I’m Mark Kingdom. Self-assured, fit, attractive, clever, intuitive. All words I Iike to describe me. Arrogant, narcissistic, sexual predator, destructive, all words those less aware people use.
I was Manchester Met’s golden boy, until I wasn’t. The official line was “mutual separation.” The truth was uglier. The Chief Constable’s daughter, her hen night, too much drink, and me taking advantage. A night her father wanted buried. I went quietly, left my potential high-flying career, and decided to take up and take up career in writing. How hard could it be for me.
Until the royalties started to flow, I had to work, Devon and Cornwall took a chance on me. Three days a week, cold cases, oddities, the scraps no one else wanted. A favour from Reading smoothed the way. I told myself it was temporary. A quiet village, a low profile, a chance to re-invent myself.
That fantasy lasted one night. I hadn’t even unpacked at my new home when everything changed
A Detective Chief Inspector knocked on my door the first morning in the new house. A man had been found mutilated less than a mile away — staged, deliberate, a message written in blood. I told them more would follow. They didn’t listen. The killer was clever, theatrical, starving for attention. Dartmoor became his killing field; Exeter his hunting ground.
Everybody was a taunt. Every scene a challenge. The investigation spiralled, the team kept shutting me out, too afraid of what my profile implied. By the time they realised I was right, the killer had already chosen his next target.
And the team were too far out of their depth to stop him.
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