Jane Casey - The Reckoning

Born and brought up in Dublin, Jane Casey studied English at Jesus College, Oxford, followed by an MPhil in Anglo-Irish Literature at Trinity College, Dublin. She was working as a childrens books editor when her manuscript for her first book, The Missing, was discovered in her agents slush pile. She was signed up by Ebury Press shortly afterwards, and The Missing has been published around the world.

The Missing was a bestseller in both the UK and Ireland. It achieved widespread critical acclaim and was shortlisted for the Irish Book of the Year Award in the Crime Fiction category. Janes second book, The Burning, has also been a bestseller in the UK and Ireland. Married to a criminal barrister, Jane lives in south-west London.

To the public, hes a hero: a killer who targets convicted paedophiles.

Two men are dead already tortured to death.

Even the police dont regard the cases as a priority. Most feel that two dead paedophiles is a step in the right direction.

But to DC Maeve Kerrigan, no one should be allowed to take the law into their own hands. Young and inexperienced, Kerrigan wants to believe that murder is murder no matter what the sins of the victim. Only, as the killers violence begins to escalate, she is forced to confront exactly how far shes prepared to go to ensure justice is served

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As ever, I am very grateful to a large number of people who helped in the writing of this book.

I would like to thank my agent Simon Trewin and his assistant, Ariella Feiner, for their tremendous support and encouragement, and above all for their entertaining emails. I am also extremely grateful to Jessica Craig, Jane Willis and Zoe Ross, and all at United Agents.

My thanks also to Gillian Green for her excellent editorial judgement, and all of her colleagues at Ebury Press, particularly Caroline Newbury, Ed Griffiths and Susan Pegg. I am always in awe of Justine Taylors eagle-eyed copy-editing; it is much appreciated. Thanks also to Donna Condon.

Special thanks to the staff of Earlsfield Library, who provided a pleasant place to work, useful reference material and many distractions a home from home, in fact.

Friends and family have also played their part and I am eternally grateful to the Caseys, the Hollands, the Kennys and their various offshoots, the Sloanes, the Normans, the Golders and the rest for their kindness and support. Rachel Petty was nice enough to read the manuscript and said all the right things, as usual. Inevitably, she found a loose end for me to tie up, and I appreciate it very much.

Lastly, I must thank Edward, who makes life worthwhile, Fred, who fortunately failed to sabotage the book in any of his lightning raids on my computer, and James, who always knows the answer.

The light isnt good. Its hard to see much, at first.

The image on-screen flickers and fades out as the camera struggles to make a picture out of what it can pick up in the dim interior. Handheld, the video jumps and wobbles, catching details that hint at a narrow space, a low ceiling, a dirty tarpaulin laid on the floor. Nineteen seconds in, the curve of a wheel arch tells the viewer that the scene is being filmed inside a van, and not a large one.

When the camera turns to what is lying on the tarpaulin, the person holding it fumbles for a second before switching on a light. Its bright enough to send the shadows shrinking blackly to the edges of the picture. This is important. This must be seen in detail.

This is the reason for the film.

The camera starts at her feet, which are streaked with dirt and trussed in high-heeled sandals. It tracks up, lingering on thighs exposed by a white dress that was short to begin with. The pleated skirt is pulled up almost to her hips. Shes lying on her side, her hands loose and relaxed, her face veiled in loose curls of fair hair. Tiny artificial flowers wind through the strands. A dusting of glitter winks here and there on her skin, her limbs gleaming in the light. On the tarpaulin, next to her face, a jewelled mask lies abandoned. The long pink ribbons that once tied it spiral in curling disarray. It takes a moment to register that the shading on one is not a trick of the light, but dark-red liquid that has seeped into the fabric.

On the folds of her dress are minute specks of dark red in droplets shaped like comets.

And on the full lower lip, just visible through a skein of her hair, a plump bead of dark red swells and slides downwards even as the camera focuses on it, running to join the small pool that spreads under her head.

Its the details that are important, and the view isnt good enough, not with her hair over her face. The camera jerks sideways and a hand enters the shot for a second, reaching out to gather a handful of curls and throw them to one side. Now you can see.

Now you can see everything.

Now you can see the bruise that darkens one cheek. Now you can see the eyelashes brittle with mascara, the traces of colour in the creases of her mouth. Now you can see the curve of her breasts. Now you can see that shes pretty but not perfect, her nose too short and wide, her mouth too full, her jaw just a shade too square. Now you can see that shes young.

A tremor, too slight to be called movement, and the camera retreats a pace or two, the focus staying on her face. A frown tugs her eyebrows together, pulls the corners of the full mouth down; her face, for a moment, is that of a sulky cherub in an Old Masters sketch. And then the eyes blink open, unfocused at first, hazy blue.