PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES: a gripping crime thriller (Camden Noir Crime Thrillers Trilogy Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

realised that she must be checking out the scratches above my left eye.
    “I was jumped,” I told her in explanation, though she hadn’t asked for one. “My ribs are killing me. I’m going to take Ibuprofen and hope for the best.” She didn’t reply.
    She went out the back and returned quickly with the coffee and water. This time not meeting my eye at all. It was clear that a man with scratches on his face is seen as the aggressor and not the victim. Trying to explain myself had only made it worse.
    As I sat there blowing on my coffee, which was too hot to drink, the waitress was whispering to her colleague, who was reading the paper. She glanced at me for a second and then returned nervously back to the paper. I had to get out of there. I swallowed two painkillers with water then asked the waitress to make my coffee to go. She transferred it to a cardboard cup and handed it to me. I paid the bill and left.
    Walking over to the kiosk outside Hampstead Underground, I picked up a local newspaper and looked at the front page: Pentonville Strangler Kills Immigrant.
    Under the headline was a grainy photo of the immigrant in question. I looked several times at the photo not able to take it in and found myself saying “Natasha” out loud. It was definitely her: “Polish immigrant Dr Natasha Rokitzky who worked at AmizFire Productions was found asphyxiated in her bed in a flat off Pentonville Road. Neighbours discovered the body on Sunday evening. The exact time of death is unknown. Police are appealing for people to come forward with any information.”
    Next to the photo of Natasha was a photofit picture of someone that neighbours had seen entering the block of flats with Natasha on Thursday night. It had my eyes and nose. The street raptors had got a good look at me. I sat on the steps of the Underground entrance drinking the coffee in gulps. I put down the coffee and lit a cigarette, my hand shaking as I put it to my lips. White lights flashed in my peripheral vision. For a split second I saw an image of a blood splattered bathroom, a knife in my hand. I shook my head in a literal attempt to remove the picture from my mind.
    My first thought was to go to the police and tell them as much as I knew. Clear my name. But then I looked at the article again. “The Pentonville Strangler has killed twice before and has baffled police by leaving no clues.” I thought about all the times the police had settled for the most likely suspect in cases where there were no other leads: the boyfriend, the husband, the jealous ex. Those convenient credible victims only finding freedom after a decade or more of wrongful incarceration. Maybe they would hang the two other murders on me, clearing their backlog of unsolved cases.
    Natasha and I hadn’t had sex so I was sure to fit some criminologist’s profile: the killer who strangled because of his impotency. And if we had consummated our brief affair, then traces of my DNA would be enough to secure the conviction. As it was my DNA would be all over the cigarette butts, the glass of water; fingerprints all over her body. More white flashes, this time my hands covered in blood.
    I tried to concentrate on the blurb under the photofit. “If you think you know this man, or you can give us any information as to his whereabouts, don’t hesitate to call this number.” I reached for my coffee and sipped the dregs, acid burned in my stomach. I had the sensation someone was watching me. I looked up and saw the newspaper vendor speaking on his mobile with his hand over his mouth. Across the road, the waitress leant against the window looking at me while she smoked. A taxi driver was sitting in his parked cab reading the newspaper and glancing over in my direction. White flashes of Natasha dead in the bath, her expression twisted and grotesque.
    I stood up and walked towards the Tube barriers. I couldn’t find any change for the machine and there was a long queue at the ticket office. I didn’t