by Alex Walters
Lost Hours
Cover
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
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
Detective Annie Delamere
About the Author
Also by Alex Walters
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
Chapter One
‘Be a dear. Fetch me another drink. Plenty of wine.’ Michelle Wentworth waved her empty glass in the air.
‘What did your last slave die of?’
‘Disobedience. Just get me the sodding drink. It’s not like you’ve anything else to do.’
‘I’m revising,’ Justin said.
Wentworth was wearing her wraparound sunglasses so she knew Justin couldn’t see she was watching him. He thought she was half asleep, lying out here in the scorching sunshine. The little toerag ought to know by now that she was never half asleep. ‘You’re not revising. Your books are all up in your bedroom. You’re just sunbathing, and playing some game on your bloody phone. So get off your fat backside and get me that drink.’
Justin sighed. ‘Your wish is my command, Mother.’
She watched as he grumpily slid his way off the sunlounger, picked up her empty glass from the terrace and stomped his way back into the house. Ungrateful little prick, she thought. The only reason he was able to enjoy all this was because of the efforts she’d put in over the years. He was happy to take advantage of the benefits while looking down his nose at her. But then he wasn’t the only one.
For a moment, she closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of the sun on her exposed skin. It wasn’t often she took time off, even over the weekend, not even using the time to examine the books or double-check contracts that had already been reviewed by her lawyers. The managers who worked for her hated the way she read through everything, was on top of every detail. They felt she didn’t trust them, and the truth was they were right. She’d spent a lot of time trying to develop new talent in the business, identifying the ones with potential that over time she might mould in her own image. She’d had a few successes, but more failures. Even now, with only a handful of exceptions, she didn’t really trust any of her management team. Not as much as she trusted herself, at least.
So she mostly spent the weekends reviewing the actions and decisions taken the previous week. She almost always spotted something – a miscalculation, an unacceptable risk, a questionable clause in a contract. Her instinct for spotting problems and her eye for detail infuriated her subordinates, but those attributes had made her a wealthy woman.
Over the past couple of months, she’d finally finished negotiating the first of a series of contracts that she hoped would take the business to a whole new level. She’d even taken the team out for a celebratory piss-up on Friday evening, which wasn’t something she did often. Not that they’d seemed particularly grateful.
So today she’d decided to treat herself to a day off. It was glorious weather, following the best summer she could remember in years. As she’d driven back from the office every night this week, she’d seen the moorlands basking in the heat, every slope and undulation thrown into relief by the late evening sun. The landscape felt endless, the hills lost in a warm haze. She passed through villages where pub gardens were thronged with cheerful drinkers, cafes and restaurants taking a rare opportunity to offer al fresco dining to the hordes of tourists.
This kind of weather could make her wonder what it was all about. She’d found herself increasingly struck by that question in recent months. She’d built up a decent income over the years, and was on the verge of becoming even wealthier. She could enjoy living in a very impressive house in the middle of this glorious countryside, with every luxury she might desire.
But she had almost no other life. She had no close friends or family, other than the snotty, lumpen Justin. She had money to spend, but little to spend it on. She’d tried a few pastimes – golf, grouse-shooting – but hadn’t enjoyed them. Why bother when she could spend that time growing her business?
She didn’t waste time feeling sorry for herself. This was the life she’d chosen. She enjoyed work. She got a kick out of signing a new contract, and an even greater kick out of delivering the results that filled her bank account. She loved getting one over on her competitors, whether by fair means or foul. That really was the main thing, she thought. She loved winning.
But now and again, over recent months she’d found herself wondering about the point of it. Why accumulate yet more wealth if there was nothing to spend it on? What sense was there in working all these hours if you had no time to relax at the end of it?
This thought would surface in her mind for a while, and then be submerged under more immediate concerns. But she was conscious it was bobbing up with increasing frequency. Perhaps it was time to start thinking differently about her life.
After all, if there was anything in what Peter was claiming, she was on the way to becoming a genuinely wealthy woman, with no practical reason for amassing more or for continuing working. She could retire, head off to somewhere in the sun and enjoy herself. Or at least she could begin to pare it back, do a little less, allow herself some leisure time.
It was a thought, and today had been her first attempt to see what it might actually feel like. She’d told herself just to stop. To look at no documents. To refrain from booting up her laptop. To make and receive no phone calls. Just lie in the sun, maybe read some kind of trashy novel, and have a few drinks.
She’d more or less managed it. She’d felt twitchy in the morning, knowing all she wanted to do was turn on the laptop, send a few emails, review some documents. But she’d forced herself to lie in the sun, reading some thriller she’d picked up at the airport on the way back from a business trip. She’d intended it for the flight, but had instead spent the time catching up on her emails. Today she’d forced herself to read it, and was finding it at least mildly diverting.
She’d prepared a light lunch for herself – knowing Justin would have been happily pigging himself on anything he could find in the fridge – and sat outside to eat it with a glass of chilled white wine. She’d felt better after that, sipping a second glass of wine diluted with sparkling water. She didn’t mind feeling relaxed, but she’d no desire to allow herself to become pissed in Justin’s presence.
Which reminded her. Where was Justin? It seemed like ages since she’d sent the young oaf to top up her drink. But Justin did everything at his own pace. He’d appeared out here in the late morning, having finally dragged himself out of bed. Instead of doing anything useful, he’d immediately removed his shirt and thrown himself down on one of the sunloungers around the e
dge of the pool.
She wouldn’t have minded if he actually used the pool occasionally, but he never did. She increasingly felt the money she’d spent on building and maintaining the pool were wasted. She’d had plans to take at least one daily swim herself but she managed that only sporadically. She’d hoped that Justin would take to it, perhaps with some of his school or university friends. But he rarely brought anyone back here, and the most he did himself was to lie beside it, playing endless games on his phone.
She looked around the garden. It was glorious in the early autumn sunshine, she thought, the epitome of what an English garden should look like. She couldn’t claim any credit for that herself. She didn’t know the first thing about horticulture. But she paid a local man to tend to the place, happy to leave him to decide what to plant and where. He knew what he was doing, and she was happy with the results. The house was well-positioned, so that, although the garden was surrounded by tall stone walls, the area close to the house was sufficiently raised to provide a clear view of the moors and the hills beyond.
Where the hell was Justin? He’d probably been distracted by something, and was sitting in his room playing yet another computer game. He really was a waste of space. He was back here for the summer, having completed his first year at university. She’d told him she wanted him to get off his backside and earn himself a bit of money. That way, at least he wouldn’t be sponging off her.
He didn’t even have to go and find himself a job. She’d have handed him one on a plate, doing admin or something in one of the offices. The only danger was that he’d make an arse of himself and embarrass her, but she couldn’t mollycoddle him for ever. ‘Just let me take a few days off first and then I’ll get straight into it,’ he’d said. That had been weeks ago. She’d give him another day or two, she told herself, then start getting tough.
The truth was that she’d never really loved Justin. Not in the unconditional way that mothers are supposed to. He’d arrived in her life just at the wrong time, when she was first beginning to make a success of the business, and she’d always seen him as a burden. She’d felt bad about that and had compensated over the years by spoiling him in ways that had no doubt just made it all worse.
As it was, he couldn’t even manage to bring her a drink without screwing up. She swivelled on the lounger and sat up, her desire for another glass of wine finally overcoming her inertia. Irritated now, she pulled her robe on over her bikini and made her way back into the house.
The architect had done a decent job. He’d retained the shell of the original farm buildings, some of which supposedly dated back to the seventeenth century, but the interior had been refigured as an airy, largely open-plan space. It had been cleverly done, with the skylights that admitted most of the light largely invisible from the exterior, enabling the original facade to be undisturbed. The combination of the thick stone walls and the modern insulation meant that the house felt warm in winter, while offering a cool sanctuary on a day like this.
‘Justin! Where the hell’s my wine?’
He might well have just gone back to bed, she thought. It wouldn’t surprise her. Not much about Justin could surprise her. He was his father’s son, she supposed. A bit brighter than Ronnie – but that wasn’t difficult, and Justin presumably got that from her. But his dad was an idle waste of breath, too.
She looked around the kitchen. Her wine glass was sitting on the large farmhouse table, still empty. Justin clearly hadn’t even got around to pouring her drink. So where the hell was he?
The living room was separated from the kitchen by a stone archway created from what had once been the wall between the former stables, now occupied by the kitchen, and the adjoining farmhouse. The sitting room was deserted, though the television had been left on, silently playing some daytime property show. Justin had no doubt switched it on and then buggered off to amuse himself elsewhere.
‘Justin!’
There was no response. But there rarely was. He was most likely sitting in his room, headphones on, far away in some digital fantasy land. She strode down the hallway and climbed the oak stairs to the upper floor. All the bedrooms up here were positioned to provide views of the open moorland. On a day like this, the haze of Manchester was visible to the north.
Justin’s bedroom was at the far end of the landing. She hammered on the door. ‘Justin. Get out here!’
Normally, this was enough to rouse even Justin from his reveries, but this time she could hear nothing from inside. She slammed down the handle and pushed open the door. ‘Justin, I’ve been shouting—’
The room was empty. It was, as always, a tip, with Justin’s clothes strewn all over the floor. The desk was covered with the usual array of plates, mugs and glasses, along with his laptop, which appeared to be turned off.
So where the hell was he?
Justin’s life here was essentially oriented around no more than three or four locations – his bedroom, the living room, the kitchen and the occasional limited venture out into the garden to laze outside.
She made her way back downstairs. It was only now that she noticed a faint breeze blowing through the house. Justin must have opened a window somewhere. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, wondering where to look next.
She was almost tempted not to bother. Just pour herself another glass of wine and head back outside into the sunshine. Justin would reveal himself before too long.
But something was nagging at her. A sense of unease she couldn’t explain.
The breeze was blowing down the hall, meaning that the open window must be somewhere at the front of the house. She wasn’t keen on that, either. She was a bit of a public figure – at times a controversial one – in these parts, and there were plenty of people who were envious of her wealth. She’d had a couple of attempted burglaries, though fortunately neither had succeeded in penetrating the tight security, and she’d become increasingly cautious.
As she walked further down the hall she realised that the current of air was coming, not from an open window, but from the front door. The large oak door was set in an alcove off the main hallway and had been invisible from the foot of the stairs. But now she could see it was standing slightly ajar.
Was Justin out there?
She’d never known him use the front garden. He generally went out that way only if he was heading to the car she’d bought him for his eighteenth birthday, an act she now regretted. He’d finally passed his test on the third attempt, but was still an utterly inept driver, too prone to showing off and easily distracted by nothing much. The only consolation was that he wasn’t the type to go out drinking with his mates. Or even, she added to herself, the type to have that kind of mates.
She peered out. Justin’s car was in its usual place, next to her own compact four-by-four. The front garden, largely given over to lawn and shrubbery except for the long gravel drive that wound down towards the large wrought-iron gates, was deserted.
‘Justin! Are you out here?’
She had taken another couple of steps forward before she saw it. Something lying on the ground between the two cars, a white shape, part of something otherwise concealed behind Justin’s car.
A trainer.
Baffled, she walked towards the cars.
Justin was lying between the two vehicles, face down on the gravel.
She hurried over, still calling his name. She couldn’t begin to imagine what might have happened. Had he collapsed or had some kind of accident? And what had brought him out here in the first place?
She crouched beside him, taking his hand in hers. She had no idea what to do. She had no idea about first aid or what you were supposed to do in a situation like this. But already she was aware that it didn’t matter. There was some warmth in Justin’s hand, but she had little doubt that he was already dead.
It was only then that she noticed the small pool of blood gradually encroaching across the gravel from beneath Justin’s skull. He must have fallen and struck his head, she thought.<
br />
But then she shifted her position so she could see the far side of his head, and realised the truth. Whatever had caused that wound, it was more than just a fall on to the gravel.
She felt a chill despite the heat of the day, crouched here in only her bikini and dressing gown. Even her mobile phone was back in the house.
She pulled herself to her feet, clinging to Justin’s car for support, trying to force herself to think clearly. She needed to go back into the house. She needed to find her phone. She needed to call 999 and get an ambulance out here, even though she already knew it was too late.
And she’d have to call the police. There was no way of avoiding that. Even if she didn’t do it herself, the paramedics would as soon as they saw that head wound.
But before she did any of that, she thought, she had first to make one other call.
Chapter Two
‘Lovely part of the world,’ DS Zoe Everett said. ‘Especially on a day like this.’
‘Makes you wish we could just skive off and get a pub lunch in Bakewell,’ DI Annie Delamere said. ‘Though I don’t think Jennings would approve.’
‘He’s such a killjoy.’
‘He’s always like that with murder,’ Annie said. ‘Takes it seriously.’ She could only imagine what her boss would say if he learned his detectives had delayed their investigation to grab a bite to eat. Annie looked across at Zoe, who was focused on her driving. There’d been a period, after their last major case, when she’d seriously wondered whether Zoe would be up to returning to work. She hadn’t even fully known what Zoe’s problem was. The case had been traumatic enough for both of them, but Zoe had had some kind of panic attack at a key moment and had seemed knocked sideways by it in a way Annie hadn’t really understood.
At the time, most of Annie’s attention had been taken up by the impact of the case on her own partner, Sheena Pearson. Sheena had narrowly escaped with her life and for a period had been shattered by the experience. It was only in the last couple of months that she’d been able to resume her full workload as an MP.
Annie had felt bad that she hadn’t been able to devote more time to supporting Zoe, though Zoe had been well supported by her husband Gary at home and by their senior officer, DCI Stuart Jennings, at work. Jennings wasn’t exactly a people person, but he was a half-decent manager who recognised that the force owed Zoe a duty of care and he’d pulled the necessary strings to ensure she got it.
