What She Said (Detective Karen Hart) Read online

  ALSO BY D. S. BUTLER

  Lost Child

  Her Missing Daughter

  DS Karen Hart Series:

  Bring Them Home

  Where Secrets Lie

  Don’t Turn Back

  House of Lies

  On Cold Ground

  DS Jack Mackinnon Crime Series:

  Deadly Obsession

  Deadly Motive

  Deadly Revenge

  Deadly Justice

  Deadly Ritual

  Deadly Payback

  Deadly Game

  Deadly Intent

  East End Series:

  East End Trouble

  East End Diamond

  East End Retribution

  Harper Grant Mystery Series:

  A Witchy Business

  A Witchy Mystery

  A Witchy Christmas

  A Witchy Valentine

  Harper Grant and the Poisoned Pumpkin Pie

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2022 by D. S. Butler

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542036252

  ISBN-10: 1542036259

  Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com

  For my mum and dad,

  the best parents a person could hope for.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  Molly McCarthy sat her doll next to Teddy on the floor. It was almost her birthday. One more sleep and she would be five.

  ‘I’ll have a birthday party,’ she told the toys. ‘And there’ll be cupcakes and presents.’

  Teddy gazed at her with shiny brown eyes. He looked sad.

  ‘You’ll still be my favourite,’ she told him, patting his furry head.

  Molly didn’t want any more stuffed toys or dolls. She wanted a big girl’s present – a bike. A brand-new, shiny, extra-fast bike.

  She’d asked Father Christmas for one – even written him a letter and sent it to the North Pole – but her mum said Father Christmas thought she was too little for a grown-up bike and she would have to make do with her tricycle.

  But now she was going to be five, and that was old enough for a big girl’s bike.

  ‘I’m bigger now, aren’t I, Teddy?’ She leaned over and pushed the stuffed toy’s head to make it appear as though the bear was nodding.

  She was supposed to be getting dressed, but she was still wearing her daisy-patterned nightdress.

  Her mother was moving about downstairs in the kitchen. Soon she would call Molly for breakfast. Then she would tell Molly off for not being dressed, as she did every morning.

  Her mother had tried to lay Molly’s clothes out the night before, to save time in the morning. But Molly didn’t like that. She liked to choose her own outfits, even if they were mismatched. And sometimes she liked to wear a pink princess skirt with netting, together with a pair of purple and yellow striped tights. Her mother would sigh, but her father would laugh and say Molly had her own style.

  ‘What colour do you think my bike will be, Ted?’ Molly asked, sitting down beside the bear on her soft grey bedroom carpet. ‘I hope it’s purple.’

  Purple was Molly’s favourite colour. It used to be pink. But purple was more grown-up.

  ‘Molly!’ Her mother’s voice carried up the stairs. ‘Are you dressed?’

  Molly didn’t reply, because she wasn’t dressed, so she couldn’t say yes – because that would be a lie, and lies were bad. She wasn’t supposed to tell lies. She’d got into trouble last week for lying, although Molly didn’t think she’d done anything wrong. She’d just been telling a story.

  Molly had been having a picnic with Teddy in the garden, when Mrs Green, their elderly next-door neighbour, had come over to the fence to say hello. Molly told the woman she’d seen Tiddles, Mrs Green’s marmalade cat, and Mrs Green said Tiddles was probably out having an adventure. Molly had agreed, and said she’d seen the cat grow fairy wings and fly off over the rooftops.

  She’d looked so happy at the thought of her cat soaring through the sky on an adventure that Molly had continued her story, adding more details. By the time she’d finished, Mrs Green had been laughing so hard she had tears rolling down her cheeks. Grown-ups were strange.

  Molly stood up and opened the top drawer of her dresser, pulling out some underwear and a pair of white and yellow ankle socks. She put on her underwear then split the socks apart and sat down on the floor and wiggled her toes. She didn’t like socks. She tugged the first one on and looked at her feet, wiggled her toes again, then lifted her nightshirt over her head and tugged open a second drawer. She was going to the big school today – visiting, getting ready for when it would be her time to go to the big school all day, not nursery with all the babies like she did at the moment.

  She selected a green T-shirt and a pink pair of dungarees. The T-shirt went on all right, but the dungarees were more difficult, and she gave up, leaving them in a heap on the floor.

  ‘Molly, where are you?’ her mother called. ‘Your breakfast is ready. It’ll get soggy, and you’ll still have to eat it!’

  Molly knew that wasn’t true. Her mother never added the milk until Molly got down to the kitchen, because she knew Molly wouldn’t eat the cereal if it was soggy. Her dad said they were both as stubborn as each other.

  Molly picked up a bobble from the floor. She couldn’t do her own hair yet. That was too tricky, so she’d have to let her mother help her.

  She left the dungarees on the floor and went downstairs in her T-shirt, knickers and one sock, humming ‘Humpty Dumpty’.

  Rather than go straight to the kitchen, Molly walked into th
e lounge and wandered over to the window. Sometimes she saw Geri go past on her bike in the mornings.

  Geri worked in the corner shop at the weekends and sometimes gave Molly free sweets. Geri went to university and was very clever. Her mother said that’s where Molly would go when she was older, to make them all proud, because no one else in the family had gone to university yet. Molly wasn’t quite sure what university was, but it sounded important, and if Geri went there, then Molly thought it had to be an exciting place.

  She climbed on to the leather sofa, rested her arms on top of the cushions and looked out of the window. It was a grey day and big splotches of rain hit the glass. Molly liked the rain. She liked wearing her wellington boots and jumping in the puddles, but her mother didn’t like the rain. She’d look out of the front door and tut, and then she’d spend five minutes looking for her umbrella, then blame Molly because they weren’t ready on time.

  There was a white van parked on the other side of the road. It looked like her dad’s, but it didn’t have writing on the side. And besides, her dad always left very early for work, before Molly got up. The van wasn’t very interesting, so Molly craned her neck, looking down the road to see if Geri would appear. Geri’s bike was blue and very fast.

  There was no sign of her. Molly sat on the arm of the sofa, looking down at her feet. One had a sock, the other was bare. She wondered where the other sock had gone.

  ‘Molly,’ her mother said, appearing in the doorway, ‘why aren’t you dressed?’

  ‘I am,’ Molly said. ‘Nearly dressed.’ She started to explain about the dungarees, but her mother waved her words away.

  ‘If you want to choose your own clothes, Molly, you can’t keep coming downstairs half-dressed. You need to get dressed properly.’

  Molly said, ‘Dungarees—’ but her mother had already left the room and was stomping up the stairs.

  Molly was expected to follow, find her other sock and let her mother help her with the dungarees. But just then she saw a movement. Someone was coming down the road towards the house. She moved forward, leaning on the windowsill, but it wasn’t Geri.

  Another woman, older than Geri, was walking quickly along the pavement holding an umbrella. Molly sighed when she heard her mother call her from upstairs. She was about to turn away and do what she was told when suddenly the white van’s back doors flew open. A man appeared and grabbed the woman with the umbrella. He shoved her into the back of the van before slamming the doors.

  Molly stared. She hadn’t seen anything like that happen before, and it made her feel bad. Her stomach hurt.

  The van’s engine roared to life like an angry animal.

  The white van pulled away, driving off quickly.

  ‘Molly!’ her mother shouted.

  Molly slid off the sofa and hurried upstairs.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The previous evening

  ‘What did you think?’ DC Sophie Jones asked, raising her voice above the sound of applause.

  The main lights in the lecture theatre were switched back on, causing DS Karen Hart to blink at the sudden brightness. ‘I enjoyed it.’

  And she really had. She’d been expecting the evening to drag and had only agreed to attend because it was important to Sophie.

  Sophie was fascinated by Dr Michaels, a self-proclaimed serial killer expert based in Virginia, USA. Karen had anticipated descriptions of sensationalised cases, exaggerating the doctor’s starring role, but she’d been impressed by the careful presentation of evidence and the respectful way he spoke about the victims.

  Dr Michaels handled his audience well. Charisma and a self-deprecating manner combined to make him a talented public speaker. Well-groomed, his light brown hair was threaded with blonde strands. Naturally sun-kissed, or created in a salon? The verdict was still out on that. His tan drew attention to his startlingly white teeth, noticeable every time he smiled – which was often.

  Definitely a well-polished appearance, but Karen had still warmed to his presenting style, and after the first few minutes had forgotten his highlights and gleaming teeth, instead focusing on his slides.

  As the applause died away, Sophie scrambled to her feet, grabbing her coat and bag. ‘Quick!’

  Karen raised an eyebrow. She was keen to get home. They were in King’s Lynn, more than an hour’s drive back to Lincoln. But she’d known Sophie would want to hang around for a while longer and soak up the atmosphere. Earlier, Sophie had confessed she hoped to get an opportunity to speak to the great man himself, so her apparent eagerness to get home was an unexpected surprise.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Karen said. ‘We’ve got another hour on the parking.’

  ‘Yes, but we’ve got to be one of the first in line.’

  ‘In line?’ Karen asked. She didn’t like the sound of that.

  ‘Yes, I need to get my book signed.’ Sophie reached inside her extra-large handbag and pulled out a hefty hardback copy of Dr Michaels’s latest book.

  Karen struggled to hide her disappointment. ‘Oh, there’s a signing afterwards, is there?’

  There was a rush for the door. Sophie’s face fell. ‘Oh no, we’re going to be at the back of the queue.’

  Resigned to spending a little longer in King’s Lynn, Karen scooped up her own coat and bag and followed Sophie as she made a beeline for the signing room. They left the small lecture theatre and walked out into the main atrium. Tables stacked with books surrounded them. Maybe staying a bit longer wouldn’t be too bad after all, Karen thought, especially if that time could be spent looking through piles of books.

  ‘I’ll take a look around here,’ Karen said. ‘Come and find me when you’re done.’

  ‘Don’t you want to get a book signed?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  Sophie joined the end of the signing line, which already snaked out of the seminar room and partly around the atrium. Karen couldn’t see Dr Michaels, but hoped he was already busy signing. She glanced at her watch. It looked like they’d be getting home later than expected. She pulled out her mobile phone and sent a quick text to Mike. She pictured him, wine glass in hand, Netflix on the TV, sitting on the sofa with Sandy curled contentedly at his feet.

  Karen sighed and moved towards the first table of books.

  Glasses filled with red and white wine sat on a long table to Karen’s left, along with two large platters of cheese and smaller plates of crackers. Those who didn’t join the end of the signing queue quickly surrounded the refreshments table, eager to partake in the free alcohol. Karen might have been tempted to join them if she didn’t have to drive home.

  The first table Karen came to was piled high with a variety of hardbacks with illustrated covers. They had titles like Detectives vs Monsters and The Slasher Conspiracy. All true crime, and on closer inspection, Karen realised they were all written by Dr Michaels.

  ‘He’s got a bit of a monopoly here,’ Karen commented to a woman who’d stopped by the table and plucked a book off the top of a pile. The woman gave her a tight smile but didn’t reply, and then hurried off to join the end of the signing line.

  Karen selected a blue hardback, turned it over and inspected the blurb. ‘Decade-old crime solved by a cat!’ Karen read aloud and shook her head in disbelief. Was this true crime? It sounded more like fiction.

  ‘That’s an old one,’ a low voice said.

  Karen turned and saw a tall, well-built man with thick, wavy dark brown hair that fell over his eyes. He wore a zipped-up blue anorak and held an expensive-looking camera in one hand. He pushed his fringe from his eyes, and peered at Karen.

  ‘Sorry?’ Karen said.

  ‘It’s one of Dr Michaels’s first books. Not one of his best, in my opinion.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Karen said, replacing the book on the stack. ‘Thanks for the heads-up.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he said. ‘You should get his latest one. The cases are more interesting.’ He raised the camera. ‘Can you hold the book up?’

  ‘W
hy?’

  ‘I want to take your picture. I’m the book tour’s official photographer. Nicholas Finney.’ He smiled proudly.

  ‘I didn’t realise book tours had official photographers.’

  ‘Sometimes they do.’ He shrugged. ‘This tour is quite a big deal. I’m hoping to get the local press interested. I’m writing the story too.’

  ‘So you’re freelance?’

  ‘Yes. But two local papers are already keen. So how about it?’ He held up the camera. ‘A quick snap?’

  Karen was conflicted. Working freelance could be a tough way to make a living, but she didn’t want her picture published goodness knows where, holding up a book she hadn’t even read.

  ‘Sorry, Nicholas. I don’t like having my photograph taken.’

  ‘C’mon. Just one. Promise it won’t hurt.’

  ‘No thanks. Try someone else.’

  His face fell, and he nodded and moved away.

  Karen made her way to the next table. Again, all the books were by Dr Michaels. He was certainly industrious. How did he manage to fit police work around his writing? She picked up a book that had a selection of playing cards on the front. The cover looked more suited to an Agatha Christie novel, with a large magnifying glass artfully poking through the title.

  Karen glanced over her shoulder towards the signing line. The photographer – Finney – now had plenty of willing subjects, who were proudly holding up their books as they waited to meet Dr Michaels. Sophie was no longer near the end of the queue. Though that wasn’t because Dr Michaels was signing quickly, but just that even more people had joined the line. She sighed again and checked the time. She could always add some extra money to the parking app. She stifled a yawn and reached for another book, this time a bright-yellow paperback.

  ‘I hope you didn’t find this evening boring?’

  Karen turned to see a tall young man – American, judging from his accent. He was dark-haired, brown-eyed and very slender, his form accentuated by his tight-fitting patterned shirt and pale skinny jeans. He stood with one hand on his hip, in a model-like pose. In his other hand he held a glass of white wine.

  Karen had struggled to understand the current obsession with skinny jeans. She’d come to the conclusion that they flattered very few people. She’d resisted them for some time, before finally purchasing a pair at her sister’s urging. She had to admit they were incredibly comfortable. It was all in the stretch – very forgiving material. But after a few hours’ wear, they were getting baggy at the knees, and despite wearing a belt she felt as though she needed to hitch them up every few minutes. No – skinny jeans were not for her, but this man made them look high-fashion. He seemed more suited to a catwalk than a literary evening.