The Girls on Chalk Hill

THE GIRLS ON CHALK HILL A COMPLETELY GRIPPING SERIAL KILLER THRILLER ALISON BELSHAM BOOKS BY ALISON BELSHAM Detective Lexi Bennett Series The Girls on Chalk Hill The Girl’s Last Cry The Innocent Angels Available in Audio The Girls on Chalk Hill (Available in the UK and the US) 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 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Chapter 69 The Girl’s Last Cry Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Hear More from Alison Books by Alison Belsham A Letter from Alison The Innocent Angels Acknowledgements ONE MONDAY, 9 JANUARY She ran as if her life depended on it, until she couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t go any faster. Her heart was bursting, muscles stretched to breaking point, but she was determined not to slow down despite the fatigue that weighed against every stride. Creeping undergrowth crowded the path and bare branches formed a dense canopy overhead. Brambles scratched her naked arms and legs, their spiny thorns ripping her skin, drawing blood. The narrow track was uneven and stony, criss-crossed by tree roots – it would be easy to stumble, easy to fall. Although she could see the emerging dawn diluting the dark sky between the tree trunks ahead, there was no light down here. She was running blind. The woman sprinted uphill, adding to the pressure in her lungs and legs. Her breath was a harsh rasp deep in her throat. Or was that the sound of someone else coming up behind her? There was frost on the ground and her trainers crunched and skidded. Was it just her own footfalls she could hear, or was somebody following her? She glanced over her shoulder. There was no one there. Just the silent forest. Still as death, quiet as the grave. But she had to keep up the pace. She couldn’t stop. She was compelled to keep going, driving through the pain barrier, running through the fire. The track took a sharp turn to the right. The slope became steeper and the path narrower. As her pace slowed, she felt a surge of anger. She had to push herself harder. She had to be stronger than this. Each breath ripped her lungs from her chest. Every fibre of every muscle was burning. One. Foot. In. Front. Of. The. Other. She was almost there, almost there, almost at the top… Light-headed, vision blurred, she burst out of the treeline at the brow of the hill. After vaulting the stile that divided the woods from the pasture, she collapsed onto the ground, feeling the prickle of the frosty grass through the thin fabric of her running kit. The sky above her was the colour of wet slate, but over the crest of the hill, beyond where she lay in the shadows, the horizon was now washed pale lilac. Her chest rose and fell to replace depleted oxygen, frantic for the first few seconds as the cold air ripped down her throat. Her stomach cramped and her leg muscles tightened. It would be a few minutes before she’d be able to get back on her feet. A minute passed, then she tapped the Fitbit on her wrist to check her stats. Not a personal best, but certainly not too shoddy for a frosty January morning before sunrise. She watched the digits change as her heart rate gradually returned to normal. As her breathing calmed, the sun rose over the top of the hill behind her and lit up the Weald, which stretched out below her in a patchwork of fields, villages, roads and rivers, like a living map. This spectacular view was her reward for heaving herself out of bed before dawn. But then she noticed something that didn’t make sense. She sat up and clambered unsteadily to her feet. Down the hill was a huge chalk carving – the Wye Memorial Crown. Covering an area about the size of a tennis court, the land had been cut away to expose the pale limestone of the North Downs in celebration of the coronation of Edward VII. But this morning, she could see two dark outlines on the white chalk, and black stains spreading from them. Bags of rubbish? Who would dump their litter up here? As she stepped closer, her eyes widened with dawning horror. The stains weren’t black. They were red. Blood red. And the lumps weren’t rubbish sacks. They were bodies. She ran down the slope towards them, unable to comprehend what she was seeing. Her heart rate rocketed again – pounding harder and faster than it had when she’d reached the top of the hill. What the hell had happened? Two young women – teenagers, she thought – lay on the wide cross at the top of the crown, their heads pointing down the hill. Their throats had been slashed and the white chalk was drenched with their blood. They were wearing frothy white gowns of gauze. Layers of tulle fluttered around them in the breeze. The necklines of the dresses were bloody, the red bleeding to pink as it spread through the fabric. Below the bodices, the free-flowing material of the skirts was twisted around pale legs and bare feet. Both of them had delicate, glittering tiaras – one was still in place amid the girl’s