The Scarecrow Killer

THE SCARECROW KILLER An unputdownable crime thriller full of twists MARGARET MURPHY Detective Cassie Rowan Series Book 2 Joffe Books, London www.joffebooks.com First published in Great Britain in 2023 © Margaret Murphy 2023 This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Margaret Murphy to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. We love to hear from our readers! Please email any feedback you have to: [email protected] Cover art by Nick Castle ISBN: 978-1-80405-759-9 CONTENTS Love Free Bestselling Fiction? 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 Epilogue Acknowledgements Love Free Bestselling Fiction? The Joffe Books Story Also by Margaret Murphy A Selection of Books You May Enjoy Glossary of English Usage for US Readers Love Free Bestselling Fiction? Join our mailing list and get a FREE Kindle book from a bestselling author every week! Click here to join our mailing list and also get a free box set of short stories! Follow us on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram @joffebooks For Murf Chapter 1 Thank you for choosing this book. Join our mailing list and get FREE Kindle books from our bestselling authors every week! CLICK HERE TO GET MORE LOVELY BOOK DEALS Early October, 6.30 a.m. A frost sparkled on the grass verges under a clear sky and the eastern embankment of the M62 was just beginning to flush with pale, pre-dawn light. Fighting drowsiness, Detective Constable Cassie Rowan cracked a window and tried to focus on the road. For the last five days, she had worked her regular two-ten shift, then an overnight on call. Tuesday night she’d crawled into bed at eleven and was shocked awake at 3 a.m. by the jangling ringtone of her phone — a call-out at the south end of Liverpool. Now she was heading home, already fantasizing about a few hours of undisturbed sleep. Her headlights caught a flash of movement through the scrubby striplings on the embankment: bright, metallic, kingfisher colours; a lightning strike of blue fire. Rowan braked, craning for another look. Another a fleeting glimpse — a youth in a hoody and jogging bottoms, arms flailing, running full pelt down the hill. ‘Bloody idiot!’ she muttered. ‘He’ll get himself killed!’ She glanced away to negotiate a pothole — only for a second — but when she looked again, he was gone. Nerves atingle, she pulled over, loose stones clunking and pinging against the car’s undercarriage. Opening the window, she leaned out to get a better view; the blue shimmer of his tracksuit top was partially hidden at this angle, but he was still there — hiding maybe — waiting for her to go. Turning on her hazards, she jogged a hundred yards eastwards, back the way she’d come. The road was quiet, and she listened intently, hearing only the piercing call of a robin in the undergrowth and the croak of a passing crow. The air was sharp and fresh, and the frosted blades of grass crunched under her feet. Catching hold of a whippy birch sapling for balance, she glanced around, but at this distance, the motorway lights had little effect and the dawn seemed to add a greyish tinge, which drifted like a mist, in and out, obscuring her view. She took a breath and let her eyes fall shut as she exhaled. Relax . . . He’s gone. A lorry thundered past, blaring its horn, and Rowan startled, opening her eyes wide just as the sun crested the embankment. There — another glimpse of movement and shimmering colour beyond the tangle of grasses and saplings on the slope. ‘Hey!’ She waved her arms, trying to draw the youth’s attention. He didn’t answer, but he seemed to sway, his movements weird — off — as though his legs were boneless. Drunk? Drugged maybe? Rowan started up the incline again, and for a second she saw the figure clearly through the scrubby copse. The hackles rose on the back of her neck: he wasn’t swaying, he was swinging — hanging from a tree. Oh, Jeez, no . . . Her heart hammering, Rowan scrambled up the slope, branches snatching at her clothing and thorns scratching her skin. By the halfway point her phone was in her hand and she was ready to make the call to Emergency Services. Fifteen feet short, she stopped, trying to make sense of the scene. The sun’s rays, dazzling off the hanging figure, created a halo of colours and she squinted, bringing a hand up to shade her eyes. ‘What the . . . ?’ It wasn’t a body after all. It was a hoody and tracksuit bottoms, hung on clothes-hangers and arranged to look like a body. The top half of the oddly assembled jumble turned slowly on a faint stir of wind and Rowan’s heart jumped sideways. The face was a horrible mask, round and mud-red. Its eyes, green, bulging and bloodshot, glared above a squat nose. Its mouth was stretched in a malevolent grin crowded with sharp interlocking teeth. Fighting a wave