Page 111 of The Twenty (Major Crimes)

Romilly remembers her now. Dark curls, shy. Blushing when Elijah spoke to her. Younger than her, maybe five or six when Elijah was arrested. They used to play together when Romilly got back from school. Under the reception desk, all around the empty consultation rooms. Romilly sometimes worried it would make her father angry—the giggling, children shouting—but he’d grin, sometimes join in. Coming, ready or not.

“I had to have her back,” Sandra continues. “I told Robert everything, and he agreed. She came to live with us. She always said she didn’t remember, but somewhere, deep down, she knew.”

Romilly stays silent, the news sinking in. This girl, this woman—she’s her half sister. Her own flesh and blood. And she’s the killer. All those times she’s worried and wondered—would those genes make it more likely she could kill? Might she turn into him? And all along the answer had been here.

Yes.

She has the same makeup, the same DNA. But for her loving mother, Romilly might have turned out like her.

“We knew something was wrong.” Sandra is still talking. Her secret, now exposed, can’t be withheld any longer. “That something was wrong with her. It started when she was a teenager. She didn’t have any friends. She was depressed, anxious. And she’d have these explosive bursts of rage. Utter fury she couldn’t control, directed at whoever or what was nearby. She’d smash up our house, attack Robert. She even put him in hospital once, but we got help. Intermittent Explosive Disorder, they called it. She saw doctors, the right sort of doctors. The right drugs.” Sandra looks at Romilly, realizing the enormity of the situation for the first time. “Everything that’s been happening—that can’t be her,” she pleads. “She’s better. She has a proper job. A career.” She points to Jamie. “She’s one of you.”

Romilly pauses, slow dread creeping across her skin. “What do you mean “one of you”?”

Jamie’s mouth drops open, his eyes widen.

“What do you mean, Sandra?” he pushes.

“Not a cop. But she would never … she isn’t … You’ll know when you meet her. Although maybe you have already.” Her gaze shifts to Jamie. “She works in the crime lab. Helps the police.”

Rom’s stomach drops through the floor.

“No, there’s no way she did this. You’ll see. Find her.” Romilly looks at Jamie. His face has gone white. Sandra continues, her voice desperate. “She goes by my maiden name. Clarke. Maggie Clarke.”

CHAPTER

65

NOBODY’S MESSING AROUND—they have a name.

Blues and twos stream to Maggie Clarke’s address, the armed response team primed and ready. Back at the station, Jamie stands with Marsh and Romilly, one hand clutching his radio as if it’s a talisman. The tactics are clear: go in fast and go in heavy. This woman’s not afraid to kill.

Jamie still struggles to equate their crime scene manager—their efficient, bustling colleague—with the person committing all these murders. It must be a mistake.

As they had driven at speed back to the nick, Romilly had filled Jamie in on everything she knew about Maggie from her childhood.

“She was a sweet kid. A little too adoring of Elijah. And Sandra couldn’t always get sitters, so Maggie was often there …” Her voice had trailed off as they both realized the catastrophic error. Their killer hadn’t been a man. They’d made the assumption that the person committing these crimes would need to be strong, tall, violent—but hadn’t stopped to consider that a woman could be these things too.

A crackle reverberates down the radio. The rumble of footsteps, heavy boots on concrete. Banging, shouting. Calls of “All clear” echo from the small house.

Jamie sees Marsh’s shoulders sag. Romilly puts her hands over her mouth and lets out a small cry.

There’s no one there.

Jamie takes over the radio. “The van,” he says. Control have already confirmed that a black VW Transporter belonging to Maggie Clarke is registered at this address. He repeats the number plate, twice. “Is it on the premises?”

A short pause. “Negative, Sarge.”

Jamie turns to the team, faces eager to get going. “Get every camera, every ANPR across the city searching for that van. Plaster her face over every nick in a fifty-mile radius, so every single cop out there knows what she looks like.”

“What about the prison?” Romilly asks, reading Jamie’s mind. “Surely she’ll try to make contact with Cole somehow?”

“Belmarsh is on high alert?” He looks to Marsh, who nods.

“If she goes there, we have her,” his boss confirms. “Same with Gloucester Road and the surgery. We’ll keep teams at her own house. Everywhere is staked out.”

“But surely she’ll just go to ground?” Romilly says, and Jamie hears the desperation in her voice. “Hide Adam somewhere unknown?”

“There are only so many places you can take an unconscious body,” Jamie says. “She won’t stop. Not until it’s done.” All eyes turn to him. “Adam had a theory, and he was right.”

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