WHAT PEOPLE ARE SAYING ABOUT
SAXON
There are several levels to crime thriller reading that resonate with the reader. One that is often overlooked is the companionship, or the bond that develops between the author and the reader as the narrative unfolds. The intercourse between the two is ever new, exciting and immediate as the reader embarks on the literary journey. The reader knows that the author has sacrificed lifestyle gratifications that immediately surround him so that he might commune with distant and unknown minds through his words. The extremely multi-talented Stuart Davies in his debut novel Saxon is one such author. He has begun a formidable legacy for his primary character Paul Saxon that absolutely enthralls. With an impressive and enviable mastery of detail the gory bits are dark, chilling and psychologically thrilling. He straddles the line between the police procedural and the killer’s twisted mind-set expertly. While reading it, the tempo was rapid but I wanted to slow it down, I wanted to make it last longer, to envelop fully the experience of discovering the brilliant mind of the author. In short Saxon is genius. From the start you know where the author/reader relationship is taking you and when the climax arrives – it does not disappoint – you will reap the rewards. So read it and reap.
Tom Reilly, author of, Cromwell at Drogheda. Cromwell – An Honourable Enemy: The Untold Story of the Cromwellian Invasion of Ireland. Hollow Be Thy Name. Life of Reilly. Joe Stanley – Printer to the Rising, Tracing Drogheda’s Medieval Walls, The Story of Drogheda, Drogheda United – The Story So Far and Cromwell Was Framed (Ireland 1649)
A gripping and atmospheric crime novel that won’t leave your fingernails intact.
Nigel Farndale, bestselling author of The Blasphemer
Commander Paul Saxon, leader of a specialist serial killer detection squad, is called upon to investigate an ever-growing number of seemingly random killings which might, or might not, be the work of a single perpetrator. With emotional troubles of his own, Saxon could be forgiven for losing his grip on the gruesome twists and turns he encounters, but his love of the job and the support of his assistant, Detective Sergeant Parker, sees him through to a satisfying finale. This book has a cinematic quality, the camera shifting from one vivid scene to another as the story unfolds. Add to this a strong plot and a broad cast of characters, and you have a suspenseful page-turner with more than a touch of class.
Carolyn Mathews, author of Transforming Pandora and Squaring Circles
Commander Paul Saxon – A new name in crime detection hits the blood stained murder scene, running. The new author Stuart Davies has created a multi-facetted, out of the box thinking detective who is driven by a boyhood personal tragedy to become an officer of the law.
Inventive murders punctuate the narrative which is slickly written with a nice balance of slick storyline movement and attention to detail. The writer’s sense of humour adds an extra layer, often lacking in modern crime novels. The sub-title hints at a series and I for one will be pleased to see the return of Saxon. Recommended reading.
John McGinn, author of Unusually Hot and Chilli Birds
“Understanding the victim is …crucial if we are to understand the perpetrator.” These are the words of Stuart Davies’ chief investigator, Saxon in ‘Book one of the Saxon Chronicles.’ As to be expected from a painter, the scenes of his story are cleverly crafted; his strokes serving to both cast the shadows of the dark tale and highlight it with moments of sardonic humour. His eye for detail is evident throughout the unfolding canvas. Its pace is designed to reveal just enough to keep you watching in wait for the next plot twist in this curious sequence of mysterious murders.
Helen Noble, author of Tears of a Phoenix
First published by Roundfire Books, 2014
Roundfire Books is an imprint of John Hunt Publishing Ltd., Laurel House, Station Approach,
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Text copyright: Stuart Davies 2014
ISBN: 978 1 78279 688 6
All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publishers.
The rights of Stuart Davies as author have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Enjoy
Chapter 1
Sunday, May 5, 2002, The Green Dragon Pub, Sewel Mill, 11.45PM
Christopher Janson sat on a bar stool, sipping a gin and tonic and chatting to Ralph, the landlord of the Green Dragon pub. Ralph, although well-trained in being pleasant to his customers, found Janson to be easy company – perhaps a bit over pleasant and agreeable, but overall, at least not a complainer like some of his regulars. Always well turned out – never scruffy, Janson was sixty-three years old; he had a full head of snow-white hair, which was always kept swept back, with just a hint of gel to keep it under control. A single man, he had gone for early retirement ten years ago, but had lived in the same village for most of his life. Everyone knew him and generally viewed him as harmless and pleasant.
Janson downed the last drops of his third drink of the evening. He never had more than three – walking was a slight problem after three. To have four would be just plain silly. Last orders had been called long ago but that was just a formality in the Green Dragon, the passing trade drinkers would leave promptly. However, the locals stayed on well into the night or until Ralph made it plainly obvious that he would like to get some sleep before they all came back the next day for more alcohol.
Janson heaved himself off the stool and slowly made his way to the door. He waved in the general direction of the drinkers and a few of them muttered ‘goodnight,’ then he set off down the High Street towards home. He always thought that he lived in the right spot in the village. Uphill to the pub, and downhill home. Downhill is good when you have been drinking.
His cottage was only a few hundred yards from the pub and, as usual, he lit a small cigar and looked up through the clear country air in awe at the millions of stars that peppered the sky.
As he reached his gate, he finished his cigar and dropped it down a drain. The key and the lock had a bit of a problem finding each other, but after a minor struggle they were forced to function as intended. He walked through the hallway into the kitchen and picked up the kettle to make himself a cup of hot chocolate. As he reached for the tap, a shudder ran down his back and the hair on the back of his neck prickled. He hadn’t seen or heard a thing. For that split second, he knew he was not alone in his cottage. The instinctive feeling of danger from our primeval past flooded through him. Quickly, he turned and caught a glimpse of a figure as it moved towards him – tall and covered in what appeared to be rough pale-coloured skin. He dropped the kettle in the sink as the figure grabbed his head and twisted it firmly to his left. Janson dropped like a stone to the floor and was dead before his knees buckled.
Fifteen minutes later, Christopher Janson was tucked up in bed, his clothes neatly piled up on a chair. Within ten minutes, the man’s wo
rk was almost done. Just a spot of tidying up to do, maybe a quick rub with a duster on the doorknobs. Dry fingerprints could be so stubborn – not that there would be any, but just to be sure he wiped them anyway. He was pleased; the whole process was simpler when there was no blood – less work to do. He allowed himself a slight smile as he surveyed the results of his efforts. Everything, as usual, was going to be perfect. It always was. God, he was good. Even the weather was on his side, although he could hardly take total credit for that. Although he had willed it to be so. The forecast had been for an overcast day ahead, with a slight breeze and the possibility of light rain later. This suited his plans perfectly, and later it would help in the final disposal of evidence.
He brought himself firmly back to the present, mustn’t lose concentration. He left the bedroom, and as he walked along the narrow corridor that led to the stairs, he straightened the pictures that had been dislodged as he brushed past them whilst carrying the body up from the sitting room.
A glance at the clock at the foot of the stairs confirmed he was on schedule. He had of course allowed time for a final check. To do it properly you must eliminate the need to rush. Retracing exactly all of his movements around the cottage, he carefully studied everything he had come into contact with, checking and double-checking that all was in order.
He knew very well, that it is impossible to enter a room without leaving forensic evidence. Or it was until now. He knew that no trace of his presence would remain in the cottage.
He had weighed the risks. In his line of work he had to be precise to the point of obsession, so this kind of thoroughness was not only a part of his character, it was also in some ways an extension of his professional life. By nature, he was a fastidious person. It came easily to him.
Satisfied that nothing in the cottage showed any signs of having been disturbed, he allowed himself to relax a little. There had been no struggle, no dramatic fight; everything had gone smoothly, exactly as he had expected and as it had done on the other occasions. The old man probably was not even aware that anyone was in the house. Death had come quickly to him and there had probably been no pain.
The victim was intended to die, not to suffer, that was not part of the exercise. No weapon had been used. In fact, there was nothing to trace back to anyone, or anywhere.
It was a satisfying thought. Later, when the police were poring over every square inch of the cottage, as they undoubtedly would; there would be nothing else to cause suspicion either, apart from the dead body, tucked up in bed, of course. He looked down. No shoe prints. You needed shoes for that. No footprints, because there were no feet – nothing that would be recognized as feet anyway.
He imagined their confusion and their frustration.
Quietly, he opened the front door. He could not feel the chill of the night on his face.
Monday, May 6, Marylebone High Street, London, 1.15AM
Far away from Sussex, the inhabitants of Brentwood Mansions were all asleep, apart from Emma Saxon, who was sitting up in bed wondering whether or not to phone home.
She guessed her husband would be asleep by now but she also knew he wouldn’t mind at all if she phoned and woke him. However, even if she called him and woke him, what would she say? He may not even be at home. When they were together, he often didn’t come home. Work always seemed to take priority. His work was so important.
Monday, May 6, Angel Cottage, Sewel Mill, 1.20AM
A quick glance up and down the street to ensure no one was early-morning dog walking, or out and about for some other reason, and the killer slipped out from the cottage into the shelter of the hedge. Looking back, he checked that there were no lights on to cause suspicion. Nothing was out of the ordinary. He allowed himself a moment’s irritation at the pretty “Angel Cottage” sign, with its flowers and its pastel colours, but the irritation passed. It was no longer relevant.
Though, perhaps it was now more relevant than it had ever been, if the occupant was no longer in the land of the living.
The sheer brilliance of his approach still thrilled him, but he was never complacent, never careless. It was half a mile across a field to his car and the walk was tedious, necessarily so. He maintained a constant watch on his surroundings, carefully ensuring that he only walked on solid ground – not that it would matter too much if he accidentally left one or two footprints. Soon, those feet would cease to exist anyway. His car, when he reached it, was small, boring, and grey, and he had taken pains to park it where there would be no tyre marks.
There were several reasons why there was very little chance that a policeman would have seen it or noted the number-plate. He ticked them off in his mind.
First, it was near other cars of the same ilk: not that old but definitely not new, certainly nothing flashy.
Secondly, the area was almost devoid of street lighting, so a smallish, slightly shabby grey car just blended into the shadows.
Thirdly, and perhaps most significantly, there were no police to take notice of who parked what car where. They had all been rounded up from the rural areas, and let loose to play cops and robbers in the towns and cities.
While he deplored the principle, he was aware that the lack of rural policing suited him just fine. It meant there was less chance of interference by some local bobby. He had his priorities. He did occasionally wonder, briefly, if he were mad, or maybe in the process of going mad. Nevertheless, if he were, surely the possibility of his own madness would not occur to him, would it? The fact that I even ask myself the question is evidence enough that I am far from mad. It was not a question that lingered in his thoughts for long.
No, on the contrary, what he was doing qualified as both eminently sane and essential. The situation in the country was out of hand. The future was looking increasingly tainted. However, nobody else seemed to have noticed, let alone cared. Every day circumstances reconfirmed his feeling that people were too stupid or too frightened to understand what was going on right in front of them. In the press, on TV, it was everywhere.
But he knew. Thank God. And he had to show the way ahead, albeit without revealing his identity, because he did not intend to be a martyr for the cause. In addition, he knew no good purpose would be served by his identity becoming public knowledge. Not yet, anyway. No, he knew where his best interests lay.
Being in touch with reality was surely another clear sign of a sane mind!
He crossed the field next to the lane where he had left his vehicle, and was about to climb over a five-bar gate when he heard the sound of a car approaching. Quickly he crouched down behind the hedge, expecting it to pass by. It didn’t – the driver brought it to a rapid halt. The killer remained still, and to his dismay, through the hedge he clearly saw a blue light. The police. Why are the police stopping near my car? He heard their car door open and close, followed by the sound of footsteps on the tarmac. Quickly, the footsteps came closer until the driver was standing the other side of the hedge. Then silence for a few seconds, which was broken by the unmistakable sound of a zipper being unfastened. The killer knew that he could kill the man in a second, but there would surely be two of them. He closed his eyes and endured the warm stream of urine as it splattered through the hawthorn hedge and onto his face. When the police car had disappeared from sight, the killer climbed into his car. It started first time.
Monday, May 6, Brookhouse Bottom Woods, Near Sewel Mill, 2.00AM
He had driven five miles into the dark countryside before turning down a lonely single-track lane. Stopping the engine and turning off the lights, he left his car. He took with him a pint-sized plastic bottle, containing surgical spirit, a carrier bag and a garden trowel.
Although he was confident that he would meet nobody, he used only the small light on his key ring to show the way in the darkness. After a while, even that was not necessary as his eyes became more accustomed to the moonlight. He walked some three hundred yards or so into the woods, crouched down, and dug a small hole. He heard a noise off to his left and
froze for a moment. The source of the sound scurried away into the undergrowth. Probably just a fox.
Straightening himself, he worked his fingers into the skin around his eyes. The pain of peeling off his temporary outer skin was very short-lived and he hardly noticed it. Any discomfort – and that’s really all it could be described as – was quickly overwhelmed by the warm satisfaction flooding every cell of his body as a result of the night’s work. His movements were quick and efficient.
Practice makes perfect. He was panting slightly from the effort.
His tightly cropped hair made it easier to peel the skin away from his head. He kept it short for that purpose. The latex solution he had used on his head was more diluted, in a further effort to make it less painful to remove. In spite of this apparent kindness to himself, he was confident that the latex was still firm enough to keep what little hair he had securely anchored to his head, and to glue down every flake of skin and dandruff. He wasn’t taking any chances.
He removed the rest of the latex sheath rather like a snake shedding its skin, and it came off almost in one piece. The feet he had moulded for himself came off last. If a footprint were found – though highly unlikely, it would never be matched to any shoe on the planet.
Using the spirit, he set alight to the latex and dropped it into the hole. The little burst of heat it afforded was welcome while he put on his jeans and a sweatshirt.
When the fire finally died away, he covered the remains with the earth he had dug up and scattered the area with twigs, grass and leaves. Even in the relative darkness he was sure it was as though no one had ever been there. At least, not recently. As he walked back to the car and opened the door, it started to rain. ‘Great,’ he said to himself as he drove away.
Chapter 2
Monday, May 6, Rue Boissy d’Anglas, Paris, 5.00AM
Saxon Page 1
