ROOTED IN DISHONOUR
Christina James
The fifth novel in the DI Yates series
Eighteen-year-old Ayesha Verma disappears from her home in Spalding just a few days after her parents have introduced her to the cousin they’ve arranged for her to marry. There has been a nation-wide police campaign to raise awareness of ‘honour killings’. Conditioned by this, DI Tim Yates and Superintendent Thornton are convinced that Ayesha has been murdered for refusing the arranged marriage. Tim throws himself enthusiastically into preparations for a trip to India to interview the cousin. He first travels to London to visit his rather louche old friend, DI Derry Hacker, at the Met. Hacker introduces Tim to DC Nancy Chappell, an unconventional expert on honour killings.
When Tim arrives at King’s Cross he thinks that he hears the voice of Peter Prance, a confidence trickster whom he last encountered when he was investigating the murder of Kathryn Sheppard several years before. He’s unable to follow the man because he’s suddenly taken ill.
Praise for In the Family
‘It has the feel of a literary novel with the constant disquiet of a sinister undercurrent. In the Family is a book that I would read again, not only because of the rich tapestry of images, dialogue and internal landscapes, but also the thoughtful use of the written word. I can’t wait to read the next Tim Yates novel.’
—Elaine Aldred
‘The first thing you notice about the book is how well written it is. It has the feel of literary fiction.’
—Sarah Ward, Crime Pieces
‘The slow-reveal of the Atkins’ history is reminiscent of Ruth Rendell/Barbara Vine, forming a counterpoint to the brisk detective work of the police. The two stories – and two styles – are successfully brought together in the final chapters.’
—Rich Westwood, Euro Crime
‘An atmospheric and compelling psychological crime thriller set in the South Lincolnshire Fens. A “cold case” from 30 years ago is re-opened after the discovery of the skeleton of a young woman but even after all this time it is clear the family are hiding something. We think this is a really exciting addition to the UK crime writing scene and look forward to reading DI Tim Yates’ next case.’
—Lovereading
Praise for Almost Love
‘A book that I would read again, not only because of the rich tapestry of images, dialogue and internal landscapes, but also the thoughtful use of the written word. I can’t wait to read the next Tim Yates novel.’
—Elaine Aldred
‘Christina James has given me back my taste for good, gripping crime fiction.’
—Valerie Poore
‘A compelling read, holding the suspension and intrigue all the way through . . .’
—Mark Majurey
‘With a well-written and cleverly plotted story and, above all, rich characterisation, this new piece of crime fiction is both believable and addictive from the start.’
—Blandine Bastie
Praise for Sausage Hall
‘If you’re after a complex plot with some political and illegal undertones, plenty of suspicious circumstances and some interesting historical content, then give this a try.’
—Mean Streets
‘James specialises in mixing suspense-flavoured first-person and historical narratives in with the police-procedural. In Sausage Hall she uses Kevan’s voice to narrate events from the point of view of a troubled family man. This time, the tireless Juliet gets a richly-deserved romantic sub-plot.’
—Rich Westwood, Euro Crime
★★★★✩ ‘A police procedural with a depth and some mischievous twists that go beyond the average procedural. Yes, DI Tim Yates is back in a third outing, investigating skeletons in the cellar and a body in the woods; great stuff that just gets better.’
—Ani Johnson, The Bookbag
‘I love the unfolding of a good mystery and Sausage Hall is certainly one.’ —Diane Challenor, Artuccion
★★★★ ‘Had me fairly engrossed at all times . . . Serious issues are touched upon regarding people trafficking, prostitution and exploitation.’ —Crimespace
Praise for The Crossing
★★★★★ ‘A seemingly straightforward case upends a termites’ nest for DI Tim Yates. Riveting, thrilling and with that trademark Christina James shock at the end. Cracking crime writing at its best.’
—Ani Johnson, The Bookbag
‘It’s not the accident itself however that is the focus of the novel, but the events that it sparks off, as the wreckage is checked and the families of those involved contacted. More and more characters join the jigsaw which grows increasingly dark as the deeper and creepier element of the plot begins to emerge.’
—Shots Crime and Thriller eZine
Rooted in Dishonour
CHRISTINA JAMES was born in Spalding and sets her novels in the evocative Fenland countryside of South Lincolnshire. She works as a bookseller, researcher and teacher. She has a lifelong fascination with crime fiction and its history. She is also a well-established non-fiction writer, under a separate name.
also by christina james
The Crossing (2015)
Sausage Hall (2014)
Almost Love (2013)
In the Family (2012)
Published by Salt Publishing Ltd
12 Norwich Road, Cromer, Norfolk NR27 0AX
All rights reserved
Copyright © Christina James, 2016
The right of Christina James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Salt Publishing.
Salt Publishing 2016
Created by Salt Publishing Ltd
This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
ISBN 978-1-78463-090-4 electronic
For James, brave and humorous as ever in an extraordinary year
‘His honour rooted in dishonour stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true’
—TENNYSON, Lancelot and Elaine
Chapter 1
Detective Inspector Tim Yates stepped off the train at King’s Cross and joined the throng of fellow passengers heading for the exit. It was a hot day and he was sweating. He slackened his pace and wiped his face with his handkerchief. He was halfway through a course of malaria tablets and, although he’d been told the side-effects would be negligible, was feeling decidedly unwell. He put down his briefcase for a moment and leaned uncomfortably against a pillar, taking a swig from the bottle of water he was carrying as he did so.
“Are you all right, sir?”
Tim was startled to find one of the stewardesses from the train standing at his elbow. He smiled wanly.
“Yes, I think so. It’s just the heat. It’s getting to me a bit.”
“London does take some getting used to,” she said sympathetically, putting Tim’s back up straight away. Did he look like a country bumpkin?
“I’m just on my way to see my sister in Surbiton, so I should be all right,” he replied haughtily. “I’ll be able to relax today. Still here on
business tomorrow, unfortunately.” He gave her a challenging look.
“Well, take care.” She smiled uncertainly. Tim abandoned his slouch, stooped to pick up the briefcase, adjusted the straps of his rucksack and walked briskly on.
As he passed through the barrier into the departures hall, he gazed with mixed approval at the backlit latticed roof which was the most spectacular of the many features that made up the costly renovation the station had undergone a couple of years previously. Mostly he admired the brilliant transformation that had turned a grimy Victorian station in a suspect part of London into a twenty-first century cosmopolitan destination, but part of him still mourned its grubby predecessor, especially the insanitary old pub adjacent to Platform 6 where he’d often taken his life into his hands by buying a microbe-rich breakfast.
The brisk walk to the barrier turned out to have been unwise. By the time Tim had passed through it, swearing as he forced his crumpled ticket into the slot, he was sweating again and his vision was blurred. He tried to focus on a group of people standing on the concourse in front of him and noticed that each of them seemed to be ringed with a hazy yellow line, a bit like the line Forensics drew around corpses to show their exact position in death. Not good.
He glanced at his watch. It was 11.30 a.m. He’d arranged to meet his sister for lunch at 1 p.m., partly to thank her in advance for her hospitality, partly so that he could pick up the key and not have to hang around waiting in London until she left work that evening. As they’d agreed to meet at the restaurant at the British Museum, he knew he had ample time to buy himself some tea, sit down for a while and revive.
On a previous journey he’d familiarised himself with the various catering establishments on offer at the refurbished station, and much preferred the smaller bars and cafes on the mezzanine floor. Today, however, he could be bothered with neither the escalator nor the stairs, and settled instead for a seat at one of the tables at the large Pret-a-Manger that abutted the concourse. He claimed one of only two free two-seater tables next to the railings, leaving his rucksack there to ‘bag’ it while reflecting ruefully that he should know better than to leave his possessions unattended in a public place. He’d keep an eye on the rucksack while he bought the tea and rush over if anyone tried to remove it or eyed it suspiciously: it would be embarrassing if it were seized by the railway police as a potential security threat.
The tea came quickly, its production having caused much less of a palaver than if he’d demanded a coffee from the steaming Gaggia machine, and he regained the table without mishap. He lifted the plastic lid on his tea and peered at it without enthusiasm. The teabag, already coagulating with scummy milk, was floating in the slowly-browning liquid like a small indolent sea-creature tethered by a string to the rim of the cup. Tim yanked at the string, taking the teabag between his thumb and forefinger and squeezing it inelegantly. He inspected the beverage again. It still looked insipid, prompting an unexpected pang of nostalgia for the generously mahogany-coloured tea always available at Spalding police station. Another wave of faintness swept over him, this time accompanied by some slight nausea. The sweat was running down his face.
He was wearing a light raincoat and thought he’d feel better without it. He was about to peel it off when he heard a familiar voice rise to a crescendo very close to him. Resisting the urge to turn round to observe its owner, he now decided to keep the raincoat on, debating with himself whether to turn up the collar would draw unwanted attention or help him to retain his anonymity. He’d recognised the voice at once.
“Yes, yes, darling, I quite agree, but we all have to take a few roughs with the smooth, don’t we? And the financial benefits are so great. Believe me, I wouldn’t want to expose you to any sordid little enterprise. This one’s the real deal, as I believe one says these days when in a colloquial frame of mind.”
“It’s not what I was promised.” To Tim’s surprise, the man had been talking to a woman. He itched to turn round and take a look at her. “Jas said he had a string of boutiques for me to find staff for. He didn’t mention anything about having to look after his friends.”
“Yes, but you will, won’t you, dear?” The airy voice was darkening, the speaker now muttering through his teeth.
“I don’t know . . .”
“Yes, you bloody well do know. And you’ll do as Jas says. As we both say. That is, if you know what’s good for you.” There was a silence before the flute-like tone returned. “Now, do finish your tea, darling. I’m dying for a proper drink and we certainly aren’t going to get one here.”
Tim picked up his phone and speed-dialled Juliet Armstrong’s number. It rang eight times and went to message. There was a scraping of chairs as the couple behind him prepared to leave. Tim stood up, intending to turn at the last minute and confront the male speaker. He was assaulted by a searing headache as an overpowering wave of nausea swept over him. He stumbled against the table, vomiting as discreetly as he could into a small trough of plants on the other side of the railings. He sat down again, heavily.
“How disgusting!” piped the voice. “Come along, darling. We’ve got to run.”
Chapter 2
Tim tried to apologise to one of the cheerful Pret-a-Manger baristas, but she brushed the incident off with a knowing smile. She probably thought he’d simply had one too many the previous evening. He was acutely embarrassed by the episode, aware that most of his fellow patrons were staring at him. With his head still pounding, he picked up his belongings and hurried away from the refreshment area and out of the station. Though he had intended to walk to the British Museum, the alarming dizzy feeling was returning and he decided he would have to queue at the taxi rank.
Despite his malaise, he was furious that he’d been unable to confirm identification of the familiar-sounding speaker who’d been sitting at the table behind him. He knew who it was, of course – that voice was unmistakable – but no-one would believe him unless he could actually have claimed to have seen the man’s face. Half-heartedly, he scanned the long line of people standing at the rank, but none remotely resembled the man he was looking for. He wasn’t surprised: the queue was moving quickly and even if his suspect had joined it, he and the woman accompanying him would have ridden away by now. The question that really concerned him was whether he had himself been recognised. If so, he knew that man would effect a disappearing trick long before Tim could muster a search for him.
The taxi that picked him up was bright pink and covered in slogans about breast cancer awareness. Normally he would have preferred a more anonymous-looking vehicle, but in his present state he was grateful for any haven and sank back with a sigh against the leather seats.
“’Avin a tough day, are you, gov?” said the driver, meeting his eye in the mirror. Tim guessed his affability would vanish if he’d known that his fare had just thrown up in a public place.
“Sort of,” he replied cautiously. “Had to get up too early and I don’t think it agreed with me.”
The driver eyed him suspiciously.
“Didn’t ’ave one too many last night, did you?” he asked, meaningfully.
“Certainly not,” said Tim. “I’m a police officer here on business,” he added somewhat primly.
The driver barked a short, hoarse laugh.
“Fat difference that makes,” he said. “I’ve seen coppers as paralytic as the next bloke. Where to?” he added, becoming business-like.
“The British Museum, please.” He’d barely spoken the words when his mobile began to ring. He turned his attention from the driver with some relief.
“Hello, Juliet. Everything ok?”
“Yes, I think so. You called me a little while ago?”
“Did I?”
“Yes.” Juliet paused for a moment. “Sorry I didn’t answer. I was in a meeting. What was it about?”
The pain in Tim’s head had driven away all recollection of the call, bu
t he knew what he must have wanted to ask her.
“Do you remember Peter Prance?”
“How could I forget him! Why do you ask?”
“I think I saw him in a café just now. Or rather, I didn’t see him.”
“I’m sorry, Tim, I must be a bit slow today. How did you manage to see and not see him at the same time?”
“To put it more accurately, I heard him. He was sitting at the table behind me, talking to a woman. I’m sure it was him: as you know, his voice is unmistakable. I didn’t want him to see me, so I didn’t look round. I meant to follow him discreetly after he left the café.”
“But you lost him?”
“No, I . . . yes,” said Tim wearily. He had neither the energy nor the will to describe to Juliet the little vignette in which he’d just starred.
“You must have seen him leave the café, though. You confirmed that it was him?”
“No. No, I didn’t. He . . . he managed to give me the slip. I don’t think he recognised me, though, which is important. You know as well as I do he’ll go to ground straight away if he thinks we’re on to him.”
“So what do you want me to do? Alert the London police? It might be tricky if you can’t say you positively identified him.”
“No, I don’t want you to do that. I’m seeing Derry Hacker tomorrow and I’ll discuss it with him then. It’s his patch – he can decide on the best course of action. What I’d like you to do is check the records to see if there have been any sightings of him, confirmed or otherwise, in the London area since he disappeared after he was given bail. And find out from his file if he has any known connections in London.”
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