Page 2 of The Serial Killer’s Sister (The Serial Killer’s Daughter #3)

The stench of smoke invades my nostrils and burns my throat, but I continue to draw deeply as I lean on the glass balcony balustrade, watching the seagulls swooping over the rooftops heading to the sea beyond.

My silk dressing gown flaps gently in the breeze, offering a coolness to my thighs as the morning sun competes, its rays warming my face. I close my eyes to savour the moment.

‘Inhaling the sea air would be preferable, surely?’ Ross comes up behind me. I can’t sneak a ciggie past him – he probably smelled it from downstairs. I haven’t had one for over a year, but I remembered where I’d hidden the remaining few (for emergency purposes only).

‘Caught me.’ I don’t turn around. I’d rather not see the disappointed look he’s bound to have on his face.

‘Remember when we first moved in and we spent hours sitting on this balcony overlooking Ness Cove, being hypnotised by the whispering waves?’ he asks, snaking his arms around my waist.

‘Yes, and I still love it. But today, the salty air on my lips isn’t a match for this.’ I needlessly hold up the cigarette. ‘Nicotine does more for my nerves.’

‘Ahh, right. Inspection results today?’ His arms slacken.

‘Yup,’ I say, stubbing out the cigarette and pushing the end down into the peat of the pansies.

There’s a neat row of terracotta plant pots and an aluminium planter running the length of the balcony.

It’s the only garden we have to speak of – the easiest to maintain.

‘I know we’ve had them loads of times before—’

‘But each one manages to make you doubt yourself,’ Ross says. ‘I know. I remember you being like this last time, too.’

That time, the night before the report was due Ross had helped take my mind off it with a surprise meal out at our favourite Italian restaurant in Teignmouth.

The Colosseum is where we’ve celebrated each wedding anniversary, and the owners are always so warm and friendly that it’s a real comfort place for me when I’m feeling overwhelmed.

I probably should’ve predicted how stressed I’d be waiting for the result and booked a table myself this time.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m not the easiest person to live with when I’m under scrutiny.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Ross says. ‘It’s because you care. If you were nonchalant, I’d be worried.’

He’s right. I worked hard to get this teaching position.

It’s at an independent school in Staverton, a nearby village, and initially I felt guilty for working with children whose parents could afford the luxury of an exclusive, private education, so far from the one I had.

I’d been adamant I’d do something extraordinary for disadvantaged children, helping make a difference to their lives; just as I’d always prayed someone would do for me and my brother.

Then the crippling doubt began to sneak through me like a poison, the utter fear of failure overpowering me.

How could I risk letting another child down as badly as I had been?

I realised that the possibility of me being the only person standing between a child’s life of misery and a happy future was too great a pressure and if I didn’t get it right, I’d never forgive myself. I’d be crushed by the responsibility.

I met Serena, a teacher at Seabrook Prep School, at just the right time. She gave me a way to have the opportunity to make a difference as a teacher, while also managing to take the easy way out.

Ross wraps his arms around me again and I relax back against his chest.

‘You have literally nothing to be nervous about. You’re an amazing teacher and those kids are lucky to have you.’

‘I hope so. I love them like my own—’ I cut myself off abruptly as I feel Ross’s muscles tense, ever so slightly, but enough to be noticeable.

I screw my eyes shut, inwardly wincing. For an uncomfortable moment, I think he’s going to say something, but then he nuzzles into my neck, breathes me in and kisses me, allowing my brief moment of panic to ebb like the tide.

‘I’ll make you a coffee,’ he says, pulling away from me. ‘Or would you rather a vodka?’ His deep, throaty laugh reassures me that he didn’t take my flippant comment to heart. Reigniting the issue of children after we put it to bed last year isn’t something I want to do.

‘A coffee will suffice, thanks. I’ll save the hard stuff for this evening.’

After one final gaze towards Ness Cove, I back away and close the balcony door, giving the usual thanks to the universe for everything I have. It’s a far cry from where I grew up, even further from the future I was so sure I was destined for. The only one I believed I was worthy of.

It takes several attempts to button my sleeves, but finally, having taken some diaphragmatic breaths and given myself a calming self-talk, I stand back and check my appearance in the full-length mirror.

Smart, sassy and classy. That’s what I see looking back.

It’s a third true; I am smart at least. The rest might well be an illusion – a distortion of reality – but as long as it’s what the parents, the head teacher Mr Beaumont, and the school inspectors believe, that’s a job well done on my part.

I have lived by the ‘fake it till you make it’ principle since I was about ten years old, and it hasn’t steered me far wrong.

I smile at my reflection as I pick a stray thread from my red top and then smooth both hands down my black pencil skirt.

Ross is right – there’s no way I could receive anything other than a good report.

‘Poached eggs?’ Ross asks as I enter the kitchen. His suit jacket hangs over the back of a chair and his white shirt sleeves are neatly rolled up as he cracks eggs over the boiling water. I shake my head, nausea gripping my stomach at the thought.

‘Thanks, but I’ll grab a bagel from the bakery on the way to work.’ I won’t, but he doesn’t need to know that. He gives me his one-eyed-squint look that confirms he’s well aware of my lie. I half-laugh. ‘Wow, I can’t slip anything past you today, can I?’

‘Can you ever?’ There’s a slight edge to his tone, and I frown. I’m about to go deeper into his comment when the doorbell rings. I give Ross a quizzical glance.

‘Might be Yasmin,’ he says. ‘She mentioned dropping a new property portfolio by for me this morning so I can bypass the office.’ He leaves the kitchen and I hear the front door open.

A man’s voice rumbles through the hallway.

Not Yasmin, then. Ross’s estate agency business in Shaldon, The Right Price, only employs four staff and I’ve met two of them: Oscar, the silent partner, and Yasmin, who helps out in the office.

The other two are agents who Ross is yet to introduce me to.

I bend to place my mug in the dishwasher and give a small gasp as I straighten and see a large-framed man, smartly dressed in a suit that makes him look very much like an estate agent.

‘Oh, hi. You must be a colleague of Ross’s?’

I note Ross’s tense expression as he peeps around from behind the man, and realise he isn’t.

‘Good morning, Mrs Price. I’m Detective Inspector Walker from the Devon and Cornwall Major Crime Investigation Team.

’ He stoops to clear the low beam of the ceiling then stretches one arm out, presenting an open leather wallet containing his ID badge.

I stare at it before taking his other proffered hand and shaking it; it’s large, square, and mine is completely enclosed in its firm grip.

My heart gives a little jolt, as if warning me of what’s to come.

‘Is there something wrong?’ I say, my pulse quickening. He’s looking at me specifically, not Ross. But, I deduce, if someone was hurt or had died, there’d be two of them. That’s how it works on the telly. And besides, I’m no one’s next of kin other than Ross’s, and he’s safe. Then my legs tingle.

I am someone else’s though, aren’t I.

‘Can we take a seat, Mrs Price?’ DI Walker’s tone is authoritative, his words not really posed as a question, more of an instruction.

Ross jerks into action, he too having been momentarily stunned by the unexpected arrival of a detective.

‘Is your colleague coming in?’ Ross asks, and my heart tumbles in my chest. If there are two of them, then my theory doesn’t hold.

I look out into the hallway, but I don’t see anyone else hovering.

Then, spotting a blur of movement out of the corner of my eye, I glance out of the kitchen window, at the people dressed in black and yellow walking past. It takes me a few moments, as if time has slowed, to register that they’re police.

Once this fact settles in my brain, a mix of intrigue and suspicion flares.

‘No,’ DI Walker says. ‘She’s conducting door-to-door enquiries with the rest of the team.’

‘Right, sure.’ Ross makes a face at me before skipping around DI Walker and pulling out a chair at the kitchen table for him.

My feet stay planted as my mind wanders.

Door-to-door enquiries . Okay, that’s not so bad.

It’s not just me he’s seeing. Maybe he’s here because of a local burglary or something like that.

The voice in my head doesn’t buy that, though – they wouldn’t send a senior detective for that type of crime, would they?

The activity outside suggests something bigger.

I swallow down the lump in my throat and take a deep breath as I finally take in the man’s fresh-faced appearance, then, without thinking, say:

‘You seem young to have made detective inspector already?’

Ross shoots me a wide-eyed glare, while DI Walker gives a tight smile that offers the only evidence of ageing skin by causing a slight crinkling at the corner of his eyes.

‘I get that a lot. I think it must be the police equivalent of doctors these days looking like teenagers,’ DI Walker says, drily.

I mentally kick myself; offending him before I know why he’s here isn’t the best start.

I’m sure he’s worked hard to get to his position, and having people question it must be irritating.

‘Sorry, I think I watch too much crime drama.’ I force my muscles to move, and sit down next to Ross, opposite DI Walker. I immediately jump back up. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t offer you a drink. Tea? Coffee?’ I sense the weight of Ross’s stare, and avoid his eyes.

DI Walker juts his arm out, releasing a watch from beneath the cuff of his crisp white shirt, and checks it.

‘Not for me, thank you.’ He places a small electronic notebook on the table and gives a cough, readying himself to communicate the reason for his visit.

I thud back down in the chair. Wild fluttering in my stomach combines with my increased heart rate to provide me with an adrenaline-inducing cocktail.

I slip my hands under my thighs to hide their tremor.

‘What can we do for you, Detective Walker?’ I smile.

His azure-blue eyes look directly into mine, and they’re so intense I lower my gaze, a strange feeling washing over me. What is he about to say? The room closes in on me, the air sucked from the atmosphere as I wait with my breath held.

‘We’ve been trying to track you down for a while, now, Mrs Price.’

My mouth dries. Is this it? The moment I’ve been dreading for so long? But would that warrant an entire team of police? I swallow, painfully.

‘Oh, really?’ From the corner of my eye, I catch Ross straighten in anticipation. I wish he’d left for work before the detective arrived.

‘Your name is Anna Price, previously Lincoln, yes?’

The sound of my pulse pounds in my ears. ‘Yes, that’s correct.’ I stare unblinking at DI Walker.

‘I’m sorry to be the one to inform you …

’ DI Walker’s eyes flit from mine to Ross’s and back to me and I swallow my frustration together with my words: Get on with it, tell me he’s dead!

‘Your brother, Henry Lincoln,’ DI Walker’s features begin to blur; my blood pressure must be sky-high right at this moment, ‘is wanted …’ – not dead – ‘… for the murder of multiple women.’

‘What?’ I push back from the table, standing so abruptly that the chair topples to the tiled floor with an ear-ringing crash. Ross leaps up and drags it back to its position, then places a hand on my shoulder.

‘Anna, breathe,’ I hear him say. And I do. My chest heaves with the deep breaths I’m gulping in.

‘This must come as quite the shock. I’m sorry.’ DI Walker gives me a concerned look. ‘Do you want to take a moment? Or maybe sit somewhere more comfortable?’

‘The lounge,’ Ross is saying. ‘That would be better, I think.’

I’m manoeuvred to the sofa, where I plonk down heavily, the wind from my sails well and truly taken. I was prepared for dead . Not for murderer .

Henry – a killer? This can’t be for real.