My Little Eye Read online

  Praise for My Little Eye

  ‘A great premise which sets up lots of twisty, paranoid intrigue. Top notch.’

  Mason Cross

  ‘An original and compelling take on the serial killer story.’

  Rod Reynolds, author of Black Night Falling

  ‘Deftly plotted, authentic and creepily plausible.’

  Amanda Jennings, author of The Cliff House

  ‘Fresh, original, has a rip-roaring plot and is totally addictive.’

  David Young, author of Stasi Wolf

  ‘This is a multi-layered, gripping read steeped in authenticity that will keep you up at night.’

  – Catherine Ryan Howard, author of Distress Signals

  ‘A clever, twisting, nightmare-inducing read.’

  Chris Whitaker, author of All The Wicked Girls

  ‘A masterclass in pacing and such an original take on the serial killer thriller.’

  Eva Dolan, author of This Is How It Ends

  ‘Ingeniously plotted and perfectly chilling,’

  Susi Holliday, author of The Deaths of December

  ‘My Little Eye is a one-sitting read: gripping, clever and worryingly plausible.’

  Mick Herron

  ‘Enthralling, intriguing and twisty.’

  Liz Nugent, author of Lying In Wait and Unravelling Oliver

  For Grammy –

  who encouraged me to be brave, and let me steal her name!

  Contents

  Praise for My Little Eye

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Monday

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Tuesday

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Wednesday

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Thursday

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Nineteen Days Later

  Chapter 67

  Acknowledgements

  Author Q&A With Stephanie Marland

  Reading Group Guide

  About the Author

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  Kate can still feel his touch on her skin. He only held her hand. No, less than that, he put his hand over hers, just for a few seconds – nothing in the grand scheme of things. A comforting gesture because she was upset, that was all, she tells herself. A few days ago he’d walked into the break room at work just as she’d hung up on Mart after yet another argument. He’d seen she was crying, and he’d held her hand; a totally normal thing between colleagues – no, friends.

  Since then, she’s thought about that moment, their moment, a lot. It felt exciting, and she hasn’t felt excitement for what seems like forever. She liked the feeling. A part of her wants to feel it again.

  She refuses to feel guilty about it.

  She’s almost at the flat now. She looks up at the first floor out of habit, expecting to see darkness, but there is a soft glow behind the curtains, a light on inside. She frowns. Wasn’t Mart working tonight? She’s sure he’d said he had a late set at the club. Wasn’t that why he’d waved away her excuses for doing overtime on the late shift? Hadn’t he said he didn’t care?

  Setting the two jute bags of groceries down on the step, she fumbles in her jacket pocket for her keys. Her hands are numb from the cold and it takes her a couple of attempts to grasp them. She adds ‘buy gloves’ to her mental to-do list. The folks back home had told her it never got properly cold in central London. Now, in the middle of a dark, rainy November, Kate knows they were talking bollocks.

  She unlocks the door, picks up the bags and pushes the door open with her shoulder. As it closes behind her the automatic light in the communal hallway comes on. She blinks at the brightness reflected back from the cerise-painted walls, sidesteps around the upstairs neighbour’s bike and heads towards the stairs. Glancing at the stacks of mail on the tatty side-table as she passes, she spots a pile for her and Mart.

  ‘Fucksake,’ Kate mutters, snatching it up. ‘Do I have to do everything?’

  She leafs through the envelopes; two bills and a piece of junk mail plus what looks like a credit card statement for Mart with Final Demand stamped in angry red across the top of the envelope. She sighs. Shakes her head. He really is crap with money.

  Tucking the post under her arm, she picks up her bags and trudges towards the stairs. She starts working out how much cash she’s got stashed away across her savings accounts – the one he knows about, and the other two. No matter what her mum tells her about Mart being a rubbish freeloader and that she deserves better, Kate has always bailed him out. She knows he thinks she will again.

  But that would mean she can’t have that holiday in Dubai she’s been saving for. The thought of having to stay in cold, damp London all winter pisses her off even more. The bags feel heavier, her legs more tired. She tries to remember if there is any wine in the fridge. She has a horrible feeling the answer is no.

  Sod it. She won’t bail him out again. She’s going to Dubai with Eva.

  Reaching the door to the flat, she drops the bags again and undoes the lock. Pushing the bags inside with her foot, she enters and closes the door behind her, calling, ‘Hey Mart, I’m back.’

  No reply.

  Great, she thinks, hoisting up the bags again. Don’t help me, will you. Since they’ve been living together he’s treated her more like his mum or housekeeper than his girlfriend. When they first moved in they split all the chores down the middle; he cleaned and shopped, she cooked and did the ironing. Now he’s always too busy with his music, the implication being that what she’s doing is less important. That he thinks she is less important.

  Kate pushes open the door into the living area. Halts a few steps inside.

  The corner lamp is on, the low lighting giving the place a dusky haze. Two glasses of red wine are sitting on the glass top of the coffee table. There’s music playing over Mart’s high-end speakers, some ballad from the eighties that she vaguely recognises as one her dad likes. Not Mart’s usual kind of tune, but maybe he’s trying to be retro and romantic. It’s been a while since he made that kind of effort; the sweet love notes and surprise gifts of their early days
are long in the past.

  ‘Mart?’ she says.

  Nothing.

  She puts the bags down and takes a few more steps into the room. Listens hard, but can’t hear him. ‘Mart, where are you?’

  Still nothing.

  Kate moves forward to the coffee table and picks up a glass. Takes a sip of wine. It’s the good stuff, delicious. She needs it after doing a double shift. Needs it to help her forget the hand holding, and remind herself not to feel guilty, more guilty. She takes another sip and glances round the room again. That’s when she notices the red splodges on the carpet near the bedroom door. The door is ajar, a chink of light visible through the gap.

  As she draws closer she recognises what the splodges are. Her heartbeat quickens. Guilt tightens in her chest. This is big, unexpected.

  Kate stares at the rose petals scattered around the entrance to the bedroom and wonders what’s got into Mart to go for such a grand gesture. Whatever’s caused it, it’s about time. She’d been thinking the relationship was on its way out, but if he’s making this amount of effort, maybe they still have a chance.

  ‘Mart?’ she says, her tone soft, playful.

  The bedroom door opens halfway.

  Kate gasps. The cream duvet on their bed is strewn with rose petals. Candles encircle the iron bedstead in flickering light. ‘Mart, it’s beautiful.’

  She steps onto the threshold, transfixed. Remembers the good times; sharing candlelit baths, talking for hours about anything and everything. Mart is the guy for her. This proves it. She wonders if he’s about to propose.

  Kate takes another pace forward. ‘This is amazing. Where did you—’

  The lights cut out. Plunging her into darkness, aside from the candlelight.

  To her right, the door jolts back, bashing the wall and making her jump.

  She feels movement behind her. Inhales a cocktail of unfamiliar scents. Lemon. Vanilla. Something else she can’t place. ‘Mart?’

  He says nothing, but she feels his touch; a lingering caress from her temple, across her cheek, towards her mouth. She starts to turn towards him. ‘I—’

  His hand clamps across her lips and nose, yanking her backwards. She braces against them, lashes out with her hands, trying to break free.

  Fails.

  Loses her balance.

  Falling.

  Another hand slides round her arms, her waist. Pulls her back against a body, a chest. Holds her prisoner. She struggles harder. Tries to scream beneath the suffocating force. Her cries muted against flesh.

  His grip tightens round her jaw, digs into her cheek, forcing her head to the left. She feels a sharp sting against her neck by her ear. Gasps.

  The room seems to tilt, the candlelight dancing, the scarlet petals and cream duvet kaleidoscoping patterns in front of her. Her mind seems sluggish. Tiredness weighs her body down. Her eyelids feel heavy.

  The pressure across her mouth disappears. She feels hands clasp her shoulders, spinning her round.

  Dizzy. Nauseous. Afraid.

  His face looks blurred, distorted by the flickering of the candlelight.

  He reaches towards her. Strokes her cheek. ‘Sleep now, my love.’

  She tries to shake her head. Tries to speak, to say his name, to ask him why. Tries to tell him to stop hurting her. That she’ll do whatever he wants.

  The darkness takes her before her lips can form the words.

  MONDAY

  1

  CLEMENTINE

  They say I was dead for three thousand and six seconds. They say that when I woke I was different, but I don’t know if that’s true. What I do know is that my world became a different place once every one of those precious seconds had expired. People – Mother especially – seemed to move around me at double speed, talking, always talking, while I remained stuck on go-slow, unable to shift the fog of sleep that remained in my head, no matter what I tried.

  They said I’d get better, that everything would be OK. I just needed to give myself more time. But even then, through the bewildering haze of the drugs and the pain, I knew that they were lying.

  Reality was the problem. The facts could not be hidden under my bandages. A word, a single whispered truth, repeated inside my mind over and over again, and I knew that it was right.

  Murderer.

  First the doctors made excuses; said I’d suffered extreme trauma, that stress and shock took time to heal. They spoke of the panic I must have felt in that place, the terror as the flames surrounded me, the horror as I watched his life ebb away.

  I don’t remember those things. What I do remember is the shouting; the fury burning my mouth as I spat the words ‘I hate you’. The rage building inside me until I couldn’t control it, didn’t want to control it, until I let it control me. Since that moment, I’ve felt nothing.

  As seconds became minutes, minutes added into days and days to months, I got used to the nothingness. Like the skin grafts, it became a part of me. Sometimes I wonder if that’s when I truly changed, but I cannot remember. It’s possible I’ve always been this way.

  One thing I can attribute to that night, though, is my fascination with ‘what if’. What if I’d been at school that day? What if Father hadn’t got so angry? What if I hadn’t killed him?

  Before, I lived in the moment. After, I dwell on the possibility of future moments, hiding behind theory and hypothesis, never taking action. Never feeling alive.

  I want to change.

  I think I know how.

  You see, I’ve been watching them for a while.

  2

  DOM

  The shrill, repetitive beep of his mobile jolts Dom awake. He fumbles for it on the floor beside his bed, his sleep-addled brain making him clumsy. The caller rings off before he can answer.

  It’s too bloody early, still dark outside. Groaning, Dom rolls over, his back muscles aching as he reaches out for Therese. He’s only forty-three but he feels bloody ancient. Her side of the bed is cold and it makes him remember; she’s not stayed here in nearly two months.

  He’s sore from the two-hour workout last night. A session that only ended because the gym was kicking out at half eleven and he couldn’t persuade any of the fitness team to stay late. He didn’t stretch. Didn’t drink enough water. He knew he’d pay for it, and he is; his head is pounding.

  The training session hadn’t helped him sleep anyway. So he buried himself in the murders he’s working, going back through the case files he shouldn’t have brought home. Two young women – Jenna Malik found dead four weeks ago, and Zara Bretton who died six days ago. He’s still got nothing to connect them except for the way they were killed, and the anguish on their loved ones’ faces when he broke the news. Even after nineteen years on the force it never gets easier. The memory of their distress is a constant reminder that Jenna and Zara were real people, with real lives, and their deaths affect others; the devastating ripple effect of murder. It makes the fear even greater. A killer like this always kills again, if they aren’t stopped, if Dom doesn’t stop them. He doesn’t want that on his conscience, there’s enough weighing him down already.

  He tried to sleep, but was still awake at three, thinking about her. Always her. Just like every other night since things went to shit, he couldn’t stop the memory of their last argument replaying in his mind. He’d screwed up big time. He never meant to hurt her.

  The phone in his hand starts to ring again. ‘This is Bell.’

  ‘Guv?’ The nasal tone of Abbott. ‘We’ve got another one.’

  Shit, so much for having a day off.

  It feels like his brain is bashing against his skull. Dom rubs his forehead, hoping it’ll ease the pressure. It doesn’t. ‘What do we know?’

  ‘She was found at home, by her boyfriend. He didn’t recognise her straight off because she looked so different – changed hair, everything. When the first responder saw the scene he connected it to our case and made the call.’

  ‘And it looks like our guy?’


  ‘Jackson thinks so. He green-lighted bringing you in.’

  Dom frowns. He’s the lead on these murders, but he’d have thought DCI Paul Jackson would’ve jumped at the chance to have someone else work the case. Not just because he’s not found the killer yet, but because with the IPCC taking over the investigation from Professional Standards – leading the hunt for what, or who, caused the operation he was part of last month to go bad – Dom’s surprised he isn’t already flying a desk.

  Dom cradles the phone between his ear and shoulder as he pulls on his trousers. ‘All right. Where?’

  ‘Near Angel. I’ll text you the address.’

  ‘Right.’ He stands, staggers to the wardrobe to grab a fresh shirt. His legs feel leaden, sluggish.

  ‘Word is there’s already rubberneckers outside.’ Abbott’s voice sounds strained. ‘The media will be next.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Just don’t let the Rats catch you. They’ve set up on Fulham Palace Road again, the bastards.’

  ‘Bastards,’ Dom says. Traffic police were scum. Every real officer knew it. Getting to Angel by car could take an hour, more if he was unlucky. ‘I’ll take the tube. Should be there in thirty.’

  He hangs up. The time on his phone shows it’s just gone 6.30 but he barely registers that. It’s the photo background on the screen he’s staring at. Therese smiles out at him. She’s lying in his bed with her long blonde hair draped across the pillow. The look in her eyes is playful, enticing. Her skin is tanned and glows with health. She looks like a different person from how she’d looked the last time he saw her. Four days ago her skin was pale. Her eyes had dark circles beneath them. Her hair was lank, the roots dark and more obvious than usual against the contrast of the white bandage covering her wound. Her injuries. His fault.

  He pushes the thoughts of Therese away. He has a case to solve. He clicks off the screen, watching Therese’s image fade to black, then grabs some shoes and pulls on his black denim jacket.

  He hurries through the flat. In front of the door a small black cat is stretched out along the length of the mat, asleep.

  Dom opens the door a crack. Looks at the cat. ‘You’re going to have to move, mate.’

  The cat opens one eye but stays put.