by Adam Croft
What Lies Beneath
Adam Croft
Copyright © 2020 by Adam Croft
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Contents
Get more of my books FREE!
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
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
On Borrowed Time
Acknowledgments
Adam Croft
Get more of my books FREE!
To say thank you for buying this book, I’d like to invite you to my exclusive VIP Club, and give you some of my books and short stories for FREE.
To join the club, head to adamcroft.net/vip-club and two free books will be sent to you straight away! And the best thing is it won’t cost you a penny — ever.
Adam Croft
For more information, visit my website: adamcroft.net
1
For Bob Tranter, Sunday mornings began the moment they shut off the outboard motor. The only sounds left were those of the birds, the lapping of the water and the odd car in the distance. This was his heaven.
He rolled with the movement of the boat as his friend, Geoff Hampson, unzipped the Thermos bag and took out their supplies: a Cornish pasty each (still warm) and a flask of black coffee to share. To Bob and Geoff, it was what Sundays were all about.
Each week, Bob set his Sunday alarm for seven o’clock. Then it was straight into the shower and dressed ready for half past, when Geoff would pull up outside Bob’s house in Corby — bumping his way up the kerb as he always did — ready to arrive at the Rutland Water Fishing Lodge just before eight. There was something special about being the first boat out.
It wasn’t always fishing, of course. Sometimes they’d happily bob around on the water all morning, or occasionally head over towards Egleton or Barnsdale to spot birds. Either way, it was the ultimate form of relaxation. As much as they loved their wives, there was nothing more enjoyable than spending a few hours on Rutland Water, alone in a boat and putting the world to rights.
Bob sank his teeth into the thick pastry, his tastebuds coming alive as he devoured the snack within seconds. Each week he told himself he’d make the next one last longer, and each week the hunger took control.
He sniffed as he unscrewed the top of the Thermos flask and poured himself a cup of coffee, watching as the steam rose upwards, swirling amongst the morning mist, becoming one with it.
‘Beautiful morning for it,’ he said, the same as he did each week, whatever the weather.
‘You’re not wrong there,’ Geoff replied, true to the script.
Bob sniffed again. ‘Much new with you, then?’
‘Nothing to write home about. You?’
‘Nah. Same old, same old. You know how it is.’
‘That I do, Bob. That I do.’
Today wasn’t a fishing day — that much had been decided the night before, when Geoff had called Bob to confirm he was still on for a seven-thirty pick-up. That was part of the routine, too. A seemingly pointless cog in the machine of their Sunday morning relaxation. It had been the same for years. It was comfortable, familiar. Today was for ‘just sitting’. Their annual permit gave them the right to fish, but there was no law saying they had to, and no-one had told them off yet. Besides, ‘just sitting’ shook things up occasionally. It was an exciting divergence from what would otherwise be boring and routine.
‘Good pasty?’ Geoff asked, in case Ginsters had radically changed their recipe since last week.
‘Beautiful.’
‘Not bad, are they?’
‘Not bad at all, Geoff. Not bad at all.’
Bob had tried to explain the fascination to Freda, but she didn’t understand. She said it sounded boring floating around in a wooden hull for hours on end, doing nothing, talking about nothing. Which was odd, considering how damned good Freda was at talking endlessly about nothing at all.
The nothingness was precisely the point. Out here on the water, there were no stresses. He wasn’t being nagged. He didn’t have to spend two hours on hold trying to get through to Legal & General to sort out his contents insurance. He didn’t have to listen to Mrs Calderwood’s sodding dog barking all day. He was only half an hour from home, but he might as well have been in paradise.
‘Here, wassat?’ Geoff said, deviating from the script.
‘Where?’
‘Over there, on the rocks.’
‘Can’t see from here,’ Bob replied. ‘Left me glasses in the car.’
‘You and me both. Start her up, will you? We’ll go have a looksee. Something’s not right, here.’
Bob had to agree. They knew the water like the backs of their hands, and this was far from normal.
With the outboard motor spluttering to life, the boat made its way towards the rocks at Normanton Church. Bob squinted as they neared, trying to make out the shapes. To him, it looked as though someone had dumped a big bag or a pile of clothes on the rocks. But as they got closer, it became immediately apparent to Bob that this was no pile of clothes.
He sucked in a breath. Adrenaline bolted through his chest.
‘Bugger me,’ he said. ‘It’s a body.’
2
Caroline Hills had her own Sunday routine, albeit a much simpler one: pancakes.
She wasn’t a stickler for routine, but the sizzle of batter in a frying pan on Sunday mornings was one stitch that connected her family with their previous life in London. And it was a good stitch; not like those rotten, frayed ones which had needed pulling out.
Rutland seemed a million miles from Cricklewood, and that was no bad thing. Londo
n was a past life — one which was best left alone.
‘Tea?’ Mark asked, placing one hand on the small of her back as he kissed her on the cheek.
‘Coffee, please. Black.’
‘Ooh. One of those?’
‘Didn’t sleep well. Kept tossing and turning.’
Mark forced a smile. ‘Ah. I slept like a log. Sorry.’
‘I noticed,’ she said, smiling.
‘Listen, I was going to suggest we all go for a walk or a bike ride later. It’s meant to be a nice day, once the mist clears. Will do the boys the world of good, too. Get them off that bloody Xbox for a couple of hours.’
She couldn’t argue with that. Josh was as addicted to console games as any other ten-year-old. But it was the frequency with which six-year-old Archie played them that worried her most. Back in London, it hadn’t been an issue. The odd game of FIFA or Fortnite was preferable to the boys walking the streets of Cricklewood and Neasden. But Rutland was a different world altogether, and she knew it’d be good for the boys to get out and about a bit more.
Caroline remembered how her husband’s eyes had lit up when he’d found out about Rutland’s cycling and leisure scene. He’d always cycled when they’d lived in London and was a fitness fanatic. Try as she might, she couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do less.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ she said. ‘Let’s see how the weather turns out.’
‘I was thinking we could even pop into a village pub somewhere, get to know a few of the locals.’
Caroline raised an eyebrow.
‘It’d be good to make some contacts,’ he said. ‘Friends, even. It’s a pretty sociable place, and I feel like we should at least try to join in. I still can’t get used to people saying hello when you walk past them in the street.’ Mark stirred the mug of instant coffee and handed it to her. ‘It’ll be good for the boys,’ he said.
‘Yeah, you’re probably right. Let’s wait for it to warm up a bit first, though, eh? I haven’t quite acclimatised enough to have stocked up on jodhpurs and waxed jackets yet.’
‘Ooh arr, you’re a local now, missus!’ Mark teased, embarrassing himself with a faux West Country accent rather than the gentle East Midlands burr of the local area.
Caroline shook her head and laughed before turning back towards the stove and flipping the gently sizzling pancakes.
‘Nearly ready?’ Mark asked.
‘Almost.’
‘Boys, grub’s up!’ he yelled, without taking even a cursory step towards the bottom of the stairs.
Seconds later came the sound of feet thundering down the staircase, before two hungry faces — complete with bed-head hair — arrived in the kitchen.
‘I hope you two are hungry,’ Caroline said. ‘I think I’ve done too much batter.’
‘Extra energy for the cycle ride,’ Mark added.
‘Are we going for a bike ride?’ Archie asked.
‘Maybe. We’ll see what the weather does,’ Caroline said.
‘Doesn’t look brilliant from here,’ Josh mumbled, another sign of becoming a teenager long before his time.
‘My app says the mist’ll clear by ten,’ Mark said, playing with his phone. ‘It’s meant to get up to twenty degrees after that.’
‘And in old money?’ Caroline asked, sliding three pancakes onto separate plates. With only three frying pans, she always made sure the family ate first. She’d have whatever was left.
‘Sixty-eight,’ Mark said.
Caroline smiled a little and nodded. Perhaps it wasn’t going to be such a bad day after all.
As she poured more batter into the pans, she noticed the sound of her work phone vibrating on the table in the hall.
‘Ah, can you grab that for me?’ she said, not noticing that Mark was already making his way out of the kitchen to do so. He returned a few seconds later and handed the phone to her.
When she saw Dexter Antoine’s name on the screen, she had a feeling it wasn’t going to be good news.
‘Dex, what’s up?’ she said, answering the call.
‘Morning. Sorry, but I hope you didn’t have plans for today.’
‘Uh, well sort of,’ she said, looking at Mark. ‘Why?’
‘Someone’s found a body on the water over at Normanton. Looks like murder. Do you want me to phone it through to the boys at EMSOU?’
Caroline knew when she took the job as the sole Detective Inspector of Rutland Police that it was usual practice for homicides and other major and violent crimes to be handed to the regional East Midlands Special Operations Unit. Whereas they had a dedicated major crime unit, Rutland Police was by far the smallest force in the entire country.
Rutland itself was barely sixteen by eighteen miles in size and the smallest historic county in England, with fewer than forty-thousand inhabitants. It was what had appealed most to Caroline when she’d decided to escape the Met. As much as she’d enjoyed the change of pace, it had been a huge shift for her.
In the Met, she’d known her place. There were plenty of large investigations for her to get her teeth into and prove herself. Here, though, things had been different. She’d seen the capabilities of her team, but she hadn’t yet had the chance to show them what she was made of.
‘No,’ she said, not even needing to think about her answer. ‘No, we’ll take it.’
There was a moment of silence at the other end of the phone. ‘Are you sure? First responders seemed pretty sure we’re looking at murder.’
‘Yes, I’m sure. It’s my patch, and official procedure is that cases are only handed over on my say-so. And I’m not saying so.’
‘Well, if you’re sure. It’d probably be good to come down and have a look first, then we can decide what to do.’
‘Dex, I’m not handing it over. Text me the postcode, will you?’
There was another moment of silence. ‘Well, it’s Normanton Church. You’ve heard of it, right?’
‘Yeah, course. But I don’t want to get lost on the way. Just easier to stick it into the satnav, isn’t it? What’s the postcode?’
‘Uh, I’m not really sure it has one. I can look.’
Caroline sighed. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll find it. Meet me there.’
3
Just over a quarter of an hour later, Caroline had parked up in the nearest access car park to the church. It would leave her with a short walk along the front of the water, from the fishing lodge where she’d parked, to the Normanton Church causeway. Although she was a city girl at heart, she could see the appeal of being down here early on a Sunday morning.
DS Antoine was waiting for her at the end of the causeway that led to Normanton Church.
‘Morning, Dex,’ she said, as if she’d just walked into the office to find him at his desk. ‘Not a bad little spot, this. I never knew it was here.’
‘You do surprise me,’ Dexter replied with a wry smile.
‘Detective Inspector Hills,’ she said, flashing her ID badge at the uniformed constables who were manning the outer cordon. ‘So what have we got?’
‘Down here,’ Dexter said, leading Caroline towards the church. As they approached, she noticed that something didn’t quite look right. The church was low, almost as if half of it was underground. It appeared to be floating on the water. ‘Over here on the rocks. Ligature marks on the neck, possibly consistent with strangulation, and some sort of blunt force wound on the back of his head. I reckon that’s what finished him off. But look how he’s laid out. Bizarre, eh?’
Caroline took in the scene in front of her. The church jutted out onto Rutland Water on its own private stone jetty, surrounded on all sides by huge boulders, which sloped down towards the lapping water. The body — that of a man — lay face down on the rocks, his arms outstretched, legs straight.
‘What you thinking?’ Dexter asked.
‘Probably what you’re thinking, I imagine. There’s no way the water’s washed him up here. It’s too neat. He’s been laid out in a crucifixion pose. Besides which, he’s
almost bone dry, apart from his legs.’
The man’s feet were under the water, which lapped up at his lower legs, the bottom half of his trousers sodden.
‘It’s weird. Kinda looks like he’s just crawled out of the water like some sort of zombie.’
‘Yes, Dex. That’s what we’ve got here. A zombie apocalypse.’
Dexter looked at her. ‘You serious?’
‘No. I think he’s been put there. That begs the question why. Why go to the trouble of doing that? Why not hide the body? Bury it, even? And then there’s the logistics. You can’t get a car down here, so the killer will’ve had to have used a wheelbarrow or something. Dead bodies are heavier than you think. There’s no way he was carried. That’s a huge amount of effort to go to, when it’d be easier to just dig a hole somewhere and chuck him in. This is deliberate.’
Dexter shuffled uncomfortably. ‘A message of some sort?’
‘Possibly. Look at the symbolism. Crucifixion pose, right in front of the church. And if I’m not mistaken…’ she said, walking back towards the church and peering in through the low windows, ‘yep, he’s facing the altar. I doubt it’s a coincidence the killer’s put him in that exact place. And, as my rumbling stomach has just reminded me, it’s a Sunday morning.’
