A Dark Divided Self Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Also by A.J. Cross

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Acknowledgements

  Also by A.J. Cross

  The Dr Kate Hanson mysteries

  GONE IN SECONDS

  ART OF DECEPTION

  A LITTLE DEATH *

  SOMETHING EVIL COMES *

  COLD, COLD HEART *

  The Will Traynor forensic mysteries

  DARK TRUTHS *

  DEVIL IN THE DETAIL *

  * available from Severn House

  A DARK, DIVIDED SELF

  A.J. Cross

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published in Great Britain in 2021 and the USA in 2022

  by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,

  14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.

  Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and the USA in 2022

  by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.

  This eBook edition first published in 2022 by Severn House,

  an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.

  severnhouse.com

  Copyright © A.J. Cross, 2021

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of A.J. Cross to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-5036-2 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0729-6 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0728-9 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  PROLOGUE

  Monday, 12 November 2018.

  Erica Trent hurried out of the building, her tutor’s words reverberating inside her head. Merging with other pedestrians, mostly students, coming and going along the main campus road, Erica was feeling decidedly up. Her tutor had been very positive about the quality of her work: if Erica maintained this high quality throughout her course, she would be well on her way to a first-class degree. Which was exactly what Erica expected. Anything less was not an option. Her tutor had also given her some advice that she planned to follow. She quickened her pace, keen to get back to her bedsit and the assignment waiting for her, hoping that the two male students new to the house were out and the place quiet. She grinned. Her tutor was right. Things needed to change.

  Checking the time on her phone, she left the main campus road and upped her pace. A sudden, bone-cold northerly wind struck her face, lifting and swirling her hair. Grabbing it with both hands, tucking it inside her scarf, she headed in the direction of her bedsit in a distant row of tall, brooding, multi-occupancy houses. She pulled the scarf over her head against sudden, heavy spots of rain.

  Leaving the road, she walked onto an open area of grass, lined with trees to her right, beyond them a narrow strip of land used by students for illicit parking. She had gone a few metres when a male voice sounded from somewhere in that direction.

  ‘Excuse me, miss?… Wait, please.’

  Responding to the tone as much as the words, she turned. A tall, dark-haired man was approaching her, holding up identification. This wasn’t unusual given the current situation. She waited. He came closer, smiled.

  ‘My apologies if I startled you.’ Recalling her tutor’s advice, thinking what a nice smile he had, she also smiled.

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Daniel Hunter.’ His voice was pleasant with a subtle accent. Scottish, maybe? She gave a quick nod.

  ‘Actually, I think I may have seen you around the campus with other officers.’

  ‘More than likely. We’ve significantly increased our presence here in recent weeks.’ He looked ahead then back to her. ‘I’m heading this way, too.’ They fell into step together. She glanced at him.

  ‘It’s terrible what’s happening. Do the police have any ideas as to who—?’

  ‘Not yet, but we’re doing all we can to track down possible witnesses.’ He looked at her. ‘Have you been spoken to, yet?’ She shook her head. ‘In that case, could you spare a few minutes to answer some questions?’ A refusal citing pressure of work didn’t strike Erica as the right thing to do in the circumstances.

  ‘Of course.’

  His steps matching hers, her bookbag brushing his side, he pointed at her scarf with its pattern of tiny gold stars.

  ‘That’s nice.’

  She smiled, her tutor’s words from barely twenty minutes before still inside her head. Yes, Erica was on target to achieve a first-class degree, but she might do well to consider her life balance. The tutor had followed that up with advice along the lines that Erica needed to relax, perhaps become a little more sociable, that all work and almost no play was probably not the best way to live. Erica gave Detective Hunter a quick glance. Mid-twenties or so? A second glance, this time at his hands. Well-kempt. No ring. What if she suggested answering his questions inside that warm little coffee shop close to where she lived? A small, first step to extending her social life. He was pointing to the trees on their right.

  ‘My car is parked just over there. I need to get my schedule of witness questions. Wait here, please.’ She watched him walk away from her.

  ‘Witness questions? I’m sorry, but I didn’t know any of those girls so I probably won’t be able to help—’ He looked back at her with a quick, reassuring smile.

  ‘You’d be surprised at how much people do recall. Like you said, it is terrible what’s happened and the only way for us to stop it happening again is for people familiar with the area to help us.’ She nodded.

  ‘Now you put it like that, of course I’ll help in any way I can, but I still don’t think I can be of much help …’

  He had reached the line of trees. She waited, telling herself that when he came back with his list, she would get straight to the coffee invitation. She watched him head towards a just-visible vehicle. On another strong gust of wind, the trees parted and she saw him open a rear door, lean inside then emerge, folder in hand and walk back to her.

  ‘This will take no time at all.’ She took a quick breath.

  ‘I’ve just thought – there’s a really nice coffee shop not far from here.’ She pointed in the direction of the distant houses, interspersed with little shops. ‘It’s nice, really warm and not crowded at this time of the evening. Could we do it there?’ He smiled.

  ‘That sounds like a great idea. Just to give you an idea of how difficult the questions are, this first one is the most challenging: What is your name?’ She grinned back at him.

  ‘Erica Trent.’

  He patted his pockets with one hand, then the other. ‘I think that was my phone. It must be in the car. I’d better respond. It might be a colleague.’

  She followed him a short way as he walked back to it, opened the driver’s door, looked around the interior, then called to him, ‘Can’t you find it?’

  He straightened, turned to her with a quiet laugh.

  ‘Like most men, I have trouble finding most things.’ He held up a phone. ‘Got it!’ A sudden wind caught her hair. He frowned upwards at the swaying trees.

  ‘Stand over here where it’s sheltered while I return the call. It won’t take a minute and then we’ll get that coffee. On one condition.’ He placed his hand against his chest. ‘My treat.’

  Erica smiled, thinking how easy it had been to make this first
social contact. Something she would do once every day from now on.

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Experience tells me that you’ll make an excellent witness, Erica.’

  An hour later, they were inside his car as it moved smoothly along. He glanced across at her.

  ‘Tell me, Erica, now that we’ve got to know each other, how do you view the world? What I mean is, what’s your view of it generally? No, let me guess from what you’ve told me so far. You see it as … a kindly, fair place in which to live. A place in which, if we do right to others, we can expect a similar response. How did I do?’ He sent her another glance.

  ‘I feel a certain responsibility towards you, you know. I have to tell you that, from my own experience, the world is truly a very dark place. Which actually doesn’t matter. Because I know how to make it work by keeping to my own rules of engagement. By the way, they’re also a little on the dark side. Although you’ve probably guessed that by now?’ He picked up muffled sounds as she stirred.

  ‘You get it now, don’t you?’ His eyes fixed on the road as his vehicle ate it up, he whispered, ‘Welcome to my world, Erica.’

  Hours later, with the merest hint of a new day visible, he breathed deeply. He looked down at her, carefully removed a leaf from her face.

  ‘I’ll be back soon, but don’t worry. I promise that you won’t be lonely.’ He stood, walked away to his car. Reaching it, he looked up, seeing mostly darkness.

  ‘Thanks, my old friend.’

  ONE

  Friday, 5 April. 7.45 a.m.

  Propped on pillows, Jess Meredith studied the broad shoulders and still-slim waist as Will Traynor came out of the shower. This was something she anticipated whenever she had a late start. She watched as he gave himself a vigorous towel-dry then wrapped the towel around his waist, all done without vanity. He lifted both arms to dry his short, fair hair. She looked at the scar on his side, thinking how much he had changed since they had first met, when he was still consumed with grief at his wife’s murder some years before.

  She tracked the familiar morning routine, listened to the buzz of the razor, his eyes fixed on the mirror in front of him, knowing he was already in work-mode. Postgraduate students competed to get onto the courses he taught. He repaid their keenness by delivering high-quality lectures and tutorials. She watched him pat on a splash of aftershave. He looked at her through the mirror and grinned, moved across the room, reached for the fresh, white shirt hanging from the wardrobe door.

  ‘Busy day ahead?’ she asked.

  ‘Some students are coming in to discuss vacation assignments and there’s a lot of research waiting for me.’

  ‘That’s a coincidence. There are one or two areas here which require some in-depth study.’ The towel dropped. Smiling, he returned the shirt to its hanger, came to her, reached for the soft brown-gold curls, lowered his face to hers.

  ‘How about you tell me about them?’

  Same day. 6.38 p.m.

  Chloe Judd brought her car to a halt for what felt like the hundredth time that day and took a deep breath. She looked across at the little house in the middle of the terraced row. Her heart squeezed. It happened every time she saw it. Her new home. Hers. A one-bedroom house built in 1910, its second bedroom converted to a bathroom. She shook her head in disbelief. Chloe Judd, property owner. She loved every brick and tile. Knew how lucky she was to have it. She also knew the years of debt it represented. But it was foot-on-the-property-ladder debt, she reminded herself.

  Getting out of the car, she walked around it, opened the passenger door and heaved two boxes from the seat. Carrying them through the little gate and up the short path to the front door, she put them down and inserted her key, aware of subtle movement to her right. The curtain at the bay window of the house on the other side of the low dividing wall fell slowly back into place. She had yet to meet any of her neighbours.

  Unlocking the door, she carried the boxes inside and felt the door close behind her, experiencing yet again the rush of pride in the shadowy, high-ceilinged hall, the dark red-and-blue tiled floor, the stairs to one side. She hefted the boxes and followed the long passageway leading directly ahead to the kitchen.

  Dumping the boxes on the floor, she took a deep breath. Taking her earbuds out of her pocket, she scrolled through the playlist, searching for the perfect unpacking music. She had been here all of the previous day. One medium-sized van had been enough to convey her furniture in a single journey. One more by car had brought all of her personal belongings. Her old bedsit was empty now, save for the items which weren’t hers, awaiting its new tenant. Over the past few days, Judd had arranged and rearranged her few basic items of furniture until they were to her liking, brought flowers for her one vase, cleaned all of the paintwork, done the same to the comparatively modern bathroom and the empty kitchen cupboards, inside and out. This evening she was moving in.

  Singing along with Eminem – yeah, OK, mainstream now, but to Judd’s thinking still the coolest – she opened boxes, carried items to cupboards, delighting in the practical decision-making required. She stretched up to place her three dinner plates on the top shelf. On second thought, she moved them to the lower shelf, placing two cereal bowls next to them, recalling another job she needed to do and soon: measure the large bay window in the sitting room for curtains. The thought brought with it a wisp of anxiety. Large window. Big expense. Behind her, the kitchen door drifted slowly open.

  ‘You left your car door open, Chlo!… Where do you want these?… Chlo?’

  A man pushed his way into the kitchen. Lowering the two boxes to the floor, he flexed his back and shoulders. Still getting no response, he sighed, walked across to her and tapped her shoulder. She yelped, vaulted against a nearby worksurface, dropping a small plate. It hit the tiles and shattered. She whirled on him.

  ‘Jonesy, you bloody idiot! Don’t sneak up like that! Women hate it!’ He grinned.

  ‘Not in my personal experience. The front door was open and I gave you a shout. Who did you think it was? Some low-life after your body or your money, not necessarily in that order?’

  He watched her get her breathing under control then pointed to the boxes he had brought in.

  ‘Where do you want these? They feel like they’re full of paving slabs.’ They knelt either side, unpacking various items.

  ‘This is a really great house, Chlo.’ She narrowed her eyes at him. Jonesy was a joker.

  ‘Are you being serious?’

  ‘’Course, I am! This whole place has a good vibe.’ She looked back at him.

  ‘That’s exactly how I feel about the place.’

  He stood, reached into a pocket of his fleece. ‘Before I forget, here’s your spare key.’ He grinned at her, winked. ‘Or, shall I keep it?’ She reached out, took it from him, looked around the kitchen.

  ‘Listen, I’ve got instant coffee, some milk, bread, cheese. I’ll track down some mugs.’ She saw him glance at his watch. ‘OK. I get the drift. You’ve got plans and you’re thinking you’re on a promise.’

  ‘I wish. Change of shift. I’m on earlies tomorrow.’ He looked at her. ‘You’re all right being here on your own?’

  ‘In my own house, not having to listen to rubbish music or worse coming from other bedsits? Get real.’

  ‘OK, I’ll leave you to it.’ She watched him walk away towards the hall, called after him, ‘Thanks for all your help, Jonesy. You’re a good mate!’

  He turned, looked back to her.

  ‘How about I come back here after I finish tomorrow? Bring some food, some wine, yeah? What do you say?’

  She liked Jonesy, but only as a mate. She knew he was a player.

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve got loads to do and only the next few days to do it.’