Nighttrap Read online

  Praise for the series:

  “Enough hellish mystery to have you drooling

  for the next in the series”

  Observer

  “An exciting romp”

  Daily Telegraph

  “Wild and gripping … brilliant”

  Sunday Express

  “Atmospheric”

  Independent

  “Brilliant”

  Times Educational Supplement

  “This is a real cracker! The thrills and

  chills come thick and fast”

  Gateway Monthly

  “Full of spine-chilling characters

  and stomach-turning action”

  Herald Express

  “It’s got more terror and thrills than

  you could get your fangs into”

  Liverpool Echo

  Titles by Tom Becker

  Darkside

  Lifeblood

  Nighttrap

  Timecurse

  Blackjack

  The Traitors

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for the DARKSIDE series

  Titles by Tom Becker

  Title page

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Dare to discover more?

  Copyright

  Prologue

  August, in a city gasping for breath. The heat had wrapped thick, sweaty fingers around London, and was squeezing mercilessly. Choked streets pleaded in vain for a breeze. Trapped inside stuffy offices and airless tube trains, Londoners sweltered and roasted. Those unable to escape the city made for parks and gardens, and the shade beneath tree branches and sun umbrellas, but the heat sapped life from everything. Down by the riverfront, the Thames slumped lifelessly against the Embankment.

  Deep in the bowels of a West London police station, Police Sergeant Charlie Wilson tugged at his collar and stared at the suspect in front of him with mounting disbelief. For a criminal mastermind, this was a singularly unusual figure. He had been in some sort of fight, and there was an ugly swelling on the back of his head. His eyes were wild and he fidgeted impatiently, as though he was late for an important appointment. Since waking up handcuffed to a hospital bed, the only thing he had said was his name. None of which would have been that strange, but for the fact that the suspect could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen years old.

  Wilson didn’t know what to make of it. At twenty-four, he wasn’t that much older than the lad himself. He had only been in the force for a year, and nothing in training had prepared him for this. He scratched at a damp armpit and tried again.

  “Look, Kevin, we can sit here all day if you want. Tomorrow too. It’s not like you’re going anywhere.”

  He paused, hoping for a reply. The tape recorder hummed in the silence.

  “This isn’t shoplifting, son. This is serious.”

  Kevin shrugged, and looked down at the floor. Wilson had dealt before with young lads who acted tough, but there was something different about this one. He was so distant, so disengaged, it was as if they were barely in the same room.

  It was clearly going to be a long day. Wilson’s mouth was parched and he had already finished off his jug of water. The boy hadn’t asked for any, and Wilson was worried that if he went out for a refill he would look weak. If only it wasn’t so damn hot!

  He was just about to try a sterner approach when the door to Interview Room B creaked open, and in slipped the crumpled figure of Detective Carmichael. Wilson’s eyes widened with surprise. A small, hunchbacked man squeezed into a cheap suit, the detective was an unlikely legend on the force. He shuffled round the police station like a tramp, rarely speaking to any of his colleagues. Yet, time and time again, this unassuming figure had cracked high-profile cases that had stumped other coppers. By rights, he should have made Super by now, but there was something about Carmichael that unsettled his colleagues. To everyone’s relief, he seemed happy to remain a detective, albeit one who could pick and choose his cases. And today he had chosen Wilson’s.

  Detective Carmichael sized up the room with one swift glance and collapsed into a chair. Rubbing an eye wearily, he nodded at Wilson.

  “Morning, Sergeant,” he said softly. “Thought you might appreciate a helping hand on this case. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  Wilson shuffled his notes, and replied with a dry mouth:

  “Right . . . yes, sir. Well, in the early hours of this morning, an armed police unit responded to reports of gunfire and a burning vehicle outside an address in Kensington. Having gained access to the building, they found evidence of a break-in, and bloodstains indicating a violent struggle. The owner of the residence was nowhere to be seen. In fact, the only person left on the premises was the suspect here, who was lying unconscious on the floor of a high-security vault in the basement. He was clutching this, sir.” He showed his superior a photograph of a glittering stone, an ice-blue sapphire. “Experts reckon it’s worth a couple of million.”

  Detective Carmichael raised an eyebrow and turned to the young boy. “Not bad for a lad your age. Trying to impress a girlfriend, were we?”

  Kevin snorted humourlessly. Secretly, Wilson was relieved that the vaunted Carmichael’s entrance hadn’t improved the lad’s attitude.

  “The suspect is refusing to cooperate, sir,” he cut in helpfully. “All we’ve been able to get out of him is his name.”

  The detective gave the boy a long, thoughtful stare. Then he leant forward and said, almost in a whisper, “I bet you didn’t give your real name, though, did you, Jonathan?”

  The boy looked up sharply, a shocked expression on his face. Carmichael chuckled, shaking his head.

  “For a clever lad, you must think we’re awfully stupid. Did you think we’d just take your word for it? Did you not think we might run your photo through a database? What do you think this is, son – the nineteenth century?”

  The detective’s mouth may have still been creased in a smile, but his eyes were deadly serious now. He stared at the boy, challenging him. Jonathan held his gaze, but didn’t say anything.

  Wilson was lost.

  “Sir?” he ventured.

  The sound of his voice broke the spell in the room. Carmichael turned back to him, his mouth twitching with amusement.

  “This is a very special day, Sergeant. We’re interviewing a ghost.”

  “I . . . I don’t understand, sir.”

  Carmichael settled back in his chair. “Young Jonathan Starling here was kidnapped in central London a year ago. Despite a huge manhunt, he was never found. Suddenly the investigation was closed down and no one – not one family member, not one friend, Wilson – argued or asked any questions. It was as if everyone just . . . forgot about him. And now, out of the blue, here he is again! The only suspect in an attempted multi-million-pound robbery.” He smiled again at Jonathan. “Whatever your story is, son, I can’t wait to hear it
.”

  The boy sat back and folded his arms obstinately.

  “Listen to me, Jonathan,” Wilson said, struggling to keep up. “You can’t have got into that vault on your own. That place was built like a fortress. Someone was with you – an adult, criminals. Whoever you’re trying to protect, you need to think about whether it’s worth keeping silent. They’ve done a runner and left you to face the music. Where are they now?”

  “I don’t know.” Jonathan spoke up for the first time, a note of determination in his voice. “But I’ll find out.”

  Wilson made an exasperated noise. The boy seemed determined to be unhelpful.

  “Keep this up, and the only place you’ll be going is juvenile prison. Why don’t you just tell us what’s been going on?”

  “What’s the point?” Jonathan shot back. “You won’t believe a word I say anyway.”

  “You’d be surprised by some of the things we’ve heard in this room. As long as it’s the truth, son, then that’s all right.”

  “Where’ve you been, Jonathan?” asked Detective Carmichael.

  “Away,” he replied defiantly.

  “Have you been OK?”

  “I’ve been fine. It was when I came back here that all the trouble started.”

  Jonathan paused, seemingly unsure of what to say next. Wilson gave him a look of encouragement.

  “Go on.”

  Jonathan sighed, and began to talk.

  1

  Jonathan Starling was looking for trouble.

  At first glance, most people wouldn’t have realized this. Trudging round a North London shopping centre, his shoelaces trailing after him across the tiled floor, Jonathan cut an awkward figure. His body was crammed into a school uniform that was at least one size too small for his gangly frame. His hair was a tangled battleground of warring strands. A battered school bag hung limply from one shoulder. A keen observer might have wondered why the schoolboy wasn’t in lessons at this time of the afternoon, but no one was watching him that closely. In fact, no one was watching him at all.

  It was all very frustrating. Jonathan had spent over an hour in the shopping centre trying to get noticed. In the huge sports shop, he had dribbled a football around the aisles, playing one-twos off the wall, but no one had come over to stop him. He had loitered in the music store, trailing a hand over the racks of CDs and DVDs, without receiving a single suspicious glance. He had glared at every security guard he had seen, but they studiously ignored him. He was invisible again.

  It had been a month since Jonathan had left the cobbled streets of Darkside and returned to everyday London. Moving back hadn’t been easy. The problem was, Jonathan had changed. There had been times in Darkside when he would have given anything to feel safe and bored. But now, confronted with the routine of his old life, he was desperate for a buzz, that wave of adrenalin that had carried him from one scrape to another. It was as if somehow he needed fear now.

  Even with the air conditioning on, the shopping centre was simmering with the heat of early summer. Gentle acoustic music drifted down from hidden speakers. Jonathan looked around at the milling shoppers with disdain. How could they not know? How could they be so blind? If he stood very still and closed his eyes, Jonathan could feel Darkside’s presence – a giant, malevolent octopus hidden away in the depths of London, its alleyway tentacles stretching out into the city. Somewhere close by, he knew there would be a secret trapdoor or a dank sewer that could take him back there. Jonathan wondered whether his senses could guide him back. After all, he was half-Darksider: the borough was in his blood.

  But he couldn’t go back, not yet. He had promised.

  In some ways, it was incredible that danger had become such a distant memory. Having crossed two of the most powerful men on Darkside – the vampiric banker Vendetta, and the heir to the Darkside throne Lucien Ripper – Jonathan and his ally Carnegie had prepared themselves for a tidal wave of vengeful violence. For weeks the wereman spent the nights in his lodgings sat in a chair, his eyes fixed on the door, his hand on a weapon. In the next room, Jonathan woke every time a windowpane rattled or a floorboard creaked.

  As time went on, however, they slowly realized that no one was coming for them. The Darkside Informer had seen to that. In a series of explosive articles, it not only revealed Lucien and Marianne’s true identity as the children of Thomas Ripper, but also the fact that Lucien had murdered his brother James twelve years beforehand. Even by Darkside’s high standards, this was considered a foul deed. With his cover blown, and day after day of lurid headlines screaming for his blood, Lucien had been forced to disappear from the face of the rotten borough. Although Carnegie had made enquiries in his usual robust style, no one seemed to know where the Ripper had gone to lick his wounds. And, although one night Jonathan had seen Vendetta’s car roaring down the Grand, scattering horses and passers-by like ninepins, the vampire had also withdrawn from the public eye. The streets of Darkside still provided a riotous stage for its cast of treacherous and murderous characters, and danger lurked round every corner, but that was normal for the borough. Eventually Carnegie ended his night-time vigils, and Jonathan’s sleep became unbroken.

  If anything, the wereman seemed more unnerved by the quiet than by the prospect of violence. He stalked down the Grand, his eyes furtively wary, glowering at anyone foolish enough to meet his gaze.

  “It’s not right, boy,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “This is Darkside. You don’t cross people and get away with it. People here don’t forgive and forget.”

  Jonathan didn’t know what to make of it. Though he was relieved that their lives didn’t appear to be in any immediate danger, the search for his mother had reached another dead end. His encounter with Lucien had only reinforced his belief that Theresa Starling was still alive somewhere in Darkside, but the Ripper seemed the only person who might know where. With his disappearance, the trail to Theresa went stone cold.

  In the end, it was Carnegie who forced him to face facts. The wereman had dragged Jonathan to the meat locker of Col’s butcher’s shop, where he ravaged a joint of beef while the boy stamped his feet in a futile attempt to keep warm. When the beast within him was sated, Carnegie wiped away a fleck of gristle from his cheek with his shirtsleeve and shot Jonathan a sideways glance.

  “Look, boy,” he said eventually, “I’ve been thinking things over, and I’ve decided it’s time you went back to Lightside.”

  “What? Why?”

  “There’s nothing here for you. The only lead to Theresa has dried up. Until we find Lucien, we can’t do anything.”

  “Something will turn up!” Jonathan protested. “It has to! And until then, I can help you with your cases. I’ve done all right so far, haven’t I?”

  “You’ve been fine. But I don’t need a partner. I only agreed to look after you while Alain was ill, and he’s better now.” Carnegie’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not on holiday, and I’m not your uncle, boy.”

  “This isn’t a holiday for me! I’m part-Darksider, remember?”

  “You’re part-Lightsider too, and right now, that’s where you belong. It’s been too long since you saw your dad. You need to go and spend some time with him. I’ll keep digging over here. If I find out anything about Lucien or your mum, I’ll come and get you. We’ll start again then. But wait until I come for you. Deal?”

  Jonathan spent the rest of the day alternately cajoling and arguing with the wereman, but only succeeded in turning his mood increasingly sour. Eventually Carnegie lost patience and snarled at Jonathan to be silent. That evening, the two friends parted company at a crossing point back to London without exchanging another word.

  So now he was back on Lightside, trying to get used to televisions and computers and mobile phones and all the other technological gizmos that had seemed important a long time ago. His favourite songs sounded strange, and films bored him. No special effects
could match what he had seen.

  This wasn’t to say that life was all bad. It was great being back with his dad again. Alain Starling was nearly fully recovered from his latest darkening – an illness caused by the time he had spent in Darkside many years ago. He was a different man from the distant figure who had brought Jonathan up. There were still times he would lapse into silence and stare off into the middle distance, but now a question or a stupid joke could snap him out of his reverie. Jonathan knew that the fact that Theresa remained missing caused Alain great pain, but he was more positive than before. On long, rambling walks on Hampstead Heath and through Regent’s Park, the two Starlings concocted various wild schemes to pick up the trail and somehow bring her home.

  Occasionally Alain would adopt a serious expression and threaten to enrol Jonathan in a new school in the autumn – “Darkside’s all very well, but you’ve got to finish your education” – but both of them knew that his heart wasn’t really in it. Alain understood better than anyone what it felt like to dream of returning to the rotten borough. They spent evenings together leafing through the Lightside books he had collected that contained secret, cryptic references to Darkside. At those moments, Jonathan knew deep down that Carnegie had been right to send him back, but it didn’t stop him hoping that the wereman would soon shamble into view and take him back to Darkside.

  “Excuse me, son?”

  A tall policeman stepped out into Jonathan’s path, interrupting his train of thought. He frowned at him in a manner that Jonathan recognized all too well.

  “Is there a reason why you’re not in school?”

  Jonathan beamed at the man.

  “Absolutely none. What are you going to do about it?”

  This is more like it! Jonathan thought to himself as he hared across the concourse and scrambled up the escalators, two steps at a time. In the past, he would have avoided a chase in such a public place, but this was different. This was fun. His body had smoothly shifted into gear, grateful for the rush of adrenalin. Looking back over his shoulder, Jonathan saw that the policeman was already blowing hard and his cheeks were red. He wasn’t in good enough shape for this chase.