Three For A Girl (Isabel Fielding Book 3) Read online

  Three For A Girl

  Book Three in the Isabel Fielding Series

  By

  Sarah A. Denzil

  Cassie

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part Two

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  About the Author:

  THREE FOR A GIRL

  Sarah A. Denzil

  EBOOK EDITION

  Copyright © 2020 Sarah A. Denzil

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this work, in whole or in part, in any form.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations and products depicted herein are either a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  Cover Design by Ebook Launch

  Also By The Author:

  Saving April – a gripping psychological thriller

  Silent Child – the number one bestseller

  One For Sorrow – a chilling psychological thriller

  Two For Joy – the chilling sequel to One For Sorrow

  Only Daughter – an emotional thriller with a killer twist

  Poison Orchids – dark, compelling crime fiction

  The Liar’s Sister – a dark past haunts the present

  Contact the author:

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  Cassie

  Newmoor sounds more like a nursing home than a prison, but the barbed wire on the walls reminds you where you are. There’s no creeping ivy snaking up the bricks, this is a building with hard edges, devoid of any softness, formed by squares and rectangles with sharp corners. A security guard waves me through the first gate and directs me to the carpark at the back of the institution. Those sharp-edged, red-brick buildings are ahead of me, like lego blocks smashed together, and I wonder whether those are all the different wings of the prison. I can’t see any inmates, though I can see part of the outdoor area where prisoners can exercise.

  There’s a warmth to the mid-May air. This is the first week that I’ve noticed the temperature rise and suddenly summer doesn’t feel so far away. I back the car into one of the spaces, foot trembling on the brake pedal as I turn slightly too sharply. It takes me three attempts to get into the space, and afterwards, I stop for a moment to check my reflection in the mirror and take a deep breath. I have the questions ready in my pocket, but if I dwell on who I’m meeting, then my knees weaken with nerves.

  What will she be like? I’ve read so much about her. Every newspaper article, Wikipedia entry, even a criminologist’s study, but I’ve never met her. I’ve never met anyone who kills.

  Outside the car, I pull my hair into a quick ponytail, getting the hair away from my neck. I don’t want to arrive with a sweaty glaze across my forehead. I want to appear calm and collected. After a hasty vocal warm up, which I find calms my nerves, I make my way through the strange roads to the entrance to the prison. I have the prisoner number ready; I’ve tried to dress in a way to make the search easier, with no metal underwire in my bra, no zips and so on. My heart patters nervously. In a way, this is like going on a first date, I think. And when I’m patted down by one of the officers, it’s like a third date. And then I realise that my mind is rambling on to calm the bubbling nerves.

  “Can I see your bag, love?” she asks, raising two pencilled eyebrows. I take in her widely set shoulders, round middle and cropped hair and pass it over with a smile. Most of the officers talk in a similar way workmen do when they’re fixing the plumbing or cleaning out the gutters. Lots of “loves” and “sweethearts”. It has a soothing effect on me. Like I’m in the presence of my favourite aunty.

  She seems surprised when I give her the prisoner number. “Oh. How do you know her?”

  “To be honest, I don’t actually know her,” I reply. A heartbeat passes and I wonder whether to tell her. “I’m playing her in an upcoming movie.”

  Those pencilled eyebrows lift high up her forehead. “There’s going to be a movie, is there?” She tuts her disapproval.

  “It doesn’t start shooting for at least six months,” I say.

  “Still, it’s not long after, is it?” Now that my bag is clear, she leads me through the prison towards the visiting room. “For the victims’ families I mean.”

  “We’re going to be very respectful. The director is mindful of the gravity of the situation.”

  She nods, already disinterested. “Well, you’re her first visitor in a long time. There she is. Isabel Fielding.” The woman presents Isabel to me with a sweep of her hand.

  My mouth goes dry and my vision tunnels. For a fraction of a second it feels as though there is only me and her in the room. She meets my eyes, an open expression on her face. There is nothing remarkable about her at all. She’s a medium build with medium brown hair, slightly olive skin, warm eyes. Her expression isn’t exactly blank, because there’s a slight smile on her face, it’s… neutral.

  If I was choosing where to sit on a bus, I’d sit next to her. If she was working in a shop, I’d feel fine about approaching her with a question. If I was lost, I’d choose her to ask for help. On the other hand, I wouldn’t notice her in a crowd. I could walk past her several times and never remember the exact features of her face – the slope of her nose, the curve of her mouth. I’d probably forget her name if she told it to me.

  And yet… she’s the most dangerous female serial killer for decades. Possibly ever.

  “Off you go then,” the officer says, all but shoving me towards the table.

  It pulls me out of my thoughts and for the first time I notice the rest of the room. There are several small tables filling the space. Each one is filled with family, friends and inmates. Isabel will not be behind glass. She will be sat across from me. Tentatively, I walk closer. My heart is hammering, and I know I should walk faster, because I have multiple questions to ask and limited time. I may never get this opportunity again, which means I need to study her mannerisms, accent, the way her body moves.

  Isabel watches me, too, with eyes that follow me as I walk towards her. Is she sizing me up? My heart beats harder until I feel like it could burst from my chest. Finally, I sit down.

  “Thank you for allowing me to visit you,” I start. She’s silent. Blinks once. “I explained everything in the letter,
but I thought I would introduce myself further. I’m Cassie Keats and, umm, Neal, Neal Ford, the director, cast me to play you.” I break for a moment to suppress a nervous laugh. “In the film, I mean. I thought I’d come to meet you and maybe ask you a few questions if that’s all right.”

  She nods once, moving her head down and up in a particularly measured and languid manner.

  “Great, thanks. How are you today? Are you being well looked after?”

  She blinks slowly, and then leans forward, making me lean back. “Do you have a picture of the person playing Leah?” she asks. Her voice takes me by surprise, too. Soft, with a Yorkshire lilt. Almost melodic. “I’d like to see that.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” I scroll through my phone for a picture of Jess, the actress cast as Leah Smith. When I find a flattering one, I turn the screen around so that she can see it.

  Isabel cranes her neck lets out a long sigh. “She looks nothing like her. You look nothing like me either.”

  “Well, we were talking about a touch of prosthetics. Maybe false teeth. I’ll make my hair colour match, obviously. But you can do a lot with mannerisms and accents.”

  “Go on then.” She smirks. “Say something in my accent.”

  “Oh, I don’t know—”

  She starts to laugh and her expression changes so suddenly that it makes me physically jolt. This is the first glimpse of the woman who carved bird wings into the backs of her victims; someone who murders for the sheer fun of it.

  “I’m teasing you,” she says. “It’s quite boring in this place. I don’t have much entertainment here.”

  I clear my throat and try to bring the interview back on course. “I heard that you still sketch. Do you draw birds?”

  She shakes her head. “Not much anymore. It’s landscapes now. I send the pictures to my mum. It reminds me that there’s a world out there.” She nods to the whitewashed stone. “Beyond the walls.”

  “She hasn’t visited you for a while, has she? Your mum, I mean.”

  “I believe I’ve been disowned because of bad behaviour. Not even little bro wants to come.” She picks at dirt beneath her fingernails. It’s the first time she’s avoided eye contact with me, and I wonder whether this is significant.

  “He’s been released from prison now, hasn’t he?”

  She nods.

  I want to ask her why he falsely confessed to the murder of Maisie Earnshaw, but I decide that would be too much for our first meeting. Instead, I take the folded piece of paper out of my pocket and examine the questions I brought. Embarrassingly, my fingers tremble, shaking the note.

  “Are those the questions?” she asks.

  “Yes, is that okay?”

  Isabel merely blinks, but I take that as a yes.

  “Okay, well, I have to ask why you enjoy killing.” I clear my throat because it’s dry again. Isabel looks up, and her eyes shine. There’s a slight pause where I turn away, intimidated by the strength of her gaze. When I turn back, it’s in time to see her lick her lips.

  “Let me tell you a secret,” she says, shuffling her legs to get more comfortable. “My entire life has programmed me to be who I am. My father was a serial killer and my mother is a drug and alcohol addict. We never received love, my brother and me. If we’d been loved, maybe I would never have started killing, and Owen wouldn’t have started lying. If I hadn’t found evidence of Daddy’s murders, then maybe my brain wouldn’t have wired itself to enjoy taking lives. Maybe I wouldn’t be like this and the world would be better for it.” She blinks again, and I notice that her posture has changed. Her shoulders have sagged, and her expression isn’t neutral anymore, it’s pitiful. Her eyebrows are scrunched together, her mouth pulled down. She stays like that, staring at me. I no longer stare at the table, instead I find myself pulled into her presence.

  “Your impulse to kill is because of your upbringing?”

  “That’s right,” she replies.

  “You’ve been in prison for over a year now, Isabel. Are you beginning to look at your crimes in a different light?”

  She opens her palms in almost a pleading gesture. “I didn’t understand right from wrong, but since coming here I’ve begun to learn. Families lost daughters and sisters because of my addiction to pain.”

  “You see killing as an addiction?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “What about the time you were in Crowmont high security hospital? You were never violent then.”

  “No,” she says. “But my thoughts were. Every single one of them. There’s violence in everything, Cassie. It’s merely the lengths you go to, to push that violence. For me, I used violence in the way I plotted and waited and plotted until the opportune moment came.”

  “You mean, the way you manipulated Leah Smith?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is it about Leah? You seem obsessed with her.”

  “It was a silly fixation,” she says. “Leah showed me a lot of compassion and it affected me. You see, I’ve never been given any compassion in my life. At all. I didn’t understand what it was. That, mixed with the medication they had me on, which made my impulses worse, and the toxic atmosphere at Crowmont, basically made me even crueller.”

  I nod my head, wishing I’d brought a pen to make notes. My plan had been to observe only, but her answers are fascinating. “There is one important question I need to ask, because it might affect my performance. Are you gay, Isabel?”

  “I have no idea,” she says. “The only pleasure I’ve had of that kind has been through violence.”

  “You haven’t had any relationships since being in prison?”

  “I’ve been in the segregation unit most of the time,” she says, following her words with a disinterested shrug. “They only let me out a few months ago.”

  “Was that because you were on suicide watch?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t have that desire to take your life anymore?”

  “No. I found a higher power guiding me to be better.”

  “God?”

  “Yes. The chaplain here has been excellent at showing me there is another way to obtain love and maybe even to feel love. The love of God.” She smiles, showing teeth. There’s happiness on her face, spreading all the way to her eyes, that I’d expected to think of as cold. She doesn’t have the unemotional eyes of a psychopath at all. She has warm eyes. I smile back before I’m aware of what I’m doing.

  I decide not to push this subject any further. Her suicide attempts have been well documented in the news, from trying to hang herself with bedsheets, to an effort to cut her own throat. The religious aspect is new, but I’m not certain how sincere she is about it.

  “What will the film be like?” she asks. “Will it be violent? Will they show you killing other women?”

  “No,” I reply. “It’ll be about your escape from Crowmont.”

  “What about when I tortured Leah with my dad? Who’s playing Tom?”

  “He hasn’t been cast yet. And, no, I don’t think they are going to film that part. Whether they’ll do a sequel, I don’t know.”

  She cocks her head to one side. “How does the film end?”

  “With you being caught and taken back to the hospital.”

  “You’re rewriting history.”

  “The director feels that it’s a bold choice. Film is a great medium to explore our own wishful thinking. If you’d been found right away, then Alison Finlay and Chloe Anderson wouldn’t have died.”

  “Yes,” she says. “So many lives ruined.”

  “I hear you’re helping the police find your father’s victims. That’s admirable.”

  “The chaplain says that it’s never late to atone.”

  I nod my head. And then the officers call out that our time is up. The large woman with the pencilled eyebrows returns.

  “Did you enjoy your visit, Isabel?”

  “Very much so, Miss. Cassie is great company. Time to go?”

  “Up you come,” she s
ays.

  Isabel turns back and smiles at me as she’s lead out of the room. My fingers uncurl from the edge of the table. I hadn’t been aware I’d been gripping it at all.

  Part One

  Six months later

  Chapter One

  Leah

  Seb presses a mug of tea into my hands and sweeps a lock of hair away from my face, the rough skin on his fingertips giving me a pleasant shiver. And that’s the signal. That’s what brings me back to reality when I recognise that I haven’t been present in the room. He plants a soft kiss on my brow and settles back down on the sofa. The weight of him drags down the sofa cushions and I move closer to him.

  “What time is she getting here?”

  “In about an hour or so.” My fingers wrap around the mug, dragging every bit of warmth from it. And then my hand tightens against the ceramic, revealing the white semicircle of the nail plate.

  “Do you want me to stay?”

  “No, it’s okay,” I lie.

  Seb’s eyes narrow as he assesses my lie, reading the tone of my voice that I always try and fail to hide. But it’s not fair to keep asking him to be with me when he has a commitment to his family. God knows he’s broken various family arrangements because of me.

  “You should go and help Josh.”

  He grunts.

  “His Pumpkin Patch was a great idea.”

  He rolls his eyes.

  “It’s best for the farm in the long run.” I place a hand on his upper back, knowing that this is a sore subject.

  “Bloody Pumpkin Patches,” he says, finally, releasing his pent-up frustration. “We used to be a fully working farm.”

  The Braithwaites’ farm was in decline before I moved into the cottage, and since then they’ve sold the majority of their chickens, a few pigs, and most of their cattle. Seb’s older brothers have given up on the farm and both now work in York; Christopher is a supermarket manager, Jason a financial advisor. A lot of the income from the farm relies on Seb’s mother, Donna, and his younger brother Josh, giving tours to schools and locals. Now Josh has set up the Pumpkin Patch idea, a part of Halloween that seems to be growing in popularity. Seb isn’t too happy about that, but the prospect of wedding packages is causing a rift between the family. His mother wants to transform Rose Cottage into a rental for the bride and groom, and get planning permission to build three more cottages on the estate to provide accommodation for a full wedding party. But Seb wants us to continue living here together. He sees our lives laid out so clearly. Us. This cottage. Children. The farm.