When Angels Sleep by Mark Griffin (Holly Wakefield, #2)
English | 2019 | Mystery & Thriller | ePUB | 2.8 MB
Gripping thrillers set in London, featuring a criminal psychologist who specialises in hunting serial killers, and has hidden reasons for being unnervingly good at her job . .
On a cold winter’s morning, the body of a young boy is discovered in Epping Forest.
The body is pristine and peaceful, his head resting gently on a pillow, an angel pendant clenched in his small fist. It is a murder as carefully planned as it is brutal, and there’s one person DI Bishop needs back on his team to help solve such a calculated crime.
Holly Wakefield, criminal psychologist for the Met Police, is better than anyone Bishop knows at getting inside the brains of psychopaths. But with the body count rising, it’s going to take all their strength and resolve to stop the serial killer before any more angels are put to their rest . . .
They were sitting in Brickwood Coffee & Bread, an artisan breakfast café in Balham, south-west London. Exposed bricks and wooden planks on the walls and a never-ending supply of healthy food and slow roast coffee. Holly had passed on the food but had taken a kale smoothie. It had tasted like lawnmower leftovers but she had held it down. Good stomach. Love you. Now she was nursing a black coffee.
‘Do I smell of sick?’ she said.
‘Coffee and lack of sleep. That’s what I’m getting from over here.’
‘I’m a classy chick. What can I say?’ She smiled and was suddenly conscious that she hadn’t even brushed her teeth. Their waitress brought out Bishop’s full English breakfast. Holly flinched as if it were part of a horror movie.
‘Is that black pudding?’
‘Yeah, you want some?’
‘I’d rather eat my own feet.’
‘What happened to the “hot chocolate and possibly a quiet movie if our mood takes us” evening with the girls?’
‘We started with good intentions but then it quickly descended into chaos. It was good food. Good drink. I like my girls.’
‘I know you do,’ he smiled. ‘Did you forget about our breakfast?’
She had vaguely remembered at six thirty this morning when she had collapsed through the front door and belly-dragged herself into the bedroom.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ he said.
‘If you want.’ He ordered one then handed over a thin paper folder with no labels or words on the front cover. She started to open it but he closed it gently in her hands.
‘Not over breakfast,’ he said. ‘It’s the final report from the Sickert case.’
There was a mood breaker if ever there was one. Wilfred and Richard Sickert.
Doctor. Bastard. Patient. Bastard.
It had been nearly four months since she had first got the call from DI William Bishop of the Met Serious Crime squad and been asked to walk into a living room containing the freshly murdered and mutilated bodies of Jonathan and Evelyn Wright. He had been a doctor, she his loving wife. Forty years with each other wiped out by a flathead hammer and a wicked blade.
Angela Swan, the coroner, had concluded at the autopsy that the injuries to Evelyn were consistent with a previous murder; that of a British Airways flight attendant named Rebecca Bradshaw. Rebecca had been killed three weeks previously, left sitting propped up against her bed like a life-sized plastic doll. Wrists slashed, head resting against her chest as if she were asleep. Three murders. Similar MO and suddenly Holly had had a serial killer on her hands.