by David Blake
‘So, that’s a no then?’
Without feeling the need to answer, she stood back up to smooth down her summer dress. ‘One thing I do know. If he does survive, he won’t be tending to his mother’s grave anymore.’
‘Probably not,’ agreed Tanner. ‘How about the bishop?’
‘I’m not sure he ever did.’
‘I meant, if he’s admitted to having murdered Claire Judson?’
‘Not yet, no. Just the rape. He’s still adamant that she fell.’
‘He could be telling the truth, I suppose. But even if he is, he’d still be guilty of constructive manslaughter.’
‘Which is…?’
‘It’s when someone murders without intent, but does so in the course of committing a crime. So even if she fell off the church tower when she was trying to get away from him, which I think is plausible, he could still be found guilty of having killed her. What did Forrester charge him with again?’
‘Only for the rape of a child, and assault and battery.’
Tanner raised an eyebrow.
Seeing him do so, Jenny asked, ‘You don’t agree?’
‘Yes, of course, but he should have gone with the manslaughter charge as well; after all, the medical records are there, as are the original witness statements, along with the physical evidence.’
‘There’s something else he admitted to.’
‘What was that?’
‘He paid for Martin Isaac’s funeral, as well as his tomb.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘Not that I know of, but I presume out of guilt for Isaac having taken the fall for what happened to Claire. However, there’s one thing I do know.’
‘And that is?’
‘The Church are going to need to find themselves another bishop.’
Taking in their surroundings, and in particular the way St. Andrew’s church tower stood against the azure blue sky, Jenny breathed in the warm summer air, saying, ‘It makes for a good resting place, don’t you think?’
‘It does,’ agreed Tanner, ‘although I’m not sure I’d like to be buried within view of where my life effectively came to an end.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
After another moment of silence passed, Tanner glanced down at his watch to say, ‘Anyway, I need to get going. I’m supposed to be helping drag out what’s left of my boat for the insurers to look at.’
‘You’re lucky you had it insured.’
‘I can’t say that lucky’s the word I’d have chosen.’
‘Well, you’re not dead, so you are in that respect.’
‘Did I ever thank you for saving my life?’
‘Not that I can remember.’
‘OK, then I suppose I should, at some stage, at least.’
They both smiled over at each other in mutual understanding, before Jenny asked, ‘Do you think they’ll pay up?’
‘Who? The insurers? They bloody well better! It wasn’t as if I set fire to the thing on purpose.’
‘No, but Father Thomas did.’
‘I suppose I’ll have to read through the small print, to see if there’s anything in there about them covering for a fire caused by a psychotic serial-killing priest. But assuming there isn’t, I’m just going to have to wait and see what they say, and be grateful that there’s a Travelodge down the road where I can stay.’
‘It’s hardly ideal, though.’
‘No, but it’s only until I can find something more permanent.’
After a moment’s pause, Jenny piped up with, ‘If you like, you could always crash at my place?’
‘Thanks, Jen, but I wouldn’t want to impose.’
‘You wouldn’t be,’ she replied, before turning to gaze up into his eyes. ‘To be honest, I’d like you to.’
Tanner thought about it for a moment. ‘Well, I’ve already booked and paid for tonight, but… How about tomorrow?’
‘Sounds good,’ she said.
Encircling her arm through his again, with the uplifting sound of birdsong filling the air, she gave it an affectionate squeeze to add, ‘And then, maybe we could have a chat about us buying a boat together?’
DI John Tanner and DC Jenny Evans return in
Moorings, now available to pre-order.
getbook.at/Moorings
If you’d like to read the prologue for Moorings, please scroll to the end.
Sign up to my newsletter to receive a free copy of BOTH of my hilariously funny rom-com crime comedies!
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
A LETTER FROM DAVID
Dear Reader,
I just wanted to say a huge thank you for deciding to read St. Benet’s. If you enjoyed it, I’d be really grateful if you could leave a review on Amazon, or mention it to your friends and family. Word-of-mouth recommendations are just so important to an author’s success, and doing so will help new readers discover my work.
It would be great to hear from you as well, either on Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads or via my website. There are plenty more books to come, so I sincerely hope you’ll be able to join me for what I promise will be an exciting adventure!
All the very best,
David
www.David-Blake.com
www.facebook.com/DavidBlakeAuthor
www.facebook.com/groups/DavidBlakeAuthor
www.twitter.com/DavidDBlake
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David Blake is an international bestselling author who lives in North London. At time of going to print he has written fifteen books, along with a collection of short stories. He’s currently working on his sixteenth, Moorings, which is the follow-up to Broadland and St. Benet’s. When not writing, David likes to spend his time mucking about in boats, often in the Norfolk Broads, where his crime fiction books are based.
MOORINGS
SAMPLE CHAPTER
PROLOGUE
Sunday, 6th October
THE SUDDEN SOUND of the cattle shed’s door being rattled from the outside made Harry Falcon’s heart jump with a start.
Unwilling to move, he remained motionless for a few seconds, straining his ears for further sounds. Hearing boots being scuffed against the ground outside, he slowly sank himself into the water trough he was hiding in until his ears lay just above the surface.
Lying face down on top of him was the stinking corpse of a dead German soldier, its cold bristly face pressed firmly against his own; a pair of rubbery lips gently touching his ear.
The soldier was one of many he’d butchered a few days before, in and around the French farmyard. Since then he’d been using the farm to take shelter, plundering the soldiers’ medical supplies to tend to his many wounds whilst gorging himself on their food. He knew it wouldn’t be long before another troop came sniffing about, but with a bullet wound to his leg and only a few rounds of ammunition left, he’d had no choice but to remain where he was. If everything went according to plan, it shouldn’t be long before the allied forces arrived, the ones he and his long dead members of the SAS had been sent behind enemy lines to help clear the way for.
The cattle shed’s door rattled again. Then came the sound of German voices. From what he could make out, there were at least three of them, maybe four. As to what they were saying, he’d no idea.
He remained where he was, as still as the corpse lying on top of him. Should the soldiers force their way in, he thought it was unlikely they’d lift up the body to peer underneath; at least he hoped to God they wouldn’t.
The voices continued, but thankfully the shed door itself was left alone.
After what felt like hours the voices began trailing away to be replaced by the sound of a truck’s doors being opened and closed, presumably the same one he’d seen being driven up to the farm a few minutes earlier. Then came the noise of the diesel’s engine being turned over before rumbling into life.
Harry waited in earnest for it to drive off, but it didn’t. It just stayed where it was, the engine left ticking over.
Becoming increasin
gly desperate to shove the decomposing corpse off to begin clawing his way out of the trough’s freezing cold water, he muttered to his long-dead enemy, ‘What are they waiting for?’
The soldier’s face twitched in response.
Shock mixed with repulsion as he screwed his eyes closed and turned his head away, his mind racing to understand how its nerve endings could still be active. He’d seen dead people twitch before - many times, but only in the brief moments following death. This one had been killed three days before! And there was no question that he was dead. Apart from the stiffness of his joints, and of course the smell, he knew he was because he’d slit the man’s throat himself, holding a quietening hand over his mouth until he’d felt his life force ebb slowly away.
As Harry’s heart began pounding deep inside his chest, every sinew of his body was screaming at him to push the disgusting rotting corpse off and climb out; but his mind refused to obey. Until the truck had gone he had no choice, he had to remain where he was.
Then something truly terrifying happened. He felt a breath of stale air escape the body’s decaying lungs to brush against his ear, whispering out a name as it did. And it wasn’t just any name. It was his!
Fractured thoughts exploded inside his mind, leaving his body convulsing under the rotting corpse, desperate to shove it off. But the more he tried, the more it seemed to force him back down.
‘Harry,’ it whispered again, its flaccid head flopping against the side of his face.
Kicking and punching, Harry tried to force it away, but every time he thought he’d been able to roll it off, somehow it managed to fall back down.
‘Harry, my love,’ came the voice again. ‘I’m not finished with you yet.’
‘Get the fuck off me!’ he screamed, pushing up against it with all his might.
With the weight finally feeling as if it had fallen away, for a moment he thought he’d done it. But when he dared to open his eyes, he saw he’d done no such thing. The body was now sitting directly on top of him, smiling. But what had been the rotting corpse of a dead German soldier had somehow transformed itself into a beautiful naked young woman, one with luminous blue eyes, full red lips, flowing auburn hair and a pair of mesmerising white breasts which heaved up and down as she took in a series of deep, passionate breaths.
Harry’s mind began to tear itself into two; one half still desperate to claw itself away, the other left longing for the pleasures this beautiful temptress seemed to be offering.
As the woman rested her hands gently down on his chest, she stared deep into his eyes, and with a voice full of enticing promise, bent her head to say, ‘This one’s on me.’ She then leaned forward as if to kiss him, but instead she raised up her hips to push down hard on his chest, forcing his head to plunge under the water’s cold, unwelcoming surface.
Waking with a start, Harry gasped at the air, his hands clawing at nothing more sinister than a bath full of lukewarm water.
Darting his eyes about, it took him a few moments to remember where he was - at home in his bath, and that he’d been having a nightmare, the same one that had been darkening his sleep every night for the past few weeks.
As the water he’d been wrestling with returned to its natural placid state, so did the peaceful serenity of the bathroom he was in.
Grateful for being alive, he took a moment to stare down at his body as it lay stretched out before him, just under the water. What he saw left him feeling old and depressed. What had once been a lean, strong and athletic physique was now nothing more than a skeleton wrapped in pale sagging skin.
A creaking noise came from out in the hall.
Blinking his eyes open, he stared over at the closed bathroom door to listen. His hearing wasn’t as good as it used to be, but it was far better than most people’s his age. But all he could hear was the sound of dripping water coming from the tap just a few inches above his feet.
He was about to rest his head back down against the bath’s smooth curved end when the sound came again. He knew what it was. It was the creaking noise of someone coming up the stairs.
‘Hello?’ he called out, wondering who could have been wandering around his house at such an hour. It was then that he realised he’d didn’t have a clue what time it was, and stole a glance over towards a large carriage clock that he kept on the shelf above the sink. But there was no way he could see what it said, not from where he was lying.
Trying to remember what time he’d taken the bath, he heaved himself into a sitting position. Had it been before dinner, or after? Looking out of the bathroom window only told him that it was dark outside, but as it was October, all that meant was that it was sometime after six.
Remembering he’d left his watch on the chair by the bath, he drew his hand out of the water. After leaving it to drip for a moment, he reached over to retrieve it. It had been a gift from his wife, decades before, and he never liked to be too far away from it.
Bringing it to within just a few inches from his eyes, he squinted at it to try and see what it said. But it had been a long time since he’d been able to, at least not with any accuracy. As far as he could make out it was either five minutes to seven, or half-past eleven. Which one, he wasn’t sure.
Hearing another sound from out in the hallway, he replaced the watch to call out, ‘Phillip? Is that you?’
Phillip was the name of his elder son. He lived in a small cottage just down the road. He’d often come around unannounced, although not normally quite so late.
He stopped again to listen.
After about a minute of not being able to hear anything other than the steadily dripping tap, he began to question whether he had heard the sound of someone walking up the stairs. It could easily have been just the noise of the water pipes expanding as the central heating turned itself on.
A thought crept into his mind which made his heart jolt hard in his chest.
Did I lock the back door?
Like so many things recently, he simply couldn’t remember.
Then he definitely did hear something. The weight of a foot creaking a floorboard, directly outside.
It must be Phillip, he thought, and began the slow, painful process of heaving himself out of the bath. But he’d only managed to lift his pelvis up when someone opened the door and stepped inside.
Plonking himself back down, he glared over to be greeted by the sight of a complete stranger, smiling over at him.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded, his heart beginning to race.
The stranger’s smile fell immediately away to be replaced by a look of disappointed irritation. ‘Don’t be daft. You know who I am.’
‘I’ve never seen you before in my life!’ the old man insisted. ‘And if you don’t get the hell out of my house, I’m calling the police!’
Ignoring the remarks, the seemingly unwelcome visitor glanced around the larger than average bathroom to ask, ‘Where’s your towel?’
‘I don’t want a towel! I want you out of my house!’
‘I see. So you want to go to bed soaking wet, do you?’
Furious at being talked to as if he was a five-year old child, the old man shouted, ‘Of course I don’t! But there’s no way I’m having someone I don’t know stand there and watch me get out!’
‘As I’ve said, you already know who I am.’
‘Well, you’re not my Phillip, I know that much!’
Stepping over to the bath, the visitor leant over to dip a hand into the water. ‘Good God! It’s stone cold! How long have you been in here for? You must be freezing!’ and reached out for the hot water tap to begin frantically twisting it around.
As steaming hot water began to pour out, thundering down into the bath below, the old man shouted, ‘None of your damned business!’
‘Well, don’t worry. We’ll soon get the temperature up. Now then, let’s see if we can get you back in. Then I’ll go on the hunt for that missing towel of yours.’
With the old man left muttering out a serie
s of protests about being physically manhandled by a complete stranger, a guiding hand was placed onto a bony shoulder to ease him gently down, until his head was resting back against the end of the bath. Laying the other hand on the opposite shoulder, the visitor stared down at him to say, ‘Now, if you relax, this shouldn’t take too long,’ and pushed down hard, so that his head slipped off the edge to plunge into the water below.
getbook.at/Moorings
BOOKS BY DAVID BLAKE
viewauthor.at/DavidBlake
CRIME FICTION
Broadland
St. Benet’s
Moorings
CRIME COMEDY
The Slaughtered Virgin of Zenopolis
The Curious Case of Cut-Throat Cate
The Thrills & Spills of Genocide Jill
The Herbaceous Affair of Cocaine Claire
SPACE CRIME COMEDY
Space Police: Attack of the Mammary Clans
Space Police: The Final Fish Finger
Space Police: The Toaster That Time Forgot
Space Police: Rise of the Retail-Bot
Space Police: Enemy at the Cat Flap
Space Police: The Day The Earth Moved A Bit
SPACE ADVENTURE COMEDY
Galaxy Squad: Danger From Drackonia
ROMANTIC COMEDY
Headline Love
Prime Time Love
SHORT STORY COLLECTION
Fish Fingered
