Shorestone Murders: Book #1 of The Detective Isobel Hester Series

by Karina Evans

  “Although I obviously can’t be certain,” Cara concluded. “And I definitely can’t prove it. So, I’m afraid that’s all you’re getting. You remind me of my dear son, you know. Fierce. determined and loyal. Wonderful traits. Want another coffee?”

  Dominic declined the offer of a second cup of terrible coffee, instead thanking Cara and leaving to check on Scarlett and pull the Market Square CCTV footage. He looked at his watch and realised the CCTV offices were due to close in fifteen minutes. Cursing under his breath, Dominic decided Scarlett was most likely safe and well, and freeing Isobel from custody was a more pressing matter. With an already overwhelming feeling of guilt, he skipped checking the Trader Inn for Scarlett, instead making his way directly to the CCTV offices. As he rang the buzzer of the office he required, his phone rang.

  “Scarlett’s ok, oh, and you’re free to go,” Dominic said, as he dropped the hatch on cell F8.

  Isobel looked up quickly, disbelief etched on her tired face. “Pardon?”

  “Free to go. And Scarlett is with her dad in the Trader Inn, happy as Larry; as happy as you are free.” He smiled, despite feeling guilty that he hadn’t checked on Scarlett. “Free as a bird. Not even an assault charge — judging by the scratches on both you and Olivia, it appears it would be a pointless prosecution. Oh, and while I was clearing your name, our super detective guys called. Shorestone college stocks the paper used for the letters, and we have a list of names of local attendees. It’s likely to be someone in the art department as it’s an artist’s paper, not a printer paper. But you keep your head down — I’ll check it out. The chief is furious with you and he would love any excuse to send you back to Hamhill.”

  Isobel nodded, wondering whether that may be such a bad thing after all.

  “I’ve been trying to call for days, Isobel. Is it true?”

  Isobel sighed, fiddling with pens on the desk in front of her. After a dressing-down about withholding information regarding Olivia’s murder, Chief Inspector Pennell had reinstated her on the murder investigation and she had yet to tidy up the mess her colleagues had made on the shared desk during her absence.

  “Is what true?”

  “That they arrested you for the murder of those girls?”

  Isobel tapped a pen against her teeth. “One of them, yes.”

  “And— ?”

  “And, what? Did I do it?”

  “No! And, what’s going on? Were you bailed?”

  “No further action. As of yesterday I’m a free woman, seeing as I did nothing. And, Bradley, why are you calling? Why do you keep calling? I’ve ignored at least ten of your calls.”

  “To see how you are, and because I miss you. And I knew you’d pick up, eventually.”

  “No need to check up on me. I’m fine. I’m with my daughter and that’s all I need.”

  Isobel quickly hung up, filing her relationship with Bradley in the ‘need to sort soon’ pile in her brain; he was hanging around and she needed him to move on. Isobel hadn’t had time to process all that had happened in the past few days and, in fact, needed to file her own emotional well-being away, seeing as the Shorestone Killer was still roaming the streets of her hometown and his next victim could be just hours away. Her phone vibrated in her hand and she looked down, smiling when she saw it was Scarlett. I want to see you. Meet me at the Inn in two hours.

  Isobel tapped out her reply, a feeling of joy rising in her stomach — perhaps this was another step towards repairing her failed relationship with Scarlett.

  Sure can’t wait. Couple of jobs to do after work, but I’ll come straight after xxx

  Dominic put his hand on Isobel’s shoulder, making her jump.

  “Sorry. Just wanted to show you the CCTV that cleared you. Come over to my desk.”

  She followed him, placing her hand on her shoulder where his had been just seconds ago, feeling a warmth as she realised just how fond she had become of her colleague. Her thoughts about returning to Hamhill had disappeared as quickly as they had arrived; the idea of working alongside her old colleagues rather than Dom — on top of having to deal with Bradley — felt wrong. She belonged in Shorestone; she had always belonged. She just needed to prove it to the people who still thought badly of her.

  She watched as Dominic pulled up the grainy CCTV footage from Market Square. “If only they had cameras as sophisticated as that of our resident pervert, Damon, eh?” Isobel mused.

  “That’s the sort of opinion that’ll get you in a lot of trouble.”

  Isobel and Dominic turned round to find Heather standing behind them. “Sorry, but I couldn’t help but overhear that you had some evidence to show Isobel and, seeing as I am also an investigating officer — of the same rank as her —” Heather pointed at Isobel, “I felt you should include me in this little tête-à-tête.”

  Dominic and Isobel both turned back to his computer, their silence speaking volumes to Heather, who had the grace to look a little embarrassed by their mutual lack of response.

  “This is from a camera that was put up in a shop on the corner of Market Square. It hasn’t been there long, and I almost missed it, but it throws up some interesting stuff. First this part coming up… just watch. There she is, that’s Olivia. Pretty identifiable despite the appalling camera quality, don’t you think? Head down, shoulders hunched. Not carrying anything, clearly wearing dark clothing.” Isobel nodded.

  “And just two seconds later… there.” Dominic paused the footage and zoomed in, although this served only to make the image appear even grainier. “That man, there. He’s carrying what looks like a light-coloured carrier bag in his hand, but it’s moving all wrong, like it’s too heavy. See… it’s hanging down and not moving as he walks. Here… he drops it and bends to pick it up. It falls quickly and doesn’t move in the breeze.”

  Isobel watched the screen as the man picked up the item that had fallen on the ground. “It could be anything,” she commented. “An item of clothing?”

  “It could be, but I don’t think so. It’s oval, for starters. Ordinarily, that would mean nothing, but in this case, I’m pretty sure this guy is Olivia’s killer, so we need to look at every aspect of him, considering that every molecule within and around him is a clue as to his identity. So, that’s exactly what I’m doing. I had no clue what that was in his hand or why he would have it with him. He’s prowling, you see; empty hands make for a more successful prowling experience, I would imagine. Unless you desperately need whatever it is you are carrying. So let’s go with a hat — why is he carrying it rather than wearing it? He needs his hands. So I started to think outside the box —” Dominic paused, forwarding the footage a little further on. “Look, here, just before he enters the alleyway, his hands are moving upwards to his face. Is he placing this object on his face? Could it be a mask? Perhaps latex or silicone? I checked out a load of websites and found liquid latex on several art supplies sites, so it is entirely possible that he has made a face-covering that allows him to breathe and also to see, yet covers his features enough for Millicent to comment that he had no face. I mean, if there was a guy in Shorestone with no face, we would sure as hell know about it, wouldn’t we?” Isobel and Heather nodded, keen to see what else Dominic had found. “Fast forward some more, and the guy comes back out. Hands in pockets. See what he’s wearing on his feet? Trainers, but not the type you expect from a frequenter of our local alleyways, no? These are smart, all one colour, no branding. These aren’t from your local sports shop — these are the trainers of a middle-aged man. Forensics found a partial footprint next to Olivia’s body — thank goodness for that rain last night or the muddy patch at the beginning of the alley would have been too dry to mark the soles. Moving on, this is, in my opinion, an older guy, walks steadily, no sign of the Shorestone swagger. The coat looks like a lightweight sports-type coat, not a hoodie or a tracksuit top. We’ve run the shoe print through the database, but no matches from national crime scenes. However, it is not the same size as your feet, Isobel, and we spun yo
ur room at the B&B to find just one pair of trainers in a size 7. These prints are a size 12. In addition, Cara reluctantly admitted that you were most likely in the B&B at the time of the killing — the woman dislikes you, but she’s clearly a believer in justice. Thus, you’re in the clear. I have spoken to several locals about the artist’s paper, including Mark Shepherd’s daughter — she’s a metalwork student at the college and so has access to the art department. We’ve searched her home — she lives with her mum and her mum’s partner — a male with size 11 feet, not beyond the realm of possibility. But we found nothing, not even a scrap of paper. Looks like they don’t even have a printer. Back to the drawing board.”

  Isobel sighed. She had a horrible feeling that the killer was creeping closer, ready to pounce and kill again, with no warning.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Isobel called Scarlett for the fourth time, staring over the table in the Shorestone Trader Inn at the untouched mojito. The answerphone clicked in.

  “Jesus, Scarlett. I thought we were over this. Why invite me here if you had no intention of turning up. Call me back or I’ll drink your cocktail.”

  Isobel was feeling uneasy; should she call Dominic for help, or was that jumping the gun? There was a killer out there, and Scarlett might have gone missing.

  It came to her in the next breath. She should call Robert. Isobel took a big swig from her vodka and coke and found his number in her contacts, hesitating as she hovered her finger over the phone icon. She closed her eyes and hit it, tensing as it rang, recalling their last conversation and how much it had unnerved her.

  “Hello? Isobel? I hoped you would call.”

  “Is Scarlett there?”

  “She is, yes. Come over.”

  Isobel hung up, quickly finished her drink, and jogged along the seafront to Robert’s flat. It was a warm, bright evening and sunset wasn’t for a couple of hours, but Isobel felt a chill rising inside her. She reached Robert’s house and rang impatiently on the buzzer, only taking her finger off the bell when he answered the intercom and buzzed her in.

  “Where is she? Why didn’t she show up this evening?” Isobel demanded as she jogged up the stairs, feeling a little queasy as the recently ingested drink sloshed inside her stomach.

  “Scarlett? I haven’t seen her since we had a drink at the Inn earlier today. She was wondering the same about you, upset that you’d not returned her calls or bothered to join us that evening.”

  “Hang on a minute… you said she was here?”

  “I needed to get you here somehow.”

  “I don’t understand. Why did you say she was here? I’m worried — she said she would be at the Inn and didn’t turn up.”

  Robert rubbed his temples. “She didn’t say she would be there; it was me — I text you.”

  Isobel shook her head to clear her thoughts. “What on earth are you talking about? You said you hadn’t seen her — the text came through from her phone —”

  “I’m sorry; I used her phone when she went to the toilet. I just wanted to see you — I wanted to bring our family back together, and I thought Scarlett was the hook to get you here. Poor judgement. My apologies.”

  Isobel felt exasperated. “Where is she, then? She isn’t at home and she isn’t here. Where is she?”

  “She popped to the corner shop to grab some drinks. The one on Market Street. Now, while she’s gone, shall we get to know each other again?” Robert put one hand on the side of Isobel’s face, the other still tracing circles on his temple. “It’s always been you, you know that, don’t you?”

  Isobel needed space to think. “Ok, but I need a drink first… I’ll have a water, please. Cold.”

  Robert sighed and headed off to the kitchen, leaving Isobel standing by the front door. She peered around an open doorway to have a look at the lounge, which was as tidy as expected; Robert had always been an obsessively clean freak. He had set up a small home office in the corner, with a laptop, separate keyboard, notebook, pen, a ream of office paper, and a printer. The other end of the lounge housed a small table with a chair at each end. Isobel glanced back at the home office. There was an open ink cartridge packet on the desk, as well as another pad of paper, presumably for the artwork that Scarlett had spoken about.

  She moved her gaze back to the hallway; even the narrow passage was orderly — coats hung up neatly in a row on four hooks on the wall and three pairs of shoes lined up on a small shoe rack. Isobel looked at them, surprised to see that Robert owned a pair of trainers. Smart trainers, but trainers, nonetheless. Something shifted in her mind and Dominic’s theory on smart trainers came to the forefront of her thoughts — what size had he said? Twelve, that was it. She listened for movement in the kitchen and when there was none, she picked up the trainer to find the size underneath the tongue. A shiver ran through her as she studied the label. Size twelve. She heard the clink of ice and footsteps heading towards the hallway and so hurriedly put the shoe back on the rack, pasting a smile on her face as Dominic walked back through to the hallway.

  “Are you ok? You look a little pale.”

  “I’m fine, absolutely fine. I think I’m going to look for Scarlett. When did you last see her?”

  “Have your water first. She’ll be back soon. She’ll be thrilled we are back together.”

  Isobel opened her mouth to deny Robert’s statement, but thought better of it.

  “Must be that drink — I downed it and ran all the way here. I’m ok. I’ll just step out the front for some air.”

  She walked back down the communal stairs in the block, trying not to show Robert how on edge she was. Quietly opening the communal front door, Isobel recalled how Robert used to hold her throat during sex, something that she had hated but had been too shy to say. Was he practising back then? Did his squeeze get tighter over the years until, one day, he simply didn’t let go? Isobel’s head was spinning, and she was finding it difficult to move away from the horrifying thought that Robert had taken Scarlett. Because what else could explain her daughter’s sudden disappearance? Did Robert really think that they were back in a relationship? And, if Robert was the Shorestone Killer, why had he started killing now, rather than years ago? She left the building, carefully lifting the latch of the front door to make sure it didn’t lock behind her.

  Isobel was floundering, knowing only that she needed to call the custody sergeant to find out how he knew Robert Edwards-Walsh. She took her mobile from her rucksack and sighed with frustration as she saw a missed call from Bradley. She ignored the ‘Return Call’ button, instead dialling the direct number for Shorestone custody.

  “Shorestone Custody, Sergeant Robbins speaking.”

  Isobel breathed a sigh of relief. “Sergeant Robbins, DS Isobel Hester here, Major Crime Team. Robert Edwards-Walsh — has it come back to you who he is and why you know him?”

  Isobel heard him thump the desk in victory. “Yes! Funny. It came to me last night. Sergeant Robert Edwards-Walsh, he was. Fired for messing in someone’s underwear drawer when on scene guard — I don’t know the full details, but I think it was pretty horrific. And it was our very own Dom White who escorted him from the police station that day. What business have you got with him?”

  A chill ran down Isobel’s spine. “You’ll know soon enough. Thank you.”

  Her phone pinged with a text message just as she hung up. She initially breathed a sigh of relief when she realised it was Scarlett, before remembering that it could be Robert. Mum, you need to come here. Quick. I’m at the Inn.

  Isobel hung up and promptly called Dominic. It went to answerphone.

  “Listen, I have to be quick. I think my ex is the Shorestone Killer. Maybe. It sounds weird to say it, but something isn’t quite right. Robert Edwards-Walsh, apparently you were there when he was disciplined and dismissed for doing something… erm… odd when on scene guard? He’s an artist so has access to art supplies; smart trainers in the hallway, size twelve, a printer in his lounge, and… Dominic? Scarlett just t
ext to say she is at the pub — she had apparently told Robert she was out getting drinks, and he used her phone to contact me earlier today, to get me to the Inn where he could manipulate me into going to the flat, so I don’t know if this is Robert or Scarlett contacting me, but I have to find her. God, this makes no sense, right? Ok, I don’t know what he has planned, but he’s expecting me back at the flat soon. Can you swing by the Inn when you have a minute, I’m heading there now? Just in case I am right, and I think I am.” Isobel paused, determining which was the most immediate problem. “Send uniform to Robert’s first — he’s 129 Seaside. Top floor. Seize the shoes. I’ve left the bottom door on the latch.”