Broken Dolls Read Free

the day. It was mid-afternoon, an hour before sundown, and the slate-grey sky was filled with dark storm clouds. According to the news reports, snow was on the way and people were already betting on whether or not it was going to be a white Christmas. I could understand the appeal of gambling but I didn’t understand the appeal of snow. It was cold, wet and depressing. At heart I would always be a Californian. I crave sunshine the way an addict craves crack.
    ‘I really appreciate you agreeing to take the case,’ said Hatcher. ‘I know how busy you are.’
    ‘Glad to be here,’ I said. No you don’t , I thought. And that was the truth. Right now I could be in Singapore or Sydney or Miami. Hot, sunny places. Instead I was in London on an icy December day, fighting off frostbite and hypothermia and wondering when the blizzard was going to hit.
    I only had myself to blame. The main benefit of being your own boss was that you got to call the shots. I’d chosen to be in London for the simple reason that this case was unusual, and unusual made it interesting, and interesting was one of the few things that could trump sunshine.
    Since quitting the FBI I’d travelled the world hunting serial criminals. Every day brought a new request for help, sometimes two or three requests. Choosing which cases to work was tough since declining a case could mean a death sentence for someone, often more than one someone since serial killers tend to keep going until they’re stopped. This dilemma gave me plenty of sleepless nights during my FBI days. I slept better now, but that was the combination of sleeping pills, whisky and jet lag.
    Unfortunately there was never going to be a shortage of monsters to hunt down. That was the way it had been since for ever, all the way back to when Cain murdered Abel. Serial criminals were like weeds. When you caught one another dozen sprang up to take their place. Some people believed there were as many as a  hundred serial killers operating in the US alone. And that was just the killers. This figure didn’t account for the arsonists or the rapists or any of those other monsters whose only goal in life was to bring pain and suffering into the lives of others.
    I’d been your archetypal G-Man when I was with the FBI. A sharp suit, shoes spit-shined until they shone like mirrors, hair cut into a neat short back and sides. My hair was black back then, dyed so I wouldn’t stand out. Put me in a line-up with a thousand other agents and I would have blended right in.
    These day I’m more relaxed about my appearance. The starched white shirts and stiff suits have gone, replaced with jeans and dead-rock-star T-shirts and hooded tops. The shiny shoes have been swapped for comfortable, scuffed working boots. The dye ended up in the trash. I might not look as smart as I used to, but I felt a damn sight more comfortable. Those G-Men suits were like straitjackets.
    ‘What are your first impressions?’ Hatcher glanced over at me, one hand on the wheel, the needle pushing a hundred.
    ‘There are only two ways this guy’s going to stop. You catch him or he dies. Either from causes natural or unnatural. He likes what he does too much to stop on his own.’
    ‘Come on, Winter, this isn’t some rookie you’re talking to here. That description covers ninety-nine point nine per cent of serial criminals.’
    I laughed. Hatcher had got me there. ‘Okay, how about this? When you catch him, he’s not going to come in easily. This one’s a prime candidate for suicide by cop.’
    ‘What makes you say that?’
    ‘Prison would kill him.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘This guy’s all about control. He controls every aspect of his victims’ lives. What they wear, what they eat, everything. He couldn’t handle having that control taken away. Suicide by cop would appeal to him because he would be choosing the time and place of his death. In his mind, he’d still be in control.’
    ‘Let’s hope you’re wrong about