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  From The Dark

  The Forensic Files - Book 5

  KA Richardson

  Contents

  Also by KA Richardson

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  A Note From Bloodhound Books

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2018 KA Richardson

  The right of KA Richardson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Also by KA Richardson

  The Forensic Files

  I’ve Been Watching You ( Book 1)

  Time To Play ( Book2)

  Watch You Burn ( Book 3)

  Under the Woods (Book 4)

  Praise for KA Richardson

  “Kerry is such a talented writer, able to spin an all-consuming tale that grabs your attention from the very first page and refuses to let you go until the action packed finale.” Joanne Robertson - My Chestnut Reading Tree

  “As always, another excellent book from K A Richardson. Her knowledge of how crime scenes are dealt with is remarkable and adds something extra to an excellent story of murder and kidnap. She mixes in a love interest as well – all in all a fantastic read. Thoroughly enjoyed it.” Anita Waller - Author

  “KA Richardson’s style of writing is fresh and crisp making this story an easy read.” Shell Baker - Chelle's Book Reviews

  “A good crime read that makes me want to check out other books in the series.” Babus Ahmed - Goodreads Reviewer

  “A brilliantly thought out plot, wonderfully described characters lead to a book that you won’t want to put down.” Misfits Farm - Goodreads Reviewer

  “This is an intoxicating read, and it ends in a way that thrilled me. I can't wait for book 2.” Tracy Shephard - Goodreads Reviewer

  “KA Richardson has the writing talent and story-telling skills to be with us a long while. I can’t wait to see what she brings us next!” – Howard Linskey, author of No Name Lane, Behind Dead Eyes, and the David Blake series.

  “A great follow on from With Deadly Intent with no punches pulled. This one is a must-read.” Sheila Quigley, best-selling author of the Seahills Series and Holy Island Trilogy.

  “KA Richardson writes with such knowledge, it’s like watching an episode of Silent Witness.” Tara Lyons, author of The DI Hamilton Series.

  “KA Richardson is a brilliant Northern writer. She’s created some of my favourite characters and her writing sings. LOVE LOVE LOVE IT.” Eileen Wharton, award-winning author of Blanket of Blood, Shit Happens and The M Word.

  “I was hooked on this book right from page one. This has to be one of the most sinister books I have ever read, and I loved it!” Dee Williams - Goodreads Reviewer

  “With her attention to detail and her impassioned prose, KA Richardson is a fresh and exciting voice in the crime fiction genre.” Ian Ayris, author of Abide With Me and April Skies.

  For my husband, Peter.

  Prologue

  The darkness he was standing in would have been stifling and overwhelming to anyone else. It was the kind of dark even those who enjoyed the never-ending sea of black hated. He didn’t agree. This place gave him comfort – like a warm blanket on a cold day. It wrapped around him, drew him in – it always had. And he’d been breaking in long enough to be sure of that now.

  The vaults are a mass of intertwined tunnels and rooms lurking beneath Edinburgh’s concrete overcoat. They used to be the city itself, once upon a time.

  He’d explored for years – even managed to find his way into some of the adjoining vaults owned by various companies that ran tours designed to give a brief history of them. Anything to entice the tourists into spending money deep in the ‘real Edinburgh’. Scaring them with stories of ghosts and ghouls.

  It was fitting that he was here to give them an actual show – scare the pants off them for real. It had taken some planning, but he knew he was ready.

  If he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could practically smell the way it had been back then – back when the city was called Auld Reekie. Way back when the vaults had housed people, the streets were where they kept their animals and did their trade. Add to that the stench of shit and piss from the buckets emptied daily, and it would have been ripe to say the least. His eyes opened slowly – the only smell now was damp and concrete. There wasn’t a melee of people hanging around.

  There was no one but him, and the man lying at his feet.

  He kicked at the man’s torso hard, causing the young man to groan in pain. He’d taken great pleasure in beating the man pretty much senseless. Man was a strong word – more lad really. No more than nineteen. He’d grabbed him the night before – the lad was pissed and staggering all over. He hadn’t even realised he was in trouble until it was too late. Once he’d knocked him unconscious, he’d dragged him by his feet through to the entrance he used. Once inside the vault, he’d hoisted him onto his shoulder and carried him to the part of the city he was in now, the part owned by one of the largest tourist companies in Edinburgh.

  He laughed to himself at their assurance that they owned the largest number of vaults in the city. It meant nothing. The majority of vaults were owned privately – the owners not really caring about the historic walls beneath their town houses and businesses. Definitely not caring enough to use them.

  He smiled in the darkness – imagining the faces of the tour guide and the tourists as they came upon his masterpiece. And it would be a true work of art: no one had ever done anything like it before.

  Positioning himself so his back was against the wall of the tunnel he was in – the main tunnel entrance for the tourists entering the vaults at this level – he grabbed the lad by his shoulders and dragged him into position so he was leant against his own knees.

  He reached into the pocket of his black combat trousers and smiled, his white teeth stark in the dimly lit tunnel. The other tunnels and vaults were much more authentic – no electrics running through and illuminating the grey concrete with a yellow hue. He had chosen this particular tunnel for one reason only – it was open to the public. His art required an audience. The dim lights would show his masterpiece off to perfection.

  Slowly he pulled his hand free, enclosing the knife in his fingers tightly.

  It was a special knife – it held so much meaning and history itself that it was almost a crime to use it. He never would have if it hadn’t belonged to who it had allegedly belonged to. Having this blade helped him feel close to them. As close as he could be after the passage of time anyway. He pressed the freshly sharpened blade against the lad’s neck from behind, the coolness of the deer-horn handle sett
ling in his palm perfectly. Adjusting his grip so it was comfortable and snug in his palm, he drew the blade across the lad’s neck in one deep stroke.

  The lad gurgled, suddenly getting a spurt of survival instinct even as his blood spewed from the deep cut across his throat. His hands grasped feebly against the gash on his throat, eventually dropping to his sides.

  He stepped to the left, letting the lad’s body fall against the wall for support, listening as the blood slowed in its exit.

  Only once the sounds of movement stopped did he turn his torch on to assess his handiwork.

  Dark wet streaks covered the wall and low ceiling in the tunnel and a pool around where the lad sat slowly spread outwards. His open eyes stared directly into the torch light, but the pupils didn’t dilate.

  The lad was dead.

  ‘That’ll do nicely,’ he muttered to himself as he leaned forward and cleaned his blade on the lad’s own jumper. He placed the knife back inside the leather sheath in his pocket, and slowly pulled out the postcard, letting it drop gracefully onto the man’s torso.

  It had taken him months to finally choose something apt to leave behind. That card would be his signature. The one thing he would leave at all of his kills. This was his first but it wouldn’t be his last. It couldn’t have gone more to plan.

  He stepped around the blood, taking great care not to stand in any of the wet patches – wanting it to be as undisturbed as possible.

  After taking a few steps down the tunnel towards his exit point, he turned back and said loudly, ‘You died for medical science. They will come and take you to the medical examiner soon. You did not die in vain.’

  This was a statement that seemed to fit the crime. Then he sloped off into the darkness.

  Chapter 1

  17th December, 0710 hours – Edinburgh City Police Station

  It had already been a clusterfuck of a morning and it wasn’t even daylight yet. Mark McKay had only been at home for the grand total of five hours before having to leave for work. Then he’d bumped his car thanks to the thick ice covering the back roads. Luckily, he’d hit a wall and not another car but still, it was an expense he didn’t really need right now. Then he’d managed to slip on the ice in the car park of the police station and landed hard on his wrist which was already bruising and sore. Sighing, he acknowledged he hated this time of year.

  Christmas was when the hordes invaded the city, cramming the main centre full with their bodies, trying to get bargains from the Christmas markets. He liked Christmas rightly enough, just not spending it at work and having to deal with people. His mum had rung him about ten times the day before, quadruple checking that he’d picked the turkey up and reminding him that his brothers, the precious Alex and Ali, were coming home with their partners and kids.

  There would be more kids than there normally was, which was plenty enough. His youngest sister Mary had four. Joseph, James and Max all had two, then add into the mix the two that Alex had and the almost grown child that Ali had adopted and it made for a massive family reunion.

  There was only him and his twin sister, Annie, who didn’t have kids. A fact their mother never let them forget, with her constant nagging that neither of them was getting any younger.

  Kids weren’t something he’d discounted; he’d just never met the right girl. Or maybe he had and she’d slipped away before he noticed. Either way, he had none. Annie was a law unto herself – always had been. She never went with the norm. The only relatively normal thing she’d done was her training to get in the police force, like most of the family, and yet completely different to them also. Whilst he, Ali, Alex and Joseph were all officers across various forces, Annie had decided to go into crime scene investigation. He was damn proud of her for that, though. She was one of the best, had just passed her crime scene manager training and was next on the list for the position.

  It definitely beat running after the scumbags he dealt with. Some days he felt like he was too old for running suspects down and working every hour God sent. Today was one of those days.

  He felt his brows knit as he recalled the reason why he had been out so late the night before.

  Francis Wright.

  Man-killer extraordinaire, and running around the city completely free. He’d been after Francis since the day he walked out of the courtroom with no jail time or punishment due to alleged lack of evidence. Mark knew what he’d done, though. And Francis knew that Mark knew.

  Mark had camped outside of Wright’s flat on more occasions than he’d care to admit, the most recent being the night before for a few hours – he did it most nights when he got off work. The bastard had even had the gall to wave at him from his bedroom window before turning the lights off. He knew Mark was watching. He revelled in it.

  Mark just needed one thing to happen – one single bit of evidence of wrongdoing and he’d be able to lock Wright up and throw away the key. He hadn’t listened two weeks ago when he’d been ordered to stand down by his detective inspector – DI McPhee. McPhee didn’t know that Mark was ignoring him, though, because he was too wrapped up in his own life to notice the dark circles round Mark’s eyes. He didn’t need to know, as long as Mark kept it on the down-low and didn’t expose himself. Mark knew he was being proactive, and he didn’t care that the DI might view it as verging on unprofessional and infringing the man’s human rights. Mark knew what Wright had done. And if someone wasn’t watching, he’d do it again.

  Mark couldn’t rest knowing he was still out there, that young men, barely out of their teens, were at risk from him.

  He rubbed his arm absentmindedly, and his bruise throbbed in response to his touch. It was enough to pull him out of his reverie.

  Pushing open the door to the station, he put Wright to the back of his mind, for now. It was already a shit day: the last thing he needed was to have his head on things other than whatever was on the jobs board for the day. He took the stairs two at a time, and made it three flights up without breaking a sweat. Regular workouts at the gym kept him trim and stopped the loneliness creeping in.

  He steeled himself with a deep breath, before pushing open the office door and heading to his desk.

  17th December, 0735 hours – Edinburgh City Police Station

  Antonia Baillie was sitting in the waiting room of the police station trying her hardest not to wring her hands together – something she always did when she was nervous. She’d already spoken to the control room using the wall phone outside the doors and had heard the disdain in the voice of the operator when she told him why she was there.

  The disdain didn’t bother her – she expected it. It had been a long time since she’d received any modicum of respect from anyone except her close friends. She’d learned years ago to have a thick skin, and to expect arsey comments from most of the people she came into contact with.

  She didn’t even have to tell them she was Romani. They seemed to know as soon as they looked at her. Granted, she acknowledged she did look a little like a stereotypical gypsy – all chocolate-brown, curly hair and eyes so dark they were almost black – but people judged without knowing her. It had happened all her life. So, the disdain from the comms room operator when she’d said what she was there for didn’t bother her. And it didn’t bother her when he’d said he’d ‘try and get someone down to see her but she’d probably have a wait’. Not really. Not so she would show anyone anyway.

  Toni had to tell someone what she knew. It was part of who she was. She’d always fought for the underdog – the people that couldn’t speak for themselves. And that’s what she was doing today.

  The dead can’t speak for themselves. Someone else has to do it.

  She gave a deep sigh, and plonked her bottom down on the hard-plastic benches secured across one wall of the small waiting area. It had holes in the centre that immediately dug into the flesh under her leggings and made her wiggle a little with discomfort.

  It was going to be a long wait.

  17th December, 0815 hours �
� Edinburgh City Police Station

  ‘Mark, before you go, there’s some crackpot downstairs in front office claiming that a body is going to be found today. Give her your ear for a minute, see if she has anything kosher. If she doesn’t, turn her loose. There’s enough crazy in the city at the minute without her particular brand of it, if you know what I mean.’ DI McPhee’s voice was quiet yet commanding, with all the confidence of a man who presumed Mark had grasped his meaning instantly.

  ‘No crazies. Got it, boss.’ Mark did a mock salute before walking out of the door and heading down to the front office. What the hell kind of crazy are we talking?

  The internal door to front office clicked as he approached, watched in the office by the girl manning it. He couldn’t quite recall her name. She was young, and shy – he doubted she’d last two minutes in the job. But he knew that wasn’t really for him to say. Sticking his head round the corner, he said thank you and smiled. Her cheeks pinked up and she nodded quickly before returning her attention to the computer screen in front of her face.