometimes . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can sense her.’

  Imogen raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I don’t mean like she’s watching me. It’s more a feeling that she’s out there, somewhere not too far away. Waiting. Because although she needs to hide, I don’t think she would run away completely. Not while she has unfinished business.’

  They walked on a little further, then Imogen said, ‘I ought to head back.’

  ‘Okay.’

  They turned around and walked back the way they’d come. Jamie was deep in thought, trying to figure out what other questions he could ask the detective before they parted.

  ‘Do you think she has someone helping her?’ he asked.

  Imogen shrugged. ‘It seems likely. We know from the way she got Anita to assist her that she can be very persuasive. Seductive, even.’

  ‘Maybe there was someone waiting to help her that night. Someone she’d been planning to meet up with after she’d . . . finished with me and Kirsty.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Did you go on the Dark Angel website, track down all the Newtonites? You know – her fans? One of them could be helping her.’

  This was his favourite theory, and he hoped it would strike Imogen as a brilliant notion, but she shook her head. ‘We thought of that. We traced all the most vociferous supporters of hers on there, spoke to her sympathisers, the people who thought she was innocent. The thing is, none of them think she’s innocent anymore. After what happened in Shropshire, they’ve come to realise they were wrong. It’s something I never thought I’d see. Keyboard warriors changing their minds.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Mister Magpie?’ That was the most vocal Lucy supporter on the forum. ‘He still maintains her innocence.’

  ‘Yes. Mister Magpie is in fact a seventy-year-old retired teacher who lives in Staines. She’s definitely not harbouring Lucy.’

  ‘She?’ He couldn’t believe it. All the arguments he’d had with that user, picturing a sweaty man sitting in a den filled with pictures of serial killers.

  ‘The poor woman has crippling arthritis,’ Imogen said. ‘She can barely type anymore. And every other bugger on that forum is just like you, obsessed with trying to figure out where Lucy’s got to.’

  She chuckled, then winced.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Jamie asked. They were almost back at the Starbucks now.

  ‘Yes, it’s just stomach cramps. It’s quite common, apparently. Nothing to worry about.’

  Jamie looked at her blankly.

  ‘Of course, I didn’t tell you, did I? I’m pregnant.’

  ‘Oh.’ That explained the tight coat. ‘Congratulations. Is it your first?’

  ‘Yes. Well, I have a stepson, Ollie, but he’s a teenager. I’ve never had to look after a baby.’ She pulled a face. ‘I never thought I would.’

  Imogen must have seen the pain this talk of babies caused Jamie, because she said, ‘Listen, Jamie, can I give you some advice? Move on. Forget about Lucy Newton. Try to forget everything she did to you. My husband, Ben, got entangled with a serial killer too, believe it or not . . .’

  Jamie did believe it. He’d googled her.

  ‘. . . and he struggled to get over it for ages. But we found him a good therapist and he’s fine now. He still has the occasional nightmare but, all in all, we’re getting on with our lives.’ She patted her belly. ‘I realise it’s hard, but that’s what you need to do too.’

  He nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘Good.’ Her phone began to ring. ‘I need to get this. Take care of yourself, Jamie. And please, take my advice. Forget about Lucy. Live your life.’

  She turned away, answering the phone, leaving Jamie standing in the middle of the pavement, passers-by weaving around him.

  Move on. Live your life.

  He wanted to. Of course he wanted to. But no matter how hard he tried – and he had been to not one but two therapists – he couldn’t get Lucy out of his head.

  Meeting up with DI Evans had confirmed what he feared: the police weren’t doing enough. They had all but given up and were sitting back, hoping someone would spot Lucy or she’d make a mistake and show herself. But Jamie couldn’t sit back like that. He couldn’t be passive.

  Because he would never be able to rest until she was found.

  2

  ‘So, Kirsty, on a scale of one to ten, how scared are you of spiders?’

  She didn’t hesitate. ‘Eleven. Actually, can I go higher than eleven?’

  Her fellow arachnophobes laughed, and the cold throb of fear in her belly retreated for a moment. The guy running the course, Jim, smiled at her. ‘And where do you think this fear comes from?’

  She didn’t know the answer to that. It was simply something that had always been inside her, as far back as she could remember. Jim moved on to the young woman beside Kirsty, who started talking about how her mum had been terrified of spiders, and Jim said this was where many people got their phobia from. He said, too, that there was probably an evolutionary reason for this primal fear: a need to avoid poisonous creatures. ‘But spiders in Britain are completely harmless. There’s no need to be afraid of them. And that’s why we’re here today. We’re going to help you conquer that fear.’

  There were forty arachnophobes in this room at London Zoo, and Jim asked several of them how their fear of spiders impacted on their lives. One guy said he was frightened to go into his shed. A woman said her husband worked night shifts, and the other week she had been unable to go to bed because she had seen something small run across the carpet. ‘I locked myself in the bathroom all night, convinced it was coming to get me, and left increasingly hysterical messages on my husband’s voicemail.’

  Another man said that he couldn’t even handle a tomato if it had the green stalk part attached.

  Kirsty laughed along with the rest of the attendees but inside she was thinking, That’s nothing. None of you have a real reason for wanting to get over your phobia.

  No one else here had had their fear used against them by a psychopath.

  No one else had been tied up and tortured like she had.

  And that was why she was here. She was sick of being vulnerable. Of having any weakness at all. Over the last yea
r, since that horrific encounter with Lucy, Kirsty had worked hard on herself, mentally and physically. She’d hit the gym, building up her arm muscles and upper body strength, and had started going to a yoga class. She’d begun practising mindfulness and meditation. Every night she listened to sleep stories using an app on her phone. She had paid for a number of expensive sessions with a therapist, who had helped her talk through her fears.

  All of her fears except this one.

  When she had been tied to that bed, and Lucy had held the spiders over her, Kirsty had been so consumed by horror that she had been unable to think of anything except the need to escape. But afterwards she had made a promise to herself. She would never allow herself to be that vulnerable again, even if it was extremely unlikely that she would ever be taken captive by Lucy again. She believed that Lucy had gone underground forever, that she would never be found. Thanks to her therapy and a lot of time spent dealing with her own anger and desire for justice, she had reached a point where that was fine. She no longer cared if Lucy was punished for what she had done. Just as long as the bitch never came near Kirsty again.

  The group were still talking about their experiences with spiders. A middle-aged woman in the corner was crying and Kirsty prayed she wouldn’t be asked to tell her own story, although it might be worth it to see their faces when she told them she’d been tied up and tortured by a famous serial killer. But then Jim announced they were going to have a break, which would be followed by the hypnosis session.

  ‘And after, if you’re up for it, there’ll be the opportunity to meet some of our eight-legged friends,’ he said.

  A collective groan and shudder went around the room, and Kirsty thought she might throw up.

  You can do this, she told herself. You’re not going to be vulnerable ever again.

  Afterwards, on the bus home, Kirsty was sick with disappointment. She had let herself down and she wanted to punch her reflection in the window.

  The hypnosis session had been fine. She had lain on the floor with a cushion beneath her head, along with all the other attendees. It had been quite relaxing. The hypnotherapist had told them to cast off their negative thoughts and persuaded them that they would be comfortable around spiders. She could feel it working. And then, as they filed towards the bug house, she had been calm.