A damp, dark cellar holds two cages. And for the women behind the bars, their worst nightmares are about to come true . . .
When Louise Russell goes missing from her home, D.I. Sean Corrigan from South London's Murder Investigation Unit immediately senses foul play. For Corrigan's own dark childhood has given him the ability not only to recognize evil in those who prey upon the innocent, but also to see a crime scene from the eyes of the perpetrator.
Though Corrigan has no doubts that Louise was taken against her will, he believes she's still alive. But time is running out, especially when a body is found dumped in the woods—a woman who's a dead ringer for Louise. How long before Louise's captor gets tired of her and replaces her with another lookalike? How long before they find Louise's corpse next?
Now, in order to track a psychopath, Corrigan must place himself in the mind of a killer. For it is only there that the twisted secrets of a murderer lie.
off balance and she fell forward, both shins crashing into the harsh edge of a stone stair, the pain making her call out as she dragged herself back to her feet, running up the stairs again, trying to be more careful. Fear of what was behind her made her reckless and uncoordinated as she grew closer and closer to the oblong of light above, its brightness making the tears sting her eyes so painfully she had to close them. And all the while Louise’s voice screamed after her: ‘You fucking bitch.
the sorting office in South Norwood where they had arranged to meet Leonard Trewsbury, the depot supervisor. They’d travelled in almost complete silence, Sally driving while Sean spent most of his time nervously cradling his phone, waiting for Donnelly to call back. It had rung several times during the journey, making them both jump, but he’d answered only once, when the caller ID showed it was DS Roddis from the forensic team. Sally wondered who the other calls were from. ‘Something bothering
with a complete loser here. He had a decent enough job, or he was a decent enough villain, although I don’t get the feel this is a villain’s home.’ Both men craned their heads around the hallway area, as if to confirm Donnelly’s assessment so far. He continued: ‘And I’ve found a few letters all addressed to a Daniel Graydon. Nothing for anyone else.’ ‘Well, Daniel Graydon,’ Sean asked, ‘what the hell happened to you? And why?’ ‘Shall we?’ With an outstretched hand pointing along the corridor,
jut of his chin. She dropped her computer case on her chair and headed straight for them, eyes down and shoulders slumped. Watching her, Sean was again reminded how much he missed the person she used to be. She walked into his office and sat without being asked. ‘What’s happening?’ she demanded. ‘Not enough,’ Sean replied. ‘Whatever that means,’ she said, oblivious to her own mood. Sean let it slide. ‘We’ve been on this for twenty-four hours. He snatched her in broad daylight in her own car.
to remember what he had felt when he’d first seen him, whether he’d missed something. Could it be that Terry had killed his own sister and then taken Louise Russell in some twisted attempt to replace her, to avoid feelings of guilt and remorse, loss and sorrow? The replacement angle felt right, but everything else felt wrong. He moved slowly around the bedroom, but again could get no sense of her, no trace of her perfume or shampoo, her body or hand cream. Her house was a desert to him. He