M. W. Craven - The Curator (Washington Poe)

M. W. Craven is a forceful

new voice in British crime fiction

Caro Ramsay

I cannot recall the last time I binge-read a novel in thirty-six hours

A. A. Dhand

Satisfyingly twisty and clever

Michael J. Malone

In Bradshaw and Poe, M.W. Craven has created a stand-out duo who are two of the most compelling characters in crime fiction in recent years

Fiona Cummins

Washington Poe a rising giant

in detective fiction

Alison Bruce

Dark, thrilling and unputdownable , with sharply drawn characters

that stride off the page

Victoria Selman

This book is dark and twisted

and I loved it

Simon Toyne

Washington Poe series

The Puppet Show

Black Summer

Avison Fluke series

Born in a Burial Gown

Body Breaker

Published by Constable

ISBN: 978-1-47213-193-5

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright M.W. Craven, 2020

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

Constable

Little, Brown Book Group

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

www.littlebrown.co.uk

www.hachette.co.uk

To my late mother, Susan Avison Craven.

You werent with us when I finally realised my dream,
but none of this would have been possible without
your enthusiasm for reading.

A Black Swan event is unprecedented,
impossible to predict and has a huge impact.
Afterwards, it is rationalised by hindsight as if
it should have been anticipated.

Nassim Nicholas Taleb

Theplayer who understands the role of the pawn, who really understands it, can master the game of chess, the man said. They might be the weakest piece on the board but pawns dictate where and when your opponent can attack. They restrict the mobility of the so-called bigger pieces and they determine where the battle squares will be.

The woman stared at him in confusion. Shed just woken and was feeling groggy.

And sore.

She twisted her head and searched for the source of her pain. It didnt take long.

What have you done? she mumbled.

Beautiful, isnt it? Its old-fashioned catgut so the sutures are a bit agricultural, but theyre supposed to be. Its not used any more but I needed the wick effect. Thats when infection enters the wound through the suture. It will ensure the scar stays livid and crude. A permanent reminder of what has happened.

He picked up a pair of heavy-duty rib shears.

Although not for you, of course.

The woman thrashed and writhed but it was no use. She was bound tight.

The man admired the exacting lines of the surgical instrument. Turned it so the precision steel caught the light. Saw his face reflected in the larger blade. He looked serious. This wasnt something he particularly enjoyed.

Please, the woman begged, fully awake now, let me go. I promise you, I wont say anything.

The man walked round and held her left hand. He stroked it affectionately.

Ive had to wait for the anaesthetic to wear off so this is going to hurt, Im afraid. Believe me when I say I wish it didnt have to.

He placed her ring finger between the blades of the rib shears and squeezed the handles together. There was a crunch as the razor-sharp edges sliced through bone and tendon as if they werent there.

The woman screamed then passed out. The man stepped away from the spreading pool of blood.

Where was I? he said to himself. Ah, yes, we were talking about pawns. Beginners think theyre worthless, there to be sacrificed but thats because they dont know when to use them.

He removed a coil of wire from his pocket. It had toggles at each end. He placed them between the index and middle finger of each hand. In a practised movement he wrapped the wire around the womans neck.

Because knowing when to sacrifice your pawns is how the game is won.

He pulled the garrotte taut, grunting as the cruel wire bit into her skin, severing her trachea, crushing her jugular vein and carotid artery. She was dead in seconds.

He waited an hour then took the other finger he needed.

He carefully arranged it in a small plastic tub, keeping it separate from the others. He looked at his macabre collection with satisfaction.

It could begin now.

The other pawns were in position.

They just didnt know it yet

Christmas Eve

It was the night before Christmas and all wasnt well.

It had started like it always did. Someone asking, Are we doing Secret Santa this year? and someone else replying, I hope not, both making a pact to avoid mentioning it to the office manager, both secretly planning to mention it as soon as possible.

And before anyone could protest, the decision had been made and the office was doing it again. The fifteenth year in a row. Same rules as last year. Five-quid limit. Anonymous gifts. Nothing rude or offensive. Gifts that no one wanted. A total waste of everyones time.

At least thats what Craig Hodgkiss thought. He hated Secret Santa.

He hated Christmas too. The yearly reminder that his life was shit. That, while the colleagues he outwardly sneered at were going home to spend Christmas with their families and loved ones, hed be spending it on his own.

But he really hated Secret Santa.

Three years ago it had been the source of his greatest humiliation. Setting himself the not unreasonable Christmas target of shagging Hazel, a fellow logistics specialist at John Bull Haulage, hed wangled it so he was the one whod bought her Secret Santa gift. He reckoned buying her a pair of lace panties would be the perfect way to let her know he was up for some extracurricular activities while her husband long-hauled across mainland Europe.

His plan worked.

Almost.

It had been the perfect way to let her know.

Unfortunately she was happily married, and instead of rushing into his bed shed rushed to her husband, who was between jobs and was having a brew in the depot. The six-foot-five lorry driver had walked into the admin office and broken Craigs nose. Hed told him that if he ever so much as looked at his wife again hed find himself hogtied in the back of a Russia-bound shipping container. Craig had believed him. So much so that, in front of the whole office, hed lost control of his bladder.

For two years everyone had called him Swampy. He couldnt even complain to Human Resources as he was terrified of getting Hazel into trouble.

For two years he hadnt made a dent in the girls in the office.

But eventually Hazel and her brute of a husband had moved on. He took a job driving for Eddie Stobart and she went with him. Craig told everyone that Hazels husband had left the company because hed caught up with him and given him a hiding, but no one had believed him.

Actually, one person seemed to.

By Craigs own standards, Barbara Willoughby was a plain girl. Her hair looked like it had been styled in a nursing home, her teeth were blunt and too widely spaced, and she could have done with dropping a couple of pounds. On a scale of one-to-ten Craig reckoned she was a hard six, maybe a seven in the right lighting, and he only ever shagged eights and above.