By Elizabeth George
The police by no means suspected a serial killer used to be at huge till they discovered the fourth murdered boy -- the 1st white sufferer -- his physique draped over a tomb in a London graveyard. without warning a sequence of crimes and a possible public family catastrophe have Scotland backyard at the protective, scrambling to understand a maniac whereas averting accusations of racism. Detective Superintendent Thomas Lynley, distracted by means of matters for his pregnant spouse, has been assigned to the research, with his disgraced accomplice, Barbara Havers, who is scuffling with for her specialist destiny. Winston Nkata -- deservedly, if rapidly, promoted to detective sergeant -- is the black face who will converse to the media. yet none of them can think the tenacity and ingenuity of the killer they search . . . and nobody is ready for the savage, stunning rapid whilst every little thing will switch eternally.
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Additional info for With No One as Witness
Yet that was what the body represented to him: the sinister, left hand of evil. Ritualistic killings always struck him that way. And that this murder had been a ritual was something that he did not doubt. The effigylike arrangement of the body served to encourage that deduction, but so did the mark in blood on the forehead: a crude circle crisscrossed by two lines that each bore cruciforms at the top and the bottom. Additionally, the element of a loincloth added support to this conclusion: an odd, lace-edged piece of fabric, which had been tucked, as if lovingly, round the genitals.
That was enough to tell Kimmo that matters had taken an unexpected turn. He didn’t pause to wonder what the hell the family were doing home when they were still supposed to be at Gran’s at church at yoga at counseling or wherever the hell they went when they went. ” Kimmo didn’t need to hear Ronald come tearing up the stairs or Gail shouting, “No! ” to understand that he had to be out of there pronto. He fumbled with the lock on the window, threw up the sash, and heaved himself and his pillowcase out just as Ronald barreled into the room armed with what looked like a fork for turning meat on a barbecue.
Barbara straightened and glanced in the direction from which the voice had chimed. She saw the young daughter of her neighbour sitting on the weathered wooden bench in front of the ground-floor flat of the old converted building. She’d removed her shoes and was in the process of struggling into a pair of inline skates. Far too large by the look of them, Barbara thought. Hadiyyah was only eight years old and the skates were clearly meant for an adult. “These’re Mummy’s,” Hadiyyah informed her, as if reading her mind.