Her Last Breath: The new crime thriller from the international bestseller (Sullivan and Mullins) Read online

  Footsteps crunched on the stones behind her and she whipped round.

  Alex?

  A figure had materialised further down the beach, making a beeline for the water’s edge. He wasn’t looking at her, but she felt scared and headed back towards the promenade at the base of the bandstand. There were steps by the bandstand café that led back up to the street. She’d feel safer on the promenade, where the street lights would guide her home. She sat down on the bottom step to put on her shoes, brushing the sand off her feet with frenzied strokes.

  A flare of bright, white pain exploded on one side of her head. Her shoes flew out of her hand and she tumbled forward. Her chin hit the paving.

  What the hell?

  She tasted blood in her mouth.

  ‘Alex?’

  Two hands grabbed her by the ankles. She struggled but it was no good. The grasp around her legs tightened. She was being dragged over the rough stone surface. Panic stole her breath and made her dizzy.

  She wanted to kick out at her attacker, but her legs and arms wouldn’t co-operate. Her head smacked against a low kerbstone. Pain ripped through her skull. She couldn’t focus her eyes, and tears were pouring down her cheeks. She screamed, tearing the back of her throat, but there was no one on the beach to hear her.

  Who? Why? Half-formed questions bubbled into her brain.

  ‘Please,’ she spluttered. ‘Let me go.’

  Her captor stopped pulling her along and released one of her ankles. She could see the dark silhouette of a man looming over her. Still holding the other ankle, he moved to one side of her. Then he took aim with a booted foot and kicked her in the ribs.

  Venomous pain flooded her body and she couldn’t breathe.

  A dark shadow cloaked her vision and her mind went blank.

  i

  19 July 1982

  Your fifth birthday is a very exciting day, Aimée. Of course it is – all birthdays are. But especially turning five, because this afternoon you’re going to have your very own birthday party for the first time. There will be games and presents, and a cake shaped like a giant yellow sunflower. You were allowed to choose five girls from your class at school to invite and you’ve got a new dress. A red dress with satin bows, and shiny black sandals to wear with it, and Mummy’s going to put a red ribbon in your long black hair.

  Your guests won’t be here for at least an hour, but already you’re practically sick with excitement.

  Mummy has sent you to your room with a book. She’s too busy with party preparations to keep an eye on you. She’s quite snappy, so you’re glad to be out of her way. You get the feeling that she doesn’t really like parties. Not unless they’re grown-up parties, when she can have drinkies and do her fake laugh.

  You’re bored with the book and your brother, Jay, won’t play with you. Yours is a girls-only party – no boys allowed. Jay said he doesn’t care and wouldn’t want to go to the party anyway. He called it a baby girls’ party. He has better things to do up in his room. You try to go in but he shoves you out and tells you to go away because he’s reading. Just because he’s four years older than you, he thinks he’s better than you. You know that’s not true.

  But it means you have no one to play with now. You wish Jay wasn’t acting so stupid. You want him here to make you laugh, or even to tease you rotten. You sit on the window seat in your room and stare out of the window, tapping your foot anxiously as you wait for your first guests to arrive. You’re sure they’re late. You keep asking Daddy, ‘Shouldn’t they be here by now?’ This makes him laugh, which you don’t think is very nice of him.

  At last, the doorbell rings.

  Things don’t go well at the party. Isabella has decided she doesn’t want to be your friend any more. This might be because you fibbed to her about having a swimming pool in your garden and a pony. Now she just wants to be Bethany’s best friend. You’re sat next to Bethany to play pass the parcel and she won’t pass it to you quickly enough. The music stops and Bethany still has it, when you know it should have been your turn to unwrap the next layer.

  ‘Come on, Bethany,’ you say. Mummy glares at you.

  Bethany unwraps the parcel as slowly as she can, making a face at you.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ you say.

  ‘Aimée, don’t shout!’ says Mummy.

  Bethany sniggers loudly.

  You pull Bethany’s hair. It’s not that bad, what you do, but Mummy sees you doing it and then Bethany, seeing that a grown-up’s watching, screams like a baby.

  ‘Aimée!’

  Goodness, Mummy looks ugly when she’s cross. This makes you laugh and you pull Bethany’s hair again, just to hear her scream again. You pull harder this time to make her scream for real.

  ‘Valentine, she’s had too much sugar and too much excitement. Can you take her up to her room?’

  This makes you furious. But worse is to come.

  ‘Bethany,’ says Mummy, ‘you are the winner of the game. You can unwrap the rest of the layers.’

  Daddy picks you up. He knows how cross this will make you. You pummel his arm, then you start to cry. Up in your room, Daddy sits down on the bed, shifting you easily onto his lap.

  ‘Bethany’s a nasty girl, isn’t she?’ he says. ‘I saw her holding onto the parcel.’

  Daddy always knows how to make you feel better and he practically never gets cross with you. He’s not like Mummy or Jay, who never have time for you and always have more exciting things to do. When Daddy’s home, he makes time for you. And he stops Mummy from being cross with you all the time. He’s your favourite person, always.

  He lies down on your bed, even though his feet are too long for it, and gathers you in to a big hug. You begin to feel better.

  ‘Shhhhhh, princess, no need to cry.’ Daddy smells nice, better than Mummy. ‘There, there, princess. No harm done. We’ll go back down in a while and then you can say sorry to Bethany for pulling her hair.’

  You hate this. You never want to say sorry.

  ‘Let’s just stay up here,’ you say.

  Daddy laughs and holds you tight. So tight you can hardly breathe. He’s the best daddy in the world. Everybody says that. He presses you closer to him. It’s as if he never, ever wants to let go of you. You feel safe.

  Until you hear Mummy’s footstep on the stairs.

  3

  Saturday, 12 August 2017

  Marni

  ‘For God’s sake keep her talking, Alex,’ said Marni. ‘Tell her we’ll be there in a couple of minutes.’

  She could hear a keening cry coming through Alex’s phone and pushed her foot down harder on the accelerator. It didn’t make any difference – she was already driving flat out. Ten minutes earlier, Alex had barged into her bedroom without knocking, dragged her out of bed and pulled her downstairs and out of the door.

  ‘Mum, we’ve got to help Tash!’ he shouted. There was a tremor in his voice and the hand clasping his phone was shaking. ‘She’s been attacked.’

  ‘How’d you know?’ said Marni, still groggy, pulling on a misshapen sweat top over crumpled pyjamas. With no time to check her blood sugar, she grabbed her insulin kit and followed him towards her car.

  ‘She just told me.’ Alex put the phone back to his ear. ‘We’re coming, Tash.’

  Thierry, of course, had slept through the whole commotion. Not surprising given the amount of weed he’d smoked the previous evening, not to mention the half-bottle of Cognac he’d drunk.

  Marni glanced at the clock on the car’s dashboard. It was just after half past six and the dawn light was struggling against a bank of dark clouds rolling in off the sea. Though there was traffic on the streets, it was light enough not to bog them down, and a couple of minutes later, Alex craned his neck out of the car window as the bandstand came into view.

  ‘Tash? Tash, are you there?’ Ale
x’s voice went up a pitch. ‘Mum, I think she’s passed out.’ He repeated her name again and again, louder and louder. ‘Should I call the cops?’

  ‘Wait till we get there and see what’s happened.’ Marni’s ill-ease about the police made her guts churn. Maybe it would be nothing. Maybe they wouldn’t need to call the police. But Tash’s piercing shrieks over the phone line hardly signified nothing. Marni gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles as her shoulder and neck muscles tightened.

  She momentarily lost focus, then too late realised the van they were speeding up behind had stopped. She slammed on the brakes, and Alex jolted forward against his seatbelt.

  ‘Jesus, Mum!’ He closed his eyes and clutched the edge of his seat.

  They sat in silence, waiting for the van to move again, but the driver’s door opened. It wasn’t going anywhere.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Marni, taking a deep breath before pulling out to pass the stationary vehicle. ‘What about Tash?’

  Alex redialled her number. ‘Nothing.’ He tried again and again.

  ‘She just said she was at the bandstand? Anything else?’

  ‘She was crying – she’s hurt. Maybe badly.’ His voice cracked and his head dropped forward to his chest. He pressed his thumb and index finger into the corner of his eyes.

  ‘Weren’t you out with her last night?’

  He looked up, sniffing. ‘She went home without me.’

  Marni sighed. ‘You let her go home on her own? Was it late?’

  Alex stared out of the window without speaking. He twisted his phone in his hands, unable to keep still.

  ‘Alex, what time was it?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mum. We had a row. We were in The Haunt and she stormed off.’

  ‘Well, you should have gone after her.’

  ‘I was going to . . .’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘The bandstand,’ said Marni. ‘Look.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ he said, pointing. ‘It’s deserted.’

  Marni pulled the car up in the first empty parking space, a few yards beyond, and Alex had the car door open before she’d even stopped.

  ‘Maybe she’s on the other side. Come on.’ He ran ahead.

  The bandstand stood several feet higher than the main promenade and could be accessed by a small bridge with wrought iron railings. Steps also ran down from the promenade to the beach level, where underneath the bandstand there was a small tearoom, with a terrace overlooking the sea.

  Given that the octagonal floor of the bandstand was empty, Marni and Alex ran straight for the steps down to the beach.

  ‘Tash?’ called Alex. ‘Are you there?’

  There was no answer but as they drew closer to the café, Marni saw blood on the paving. Fear channelled through her body like lightning and her legs seemed suddenly too weak to carry her weight. She put out a hand to the bandstand wall to steady herself.

  ‘Look,’ she said.

  ‘Tash!’ called Alex again. He ran around the side onto the seafront terrace. ‘Oh my God! Mum, she’s here.’

  As Marni rounded the corner, she saw her son bending over the prone figure of a girl. Blood stained the paving all around her.

  ‘I think she’s unconscious,’ said Alex. He knelt down and pulled her head onto his lap. Her long dark hair was matted with blood, her dress stained with it. Her hands, and her arms and legs were covered in it.

  Marni looked at the amount of blood on the ground around her, then back at the girl. She must have multiple wounds. Her blood-spattered mobile lay next to her where she’d dropped it. Marni’s stomach contracted but she had to take charge.

  ‘Call an ambulance, Alex. I’ll find something to stop the bleeding.’

  The blood trail came from the other side of the bandstand. It looked like Tash had crawled from that direction before she lost consciousness – trying to get away from her attacker or trying to get help? Marni ran to investigate. The door to the café was ajar and there was a bloody handprint on the doorframe. It looked to Marni as if someone had broken in.

  ‘Oh shit.’ Cold fear washed through her. What would she find inside?

  Marni knew she shouldn’t go in – it was a crime scene. But she couldn’t let Tash lie there bleeding out – she’d already lost a lot of blood and the ambulance would take time to arrive. She gingerly pushed the door further open, using her elbow so she didn’t leave fingerprints. It was warm inside and the stench of blood hung heavily in the stale air. With daylight still just a smear in the eastern sky, the interior of the café was half dark. But Marni could see enough. Her breath caught in her throat – the place was a bloodbath. A pair of high-heeled sandals lay abandoned in the middle of the floor, one on its side, both stained with blood.

  Tiptoeing carefully so she wouldn’t tread in any of a dark slick in the centre of the floor, her whole body shaking, Marni went around the back of the café’s glass counter. She needed to find something she could use to staunch Tash’s wounds. A frantic search of the drawers and cupboards turned up nothing useful, but then she saw a package of kitchen rolls on a shelf under the sink. Fingerprints be damned! She picked a clean knife out of a drawer of cutlery and sliced through the plastic outer wrapping.

  ‘Mum!’ called Alex from outside. ‘Hurry.’ There was desperation in his tone.

  Marni came out of the café. She was sweating, suddenly conscious of the smell of her own body. She wanted nothing more than to retreat into a cool shower, to pretend this wasn’t happening.

  ‘Did you call the ambulance?’

  ‘It’s coming.’

  She unrolled several sheets of kitchen towel and knelt down to press them against a wide gash just beneath Tash’s ribs. The girl stirred and whimpered as she did it.

  ‘Tash?’ said Alex.

  Tash’s eyes opened and stared at him blankly. Her face was grey, with a shiny coating of sweat.

  ‘Tash?’ Alex’s voice faltered on his girlfriend’s name.

  Marni took one of the girl’s bloody hands, and with her other hand, stroked Tash’s hair back from her forehead.

  ‘Tash,’ she said softly, ‘can you tell us what happened?’

  ‘I . . . a man came at me from behind . . .’ She could barely manage a whisper. She looked at Alex as she said it, and shrank away from him.

  Marni carried on pressing the paper against Tash’s side.

  ‘He must have stabbed her,’ she whispered to Alex.

  God, what had she been through?

  It was a serious attack – they needed to call the police. Marni felt light-headed. Could she bring herself to speak to DI Frank Sullivan? His rejection had hurt her, but that had been more than ten months ago and now she was back with Thierry. Maybe she wouldn’t have to deal with him. After all, his beat was murder, and as serious as Tash’s wounds were, she was very much alive.

  ‘Mum? Mum?’

  She glanced back at Alex. ‘What?’

  ‘Look!’ He was holding Tash’s hands, palm up. ‘What are these?’ In the centre of both of Tash’s palms were deep pits that looked to have been gouged out with a blade. Her hands were completely covered with blood as if she was wearing red gloves. ‘And her feet . . .’

  Marni looked down.

  Tash Brady had similar wounds dug into the top of each foot.

  Alex’s hands were shaking, making Marni look at her own. A dark fear swept through her. Tash’s bag had been lying on the floor of the tearoom – it hadn’t been taken. This was no ordinary mugging – this attack, these wounds, signified something.

  Tash suddenly stiffened and tried to free herself from Alex’s supporting arm. She murmured something but an exchange of glances showed that Alex hadn’t caught it either.

  ‘Tash?’ said Alex.

  She spoke again but it was garbled.

  Wiping the blood from her hands on the f
ront of her pyjama trousers, Marni dug her phone out of the pocket of her sweat top. She dialled and waited, listening for the sound of the ambulance’s siren in the background.

  What if he didn’t pick up?

  But he did.

  ‘Frank, I need you here now!’

  4

  Saturday, 12 August 2017

  Francis

  Ten minutes after receiving Marni’s call, Detective Inspector Francis Sullivan pulled up behind an ambulance parked by the bandstand. He glanced around and quickly spotted the site of activity, down on the lower level by the café. He was the first policeman on the scene and the paramedics had only just arrived. He put in a quick call to his sergeant, Rory Mackay, to get some SOCOs sent over, and then took a deep breath before getting out of the car. He was going to see Marni Mullins again and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

  Marni Mullins. The tattoo artist had helped him solve the so-called Tattoo Thief murders the previous year. He’d been trying not to think about her. She’d saved his life and for that he owed her something. But he’d been avoiding her. He couldn’t handle the feelings that had sprung up between them when their working relationship spilled over into something more personal. Or, to put it more brutally, he couldn’t afford the level of drama that most interactions with Marni Mullins involved. She was eight years his senior, had a violent ex-husband and a truckload of baggage that gave her particular cause to hate the police. He hadn’t seen or heard from her in months. Until this morning. The half-finished tattoo on his shoulder started to tingle as he remembered the feeling of her needles piercing his skin. His palms were sweating and his heart was pounding.

  Get a grip of yourself.

  And now here she was, hurrying up to him as he came down the steps from the promenade. He had a split second to take in her tousled hair and bloody clothing before she started to speak.

  ‘Frank, thank God . . .’