The Retribution Read Online Free PDF Page A

forced.’ There was no mistaking his contempt.
    ‘So how did we find her?’ Carol asked.
    ‘The usual. Man walking his dog last thing. The dog made a beeline for the back door. It must have smelled the blood.’ Reekie wrinkled his nose. ‘Hardly surprising. According to the owner, the dog charged the door, the door swung open, the dog vanished inside and wouldn’t come when called. So he went in, torch on. Took one look and called us.’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘At least he had the good sense to grab the dog before it completely fucked up the crime scene.’
    ‘But Dr Shatalov reckons she was killed last night. How come the dog didn’t find her then?’
    Reekie looked over his shoulder, where his DI was riding point. He’d been silent and still up to that point but knew what was expected of him. ‘They didn’t go that way last night, according to the owner. Obviously, we’ll be checking that out.’
‘Never trust the body finder,’ Reekie said.
    Like we didn’t know that.
Carol stared at the body, clocking every detail, wondering about the sequence of events that had led this young woman here. ‘Any ID?’ she said.
    ‘Not so far,’ Spencer said. ‘We’ve got a bit of a street prostitution problem out towards the airport. Eastern Europeans, mostly. She’ll likely be from there.’
    ‘Unless he brought her out from the city. From Temple Fields,’ Paula said.
    ‘The first two were local,’ Reekie said.
    ‘Well, let’s hope Grisha can get her looking human enough to ID via a photo,’ Carol said. ‘You said, “the first two”, sir. You’re sure this is a series?’
    Reekie turned back to the body. ‘Show her, doc.’
    Grisha pointed to what looked like a tattoo on the inside of the woman’s wrist. It was partially covered with blood, but Carol could still make out the letters. MINE. A message that was repulsive, sick and insolent. And yet, in the back of Carol’s head, a devil whispered, ‘Make the most of this. If you go to West Mercia, you’ll never see a crime scene as interesting as this again.’

6
    A gainst all odds, years of apparently model behaviour had earned Vance a place in the Therapeutic Community Wing at HMP Oakworth in the depths of the Worcestershire countryside. There was no set lights-out time on this wing, separated as it was from the rest of the prison; inmates could turn the light off when they wanted to. And the tiny en suite bathroom gave him a degree of privacy he’d almost forgotten existed. Vance turned out the light, leaving the TV on so he wasn’t working in complete darkness. He spread a newspaper out on the table then painstakingly chopped off his hair with a razor blade. Once it was short enough, he ran the electric razor back and forth till his skull was as smooth as he could get it. Thanks to his prison pallor, there would be no difference in skin colour between the newly shaven skin and his face. Next, he shaved off the full beard he’d been cultivating over the past few weeks, leaving only a goatee and moustache behind. Over the past couple of years, he’d been varying his facial hair dramatically – from full beard to clean-shaven, from chin strap to Zapata moustache – so that nobody would pay attention when he cultivated the look that counted.
    The key part of the transformation still lay ahead of him. He reached up to the bookshelf above the table and took down a large-format book, a limited edition collection of lithographs by modern Russian artists. Neither Vance nor the usual inmate of the cell had any interest in the art; what made this book valuable was the heavy paper stock it was printed on, paper so heavy the pages could be slit open and used to hide thin plastic sheets of tattoo transfers.
The transfers had been painstakingly created from photographs Vance had taken on his contraband smartphone. They replicated in exact detail the elaborate and garish body art that covered the arms and neck of Jason Collins, the man who was