Whisper For The Reaper by Jack Gatland (best book series to read TXT) 📕

dead, then simply use the dead hand to place the prints. So the killer watches the victim kill themselves, waits, places the prints on the card and then secretes it away before leaving. That’s someone with a firm belief that they won’t be disturbed.’ He stopped, going through the files a second time. ‘What I can’t work out is why they listen to them. Hypnosis? No. There're drugs in several of the systems, but nothing that would make someone suggestive. For the victims to kill themselves, there must be some kind of emotional trigger, a psychological reason. Blackmail?’

‘What kind of blackmail?’ Wintergreen was leaning closer now as she watched Declan work through the options.

‘All the deaths are quick, painless,’ Declan considered. ‘Well, mostly. Craig Randall slit his own throat, but the autopsy shows that he had benzocaine in his system. That’s a topical pain reliever, so probably numbed the immediate pain. And by the time it broke through, it was too late. So the killer isn’t in it for the pain, the trauma. They’re in it for the death. The finality, perhaps.’

‘You still haven’t explained the blackmail.’

Declan looked up.

‘I’ll give you a choice,’ he said calmly, as if considering his words. ‘I can slowly cut your arm with a dull blade, or I can quickly stab the arm with the sharp point instead. Which do you choose?’

‘The stab,’ Wintergreen replied.

‘Why?’ Now it was Declan’s turn to ask the question.

‘Because it’s quicker.’

‘Exactly,’ Declan mused. ‘You go for the path of least personal discomfort. It’s one reason people jump off buildings. There’s no pain until the very end. So what if the killer gave them a choice? They kill themselves quickly, or he, or she, whatever the killer is, does it to them slowly? Maybe even add the family as a bonus into it. Now the victim knows they’re going to die, but they can choose to decide how.’

Wintergreen smiled. ‘That’s what your father believed, too.’

‘But my father never caught the Red Reaper,’ Declan continued. ‘After Craig, the killings stopped.’

Wintergreen looked at the second folder. ‘Actually, that’s not quite true,’ she said. ‘There was one more murder.’ She opened the folder and passed a file over to Declan.

CHRISTINE WALSH

‘My mum died of cancer,’ Declan said as he looked down at the folder. ‘She was terminal. In hospital.’

Wintergreen nodded at this. ‘I know,’ she replied, pulling out a clear bag from the folder, one with a card in it. A now familiar card. ‘However, there’s more to that. Your mother was sick, and she was fighting a real bastard, but the doctors still believed that with new treatments, they could extend her lifespan. She was in hospital, but they expected her to be released within the week. Your father went to the cafeteria to grab a coffee, and when he got back, your mother had passed away in her sleep.’

‘I know this,’ Declan was getting angry now. He didn’t want to relive this moment. ‘What are you getting at here?’

Wintergreen tossed the bag over so that Declan could look at it. ‘That was found under her when they moved the body,’ she explained. ‘There was no reason for Christine to have one of these, and again, the fingerprints, once the nurse who found it was removed from the suspects, were the same two fingers in the same location.’

‘The Red Reaper killed mum?’ Declan shook his head. ‘No, that’s not the way he works.’

‘Your mother didn’t die in her sleep,’ Wintergreen continued, tapping at a line in the file. ‘She gave herself a fatal morphine overdose. It’s exactly how the Red Reaper worked. And this was a personal message. Your father was Chief Superintendent by this point, and this took the wind out of his sails. He never spoke of the case publicly again.’

‘Publicly?’ Declan looked up. ‘So he still worked it?’

Wintergreen shrugged. ‘Where do you think we gained these files from?’ she asked. ‘He had duplicates of everything. Once he retired, he started working on this. Claimed he was working on his memoirs, but actually this was his entire life.’ She sighed. ‘The USB drive was supposed to tell us everything. But the day before he was to meet with me, he had a car accident. The one you believe was murder.’

‘Was it?’ Declan almost didn’t want to know the answer. Wintergreen didn’t reply. Instead, she looked to Marlowe, who passed her another clear bag, with yet another Red Reaper card.

‘This was in the glove compartment of his car when it crashed,’ she explained. ‘The police assumed it was evidence from a case that Patrick had taken, but we snaffled it before they tossed it aside. Can you guess what was on it?’

Declan looked from Wintergreen to Marlowe. ‘So what, you want me to avenge his death?’

‘You don’t want to?’ Wintergreen watched Declan closely. ‘Think about it, Declan. You’re damaged goods right now. You need to get yourself back in the police’s good books. Solving this could help you.’

‘More cold cases,’ Declan muttered but stopped as Wintergreen held up a hand.

‘I never said this was a cold case,’ she reached into the folder and pulled out another file, sliding it across. ‘This is why we had to use such an unconventional route to get you here. Nathanial Wing. Sixteen years old, moved into Remenham four years ago with his parents, worked as an intern for a web designer in Henley while he did graphic design at college. Found yesterday morning on the sixteenth green of Temple Golf Club, in Hurley. Poor bastard had slit his wrists open and bled into the hole. No blade located.’

She leaned closer.

‘He knew your father was hunting him. He sent him a message by killing your mother. And then at the end he killed Patrick as well. Now, he’s free to do whatever he wants.’

‘Why the sixteenth hole?’ Declan started moving through the cases again. ‘It should have been the fifteenth.’

‘Why?’ Wintergreen frowned at this. Declan started counting on his fingers.

‘Twelve murders. Then mum and dad. If that’s