The Dead Call
Hidden Norfolk - Book 6
J M Dalgliesh
Contents
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The Dead Call
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
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
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First published by Hamilton Press in 2020
Copyright © J M Dalgliesh, 2020
The right of J M Dalgliesh to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a purely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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The Dead Call
Prologue
Taking care on the boardwalk, still wet and slippery from the morning's storm, sheltered as it was under the canopy of pine, she gingerly made her way towards the wetlands. This close to the sea, the dunes were often reshaped by strong winds and tidal surges. The path was heaven sent both to help visitors traverse the coastal trail as well as to keep the damage to the nature reserve's fragile ecosystem at a minimum.
The cold breeze tore through her that morning; the day starting dull and overcast with a chill to the damp and foggy air, so much so she'd not bothered to check the afternoon forecast. As it turned out the storm front skirted by them, sparing The Wash and the north coast making landfall further south. The grey and threatening skies were replaced by blazing sun, not unheard of so early in June but nonetheless a pleasant surprise. She'd dressed for the cold again though, and as the twilight faded with the setting sun, she felt uncomfortable having spent much of the afternoon sweating in her waxed jacket and boots.
Clear of the pine trees, she entered the dunes now. Here the boardwalk was dry underfoot, which came as a relief. There were areas needing to be replaced where a process of make-do and mend was no longer sufficient. She would need to press hard to ensure this happened before footfall massively increased, as it always did when the summer season properly got underway. For now, at least, she knew where to take care and where she need not concern herself.
She was alone now, the few birders she'd come across in the hides having already packed up for the day. There had been a larger turnout than she'd anticipated, possibly resulting from the expected storm. There was always the chance to catch the last waves of spring's migratory birds stopping off to take shelter on the coast, but that was perhaps a little optimistic at this point in the season. When conditions were right, you could catch sight of scarce migrants, possibly in numbers, but judging by the aura of anti-climax shrouding the birdwatchers as they left, today wasn't one of those days. Unsurprising. Hopefully, they weren't too disappointed with having to settle for the nesting avocets instead, far from endangered but no less wonderful to see.
Maybe they'd been drawn out by the talk of the stone curlews? Facing a steep decline in numbers, and seldom seen this far north, they were largely limited to the marshland and lakes of the Brecks spanning Norfolk and Suffolk. If it was true, however, that they had been seen then she needed to be out here. It was possible. The short vegetation, open space and sandy soil was suitable for their ground nests, meaning it was plausible, if unlikely, that they were here. Word spread fast amongst the community and the temptation would nag at the usual suspects who would undoubtedly fail to resist their urges.
Pitiful fines and a harsh telling off. Pathetic.
Passing the next hide, she found it empty. The boardwalk rose from here to one of the high points where she could scan the dunes in either direction for as far as she could see. Raising her binoculars, hanging from the strap around her neck, she muttered a curse as a familiar pain stabbed at her right shoulder causing her to take pause and draw breath. These moments were becoming more frequent now, lingering for some time rather than passing quickly as they once did. She'd learned to cope, to manage, but the vigour she brought to the battle was waning as time passed.
Lifting the binoculars again, she slowly scanned the dunes in a sweeping motion from the beach towards the wetland marshes. No one was visible, not even a solitary dog walker. The car parks around the visitor centre were empty, but they would be cleverer than that. They knew she regularly noted down vehicle number plates. She knew who owned which car anyway, so they would never park where they could be easily spotted. It would give them away. No, they would park in the nearby town and walk out as if rambling like any other. It was the lingerers who needed watching, those waiting for a moment to slip off the path and beat the bushes in the hope of putting up whatever was nesting.
Not this night. Not if I have anything to do with it.
Another surge of pain, this time in her chest, which was an alarming development. Reaching out with her left hand, she braced herself against a fence post, doubling over. Allowing the binoculars to swing free, she clutched her chest with her right hand and sought to catch her breath. It didn't come easily. Each inhalation was forced and came with a rasping exhale. It was no use. She was done for the day.
The moment passed and, despite feeling dizzy, she began the walk back towards the centre where the car was parked. By the time she reached the pine trees separating the dunes from the centre, she felt much better. Within the shadow of the trees it was dark now. The waves crashed nearby, the taste of salt carrying to her on the breeze. Approaching the gate, she stopped. Several shadows moved in the gloom in front of her, barring her way. Something unnatural, unexpected. Taking the head torch from her pocket, she turned it on and angled the whit
e light along the path ahead of her. They weren't here when she passed before. Anger flared within, tinged with fear, but she quelled it, ensuring the watcher wouldn't see. She couldn't allow them the pleasure.
Turning the beam to either side of the path, she scanned the trees and brush, seeking who or what she didn't know and silently praying she wouldn't see anyone. The beam was cut out by the birds, all five of them decapitated and hanging by their feet from wire tied to branches overhead, swaying gently back and forth in the breeze.
"Do you think this frightens me?"
Only the breakers on the shoreline and the breeze passing through the canopy overhead broke the silence. She raised her voice, shouting now.
"This doesn't scare me!" she called, hearing the edge of panic in her tone, angering her further. "I'll not stop!"
Movement above saw her start, glancing up to see something pass through the beam of the torch. It was probably an owl. On another night, she'd be delighted.
Not this night.
Taking a half-step backwards, she almost stumbled on a fallen branch. She had to leave as quickly as possible. Sidestepping the display left for her, she found her gaze lingering on it as she hurried past. The white light cast by the torch in her hands gave the scene an ethereal glow, fuelling her growing anxiety as she eyed the birds side by side, noting they'd also been crudely gutted. Both the heads and entrails lay on the path at her feet. Turning her back she hurried to the gate, struggling to open it despite the latch being unsecured. The path down to the centre, itself locked up and in darkness, was well laid and the safety of her car was only a few steps away. Reaching it, she fumbled with her keys, dropping them on the floor. Kneeling, she rummaged around blindly for them with one hand whilst casting the beam of light back towards the path in case anyone should appear. Not that she would know what to do if they did. Her fingers curled around the fob and she unlocked the car, clambering in and slamming the door shut before pressing the button to deadlock the doors. Only now did she feel safe.
With difficulty, her fingers trembling, she slotted the key into the ignition and started the car. Casting aside the torch, she turned on the headlights, which illuminated where she'd just come from. The beams penetrated deep into the gloom of the pine trees. The silhouette of a figure appeared, its features masked by a hood and a thick overcoat. The dead birds provided a macabre backdrop.
She thrust the car into gear, forgetting to depress the clutch. An awful grinding sound followed, and the car lurched forward as the engine stalled. She turned the key again, pressing the accelerator repeatedly, but the engine merely turned over and over, failing to start. Casting an eye back to the gate, the figure was gone. Somehow that fuelled her borderline panic even more. The engine burst into life and she pulled away. Her phone rang, connected through the car speakers, and she accepted the call, relieved to hear another voice.
"Hello," she said, looking behind her through her mirrors as she left the visitors’ centre. Nothing moved.
"I see you, Mary."
"Who is this?" she asked fearfully, glancing at the display registering an unknown caller.
"Wherever you go, Mary… I see you," the voice repeated. It sounded throaty, brusque and terrifying.
"Leave me alone!"
The caller laughed. A slow, soft melodic sound.
"I see you."
Chapter One
Tom Janssen lowered the visor, shielding his eyes from the sun sitting low in the sky. Adjusting the dial on the blowers, he increased the flow of cool air. What a remarkable difference a few hours can make. On his way into the station this morning he'd had the heating on and now it was the air conditioning: from overcast and threatening rain to uncomfortable heat in the space of a shift. It was not quite four seasons in one day, but Norfolk was trying its best.
Pulling into the driveway of Alice's house, he parked alongside her car and got out. It was a little strange that he still thought of it as her house; it had been his home for the better part of six months as their relationship deepened following the rubber stamping of his divorce. It wasn't a conscious thing, more incremental. Whereas he'd stayed over two, maybe three, nights in a week previously, he was now a part of the fixtures and fittings. It made sense. The boat was no place for a child, at least not to live on. Fun for a visit or a day trip. On those occasions it was just fine, but unsuitable for a family of three for anything beyond that. The house was still Alice's in his mind. Alice and Saffy's.
Would he ever feel differently? Would it ever be home for him?
Brushing the thought aside, he got out of the car. He was surprised not to see Saffy at the window. Whenever she heard his car pull up on the gravel outside, she would usually appear to acknowledge him, greeting his arrival with a broad smile, minus the front teeth these days, and an enthusiastic wave. Saffy had just turned eight and was arguably going on twelve, but she still had her childish exuberance, the spark that set her aside from the other children he knew. His pride in her couldn't be greater, even if things were different and she was his own daughter. Aside from the days where he came back after bedtime, she never missed his arrival. Even when he slotted the key into the front door, he still cast a glance to the lounge window half expecting her to be watching him.
Inside, he was greeted by silence. Taking his coat, hanging across his forearm, he looped it over one of the pegs at the foot of the stairs and headed for the kitchen. Hearing the patter of clawed paws on the wooden floor as he approached, he was met in the doorway of the kitchen by Russell. The terrier stopped short of him, leaning back and stretching out his front paws accompanied by a yawn. Tom's arrival must have woken him from his slumber in the dining room. The dog was a recent addition to their hybrid family. Previously belonging to a figure in a recent case, a man who knew he would soon be serving time in prison, to whom Tom had made a promise to find the dog a home. Only, as he was to learn from the rescue centre, there wouldn't be a great deal of interest in a terrier of unknown mixed breeding who was unused to being around people, and particularly families with young children. And these were the people most likely to adopt a rescue dog.
As it turned out, Russell, as he came to be known to them, was very good with Saffy. The two of them took to one another almost immediately and, were Alice and Tom to allow it, both would happily have the dog sleep in the little girl's bedroom, if not on her bed. Ultimately, the thought of separating the two of them was summarily dismissed within a few days and they had to find ways not only to manage their conflicting shift patterns and childcare, but also see to the needs of their new addition.
Tom lowered himself onto his haunches and Russell lifted his front legs onto his knee and extended his head for a welcome scratch behind his unusually long ears: yet another sign that he wasn't your everyday Jack Russell.
"How are you, little man?"
The dog readily accepted the attention, leaning his head into Tom's hand until the novelty wore off and he dropped down, returning to his bed on the far side of the room.
"Any idea where the ladies are?" Tom asked as Russell dropped his chin to the cushion, still keeping his eyes trained on him just in case he should alter direction and head for the fridge.
The crockery from breakfast was stacked up on the worktop alongside the sink, waiting to be loaded into the dishwasher. Alice's everyday shoulder bag was sitting on a chair in the dining room, her car keys on the table. Tom placed his mobile, keys and wallet on the breakfast bar before retreating from the kitchen into the hall. Making his way upstairs, he crossed the landing to their bedroom. The sound of running water ceased as the shower switched off and the sliding doors rumbled open. Crossing to the front window, he put his hands in his pockets and looked out over the farmland towards the coast.
Alice stepped out into the bedroom, startled by his presence.
"Sorry. I thought you would have heard me come in."
"I didn't realise the time," she said, glancing at the clock on their bedside table before tilting her head to one s
ide and using a towel to dry her hair.
"Where's Saffy?"
"At Mum's." Alice tossed the towel to the bed and moved to the vanity table, picking up a large-tooth comb.
She seemed aloof, distracted perhaps. Far more so than usual. He walked towards her, planning to give her a hug despite the probability of getting wet. Putting a hand on the small of her back, she turned to him and briefly smiled. He leaned in and she met his lips with hers, pulling away after the briefest contact and addressing her reflection in the mirror as she drew the comb through her shoulder length hair, grimacing as the teeth caught in the knots.
"Rough day?" he asked.
"Oh… not too bad. Irritating more than anything else."
Alice's role in the Cromer and District Hospital was challenging. At first, she'd moved from working at the local medical centre back into the hospital to ease financial pressures, but these days her commitment and dedication were recognised with two successive promotions. He was pleased for her, knowing as he did how much satisfaction she derived from her job. What had been a necessity had flourished into a career, and he recognised the positive impact on both her confidence and personal self-esteem. The downside, if there was one, was they were seeing less of one another. Had he remained living on the boat, they'd likely see each other only a couple of times in a week at best.
The Dead Call: A chilling British detective crime thriller (The Hidden Norfolk Murder Mystery Series Book 6) Page 1
