The Ash Doll Read online

  Praise for

  ‘James Hazel grabs you from the off and doesn’t let go until the very end’

  MARTYN WAITES

  ‘A compelling mystery that has you tearing through the pages. Charlie Priest is a genius creation. He’s brilliant and border-line dysfunctional but you can’t help liking him. Highly recommended’

  J. S. CAROL

  ‘Shiver inducing . . . irresistible, The Mayfly is really top notch. Intelligently constructed, characters to die for and a truly sterling opening’

  LIZ LOVES BOOKS

  ‘Addictive . . . wonderfully macabre . . . With this marvellous cast, Hazel’s thriller certainly keeps rolling along at a cracking pace . . . You will be guaranteed to be on to a winner with The Mayfly’

  CRIMESQUAD

  ‘A compulsive and engaging read’

  BIBLIOPHILE BOOK CLUB

  ‘Dark, gory and compelling . . . I was hooked from page one and didn’t put it down’

  BREAKAWAY REVIEWERS

  ‘A heart thumping page-turner’

  THE BOOK CLUB CAFE

  ‘A strong debut’

  REVIEWS REVUES

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Letter from Author

  Extract from The Mayfly

  Copyright

  This book is dedicated to Grace, who once asked if I was a bald man with glasses. For the record, I am not (at least, not yet).

  ‘Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone. If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord.’

  Romans 12:17–19

  ‘Eye for eye . . .’

  Exodus 21:24

  Chapter 1

  1 November 1989

  Rose scrambled up the last few feet of hillside where the incline banked sharply, and mossy turf gave way to a stone ledge running across the cliff. The light was fading and the air was cold and damp. She hurried over the crest but knew that she had to watch her step. As the path narrowed, only a series of rotting fence posts joined with wire separated her from the waves crashing on the scree below.

  There was a small gathering of people ahead of her where the path widened out before it disappeared altogether as the cliff ended abruptly, falling away at an almost perfect right angle where it would eventually meet the flatter coastline. As she approached, one of the figures broke from the group and hurried to meet her.

  ‘Thank goodness, Rose,’ the woman gasped. Rose recognised her as the tall widow who kept the flower shop in the nearby village of Tome, but the name eluded her.

  ‘I came as soon I could,’ Rose explained, sensing the panic in the flower-woman’s voice.

  ‘Not a moment too soon.’

  The flower-woman ushered Rose through the group who parted for her, their grim faces barely registering in the dusk. There were a few she recognised from the town and even a couple she could put names to. Being two months into her post with the local constabulary, she felt she really ought to know all of them, but Rose was damned if she could tell one face from another in this light.

  ‘What took you so long, Officer?’ growled a voice obscured beneath the hood of a raincoat. The garment would have swamped a basketball player, let alone the dumpy character wearing it. She ignored the insinuation and allowed herself to be led to where the wire fence cut across them and a yellow sign warning of the dangerous sheer drop swung precariously in the wind.

  Near the edge, a cracked wooden sign bearing the name of the cliff jutted out of the ground at an angle: DEVIL’S POINT.

  ‘Who found her?’ asked Rose to the flower-woman.

  ‘Vern was leading his history group up here.’

  ‘What was a history group doing up here at this time of night?’

  ‘Well, it’s more of a ghost walk, if you ask me. The cliff is supposed to be haunted by the ghost of a Celtic sailor who—’

  Rose raised her hand irritably and the woman had the good sense not to continue. Rose lowered the wire and stepped over it; it was astonishing how brittle the safety perimeter was.

  She stopped and stared ahead. Behind her, the dying sun was plunging into the horizon, its final burst of energy igniting the foot of the night sky with a deep crimson gloss. Rose swallowed hard. Standing on the edge of the cliff, her hair caught in the breeze, was a young girl of no more than ten. She faced outwards towards the sea, her hands outstretched, looking for all the world as if she might suddenly sprout wings and dive into the grey abyss.

  She looked back, as if the flower-woman might be able to offer some explanation. She was met with an array of blank faces.

  ‘Hello?’ Rose called gently, careful not to startle her.

  At first, the girl did nothing but, when Rose called again, she turned her head and Rose caught a glimpse of a pale, tear-stained face.

  ‘Sweetheart, I’m a police officer. You’re standing very close to the edge. Can you step back towards me?’

  The girl didn’t move. Rose edged forward. The girl was perilously close to the brink – a strong, unexpected gust might be enough to send her over.

  ‘You’re safe, honey. You just need to turn around, slowly and carefully.’

  The wind whipped around her face as Rose lowered herself to the girl’s level. She was seven or eight metres from Rose but, given the proximity of the danger facing her, she might as well have been a thousand miles away. Her heart racing, Rose extended her hand.

  ‘Can you tell me your name?’

  The girl shook her head, almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Can you tell me where you’re from?’

  Another slight shake.

  Rose was about to move towards her when someone spoke from behind. The small man hidden in the oversized raincoat.

  ‘Officer, look.’


  Rose followed the outstretched hand to the girl’s midriff, and down to where a ragged skirt flapped across her thin, bare legs. At first Rose thought it might be dirt. It had rained hard the night before and the ground was muddy in places.

  But the rust-coloured patches running from underneath her white dress to her heels weren’t mud.

  ‘Honey,’ she whispered, ‘what happened to you?’

  Chapter 2

  Present Day

  SIMEON:

  HEY ARE YOU THERE?

  SIMEON:

  HELLO?

  USER3412:

  SORRY, I’M HERE.

  SIMEON:

  BEEN THINKING ABOUT NEXT WEEK A LOT.

  USER3412:

  WHAT ABOUT NEXT WEEK? WE’RE GOING TO CHANGE THE WORLD

  SIMEON:

  I NEED TO TALK TO YOU.

  USER3412:

  IT’S TOUGH I KNOW. BUT WE’VE COME SO FAR. DID YOU REMEMBER THE MEETING PLACE? WE WON’T NEED IT BUT HOPE IT HELPS. KNOWING IT’S THERE AND STUFF?

  SIMEON:

  IT’S MORE COMPLICATED THAN THAT. I’M NOT SURE ANYMORE.

  USER3412:

  SIMEON, RELAX. EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE. THIS IS WHAT WE BOTH WANT RIGHT? THE TRUTH. WE ARE MARCHING TO AN APOCALYPTIC TUNE.

  SIMEON:

  NOT SURE I GET WHAT THE TRUTH IS ANYMORE. IT’S ALL GOT VERY CONFUSED IN MY HEAD. LAST NIGHT I HAD THIS DREAM THAT WE WERE IN A THEATRE LOOKING OUT TO AN AUDIENCE, TELLING THEM OUR STORY. THEY WERE ON FIRE. ALL OF THEM. I COULD SMELL THEIR FLESH BURNING. FUCKED UP RIGHT?

  USER3412:

  OK. THE BALANCE, SIMEON. REMEMBER IT’S ALL ABOUT RESTORING BALANCE. IF WE DON’T DO THIS THEN WHO WILL? REMEMBER – SNE, HNE, SNE.

  SIMEON:

  NO. I’VE MADE UP MY MIND.

  SIMEON:

  U THERE?

  USER3412:

  WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

  SIMEON:

  I MEAN ABOUT THE TRUTH.

  USER3412:

  THIS IS JUST YOU HAVING DOUBTS WHICH IS NATURAL CONSIDERING THE CONSEQUENCES OF WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT WEEK WHEN THE WORLD FINDS OUT THE TRUTH.

  SIMEON:

  I HATE MYSELF.

  SIMEON:

  HATE WHAT I’VE BECOME MAYBE. I KNOW WHAT WE’RE DOING AND I KNOW WHAT HAPPENED HAPPENED, BUT THAT DOESN’T MAKE US RIGHT. WHO GUARDS THE GUARDS IF WE DO WHAT WE WANT?

  USER3412:

  IT DOESN’T WORK LIKE THAT.

  SIMEON:

  WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

  USER3412:

  SIMEON, WE’VE BEEN DOING THIS FOR 2 YEARS. IT’S NOT LIKE YOU CAN JUST SAY HEY FUCK IT AT THIS POINT CAN YOU? DID YOU TALK TO THE MAG’S LAWYER?

  SIMEON:

  I MET HIM A COUPLE OF TIMES.

  USER3412:

  WHO IS HE?

  SIMEON:

  HIS NAME IS PRIEST.

  USER3412:

  AND?

  SIMEON:

  WHAT?

  USER3412:

  WHAT'S HE LIKE?

  SIMEON:

  KIND OF LIKE A GUY THAT’S GOOD TO HAVE ON YOUR SIDE AND A REAL BIG DEAL IF HE’S ON THE OTHER.

  USER3412:

  NOT GONNA FUCK WITH HIM THEN?

  USER3412:

  SIMEON? U THERE?

  SIMEON:

  WE SHOULD GO TO THE POLICE.

  USER3412:

  AND THEY’LL DO WHAT EXACTLY?

  SIMEON:

  YOU KNOW WHAT.

  SIMEON:

  I GUESS WHEN WE STARTED I BOUGHT INTO THE AGENDA. I GOT WHAT WE WERE ABOUT. CUTTING OUT THE ROTTEN CORE AND EVERYTHING. YOU WERE MY INSPIRATION. I THOUGHT I CAN DO THIS – THIS MAKES REAL SENSE. DON’T GET ME WRONG. THEY SHOULD BURN FOR WHAT THEY DID BUT IS THIS THE WAY? IS THIS ME?

  USER3412:

  CALL ME.

  SIMEON:

  I’M SORRY. SOMEONE HAS TO END THIS.

  USER3412:

  DON’T BE A FOOL, SIMEON. IF WE DON’T DO IT THEN THEY WIN. THAT’S ALL THAT WILL HAPPEN. THEY WILL WIN.

  SIMEON:

  YOU DON’T KNOW THAT.

  USER3412:

  WAIT.

  USER3412:

  I DON’T WANNA HAVE TO DO IT THIS WAY, SIMEON, BUT I OWN YOU.

  USER3412:

  YOU DON’T GET TO LEAVE. NOT NOW.

  SIMEON:

  I’M SORRY.

  SIMEON:

  ***SIMEON HAS LOGGED OFF***

  USER3412:

  FINE. BUT DON’T SAY YOU WEREN’T WARNED.

  USER3412:

  ***USER3412 HAS LOGGED OFF***

  Chapter 3

  Vincent Okoro sat with his arm draped across the back of the front bench of court thirteen, which creaked under the weight of his muscular frame. The trial bundle was spread across his lap but his interrogation of it was limited to idly flipping through the pages, only giving cursory attention to the text. Anything else would have been pointless: he knew the contents intimately.

  He was vaguely aware of the hum of people around him. Behind, two men and a woman sat nervously shuffling around, not quite sure how to find a comfortable pose on the ancient wooden pews that served as seating in the Royal Courts of Justice. To his left, an usher draped in ill-fitting robes was moving papers around with great purpose, although the end result eluded Okoro. High above him to the back of the court, a scattering of journalists were engrossed in the soft lights from their smartphones and tablets, trying to find something productive to do before the trial started.

  It was a disappointing turn-out. Given the media attention the case had enjoyed for the past two years, he had hoped for more of a journalistic presence on day one of Elias v. The Real Byte Limited. But then it was early. The start time was an hour and a half away. Not even the claimant and her team of blood-sucking lawyers had arrived in court, although rumour suggested they had been milling around the public cafe earlier filling their time with croissants and anecdotes.

  Still, an hour and a half to go – and no sign of Priest, or their first witness.

  Okoro sighed heavily, and threw the bundle back under the bench. He turned around and was surprised to see behind him another figure who must have ghosted into court.

  ‘Hello,’ Georgie Someday said brightly, her green eyes peering curiously at him.

  ‘How long have you been there?’ Okoro asked.

  ‘Three minutes. I didn’t want to disturb your reading.’

  ‘I’ve read it before. Where’s Priest?’

  ‘He rang to say he’s on his way.’

  ‘Is he with Simeon?’

  Georgie grimaced. ‘He didn’t mention that.’

  Okoro found himself sighing again, but with more vigour. Simeon Ali – his crucial witness – could make or break this case. Without his evidence, it could well be a very short and humiliating trial.

  Maybe the lack of journalists at the back wasn’t so bad after all.

  ‘Go and phone Priest,’ Okoro instructed. ‘Find out where he is and get confirmation that Simeon is turning up on time this morning and looking like the million-pound witness he is.’

  Georgie nodded, brushed a strand of ginger hair out of her face and scurried out.

  ‘Morning, Okoro.’ A gruff voice directed Okoro’s attention to the claimant’s side of the courtroom where a hunched figure was lining bundles up on the front bench.

  ‘Hagworth.’ Okoro acknowledged his opponent with a curt nod, which the old silk returned before getting back to the job of trying to make his bundles stand upright – a task that Okoro surmised was being hindered by his shaking hands and milky eyes.

  ‘Fine morning,’ Hagworth muttered.

  Okoro shrugged. ‘I thought there might be more press.’

  ‘There are some reporters busying themselves in the lobby. Parasites. But enough to give you some publicity, if that is what you desire.’

  Okoro grunted in a way that was intended to be non-committal. Dickie Hagworth QC was one of the most experienced libel lawyers in private practice but that didn’t stop him f
rom being an objectionable snob.

  ‘A fine suit,’ Hagworth observed.

  Okoro looked down and inspected his eighteen stone of muscle bulging out of an Armani three-piece. He looked back up, not sure what to say. Hagworth rarely said anything for no good reason.

  ‘You certainly look the part, Okoro. I hope you don’t take the loss too hard.’ The QC smirked and picked up another bundle.

  Okoro leant forward, the bench creaking under the movement, and rested his chin on his hand thoughtfully. Then he said, ‘It’s going to be tough for you back at the gentlemen’s club, Hagworth. Trying to explain how you got beat by a black man.’

  In front of him, Hagworth’s line of files collapsed, sending papers scattering across the courtroom floor.

  Chapter 4

  The morning sun glistened off the frost-covered grass as the procession slowly trailed over the brow of the hill, the church behind them and the vista falling away ahead. Crows lined the fence like sentries, watching the proceedings with avid curiosity. The ground was damp and the day smelt of fresh dew. Only the distant rumble of traffic reminded the gathering that the burial ground was only a few miles outside of the city.

  The hole was already dug, ready to accept the casket, which was now lowered into the ground. At the far end, the vicar read the familiar set of words, shivering slightly in the cold. Charlie Priest stood at the back, hands thrust deep into his pockets, trying not to be recognised, but it wasn’t easy. At six foot three with broad shoulders and a strong, athletic build, Priest wasn’t good at merging into the background. With bright blue eyes and drifts of soft brown hair, he cut a rugged and striking sight. Several people had already turned around to look, nudging each other and whispering. They knew who he was. Through the crackle of their hushed chatter, Priest caught one electrifying word drifting on the breeze: Mayfly. He was the man who Kenneth had hired to find his son’s killer. The man who had undone everything for the Ellinders.