Caffeine Nights Publishing
Table of Contents
Title Page
You're Next (D.S. Scarlett Macey, #2)
Oranges and Lemons
THE DS HUNTER KERR TITLES
THE SCARLETT MACEY SERIES
OTHER NOVELS
NON-FICTION
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Further Reading: Shadow of the Beast
Also By Michael Fowler
You’re Next
The second DS Scarlett Macey novel.
Michael Fowler
Fiction aimed at the heart
and the head...
Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2017
Copyright © Michael Fowler 2017
Michael Fowler has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work.
CONDITIONS OF SALE
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, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, 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.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Published in Great Britain by
Caffeine Nights Publishing
4 Eton Close
Walderslade
Chatham
Kent
ME5 9AT
www.caffeinenights.com
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-910720-90-5
Also available as a paperback
Cover design by
Mark (Wills) Williams
Everything else by
Default, Luck and Accident
To Liz, my best friend, my shoulder to lean on, my one and only.
YOU’RE NEXT
To my beautiful Granddaughter, Scarlett Macey Fowler.
To my beautiful Granddaughter, Scarlett Macey Fowler.
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Forty-four
Forty-five
Forty-six
Forty-seven
Forty-eight
Forty-nine
Fifty
Fifty-one
Fifty-two
Fifty-three
Fifty-four
Fifty-five
Fifty-six
Fifty-seven
Fifty-eight
Fifty-nine
Sixty
Sixty-one
Sixty-two
Sixty-three
Sixty-four
Sixty-five
Sixty-six
Sixty-seven
Sixty-eight
Sixty-nine
Seventy
Seventy-one
Seventy-two
Seventy-three
Seventy-four
Oranges and Lemons
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other Books by Michael Fowler
One
In the Witness Room of Croydon Law Courts, Detective Sergeant Scarlett Macey was watching the clock above the door to Court One and taking slow, deep breaths, trying her best to calm her nerves; this wasn’t unusual – she always felt like this at court, though today her anxiety level was up a few more points than usual. Today was the opening session of one of her biggest cases to date – the trial of serial rapist James Green: it had been four months since she had ended ‘The Lycra Rapist’s’ reign of terror.
Earlier that morning, while going through her statement over breakfast, flashbacks of the case had visited Scarlett. In particular, snapshots of the self-righteous grin Green had tormented her with throughout his interview. She wondered if he was still so full of himself, having spent the first four months of this year behind bars?
Seeing James Green remanded to prison by the Magistrates had been one of her most gratifying moments as a detective. His incarceration had brought relief to the female population of Richmond in general and students in particular: last summer four young women had been sexually assaulted, and three others raped, by a knife wielding, Lycra-clad, maniac. Scarlett ended his campaign when she caught him in a sting operation – an undercover officer, posing as a student, had lured him into an attack.
Being caught in the act should have made things easy but the interview that followed had been frustrating – he’d denied everything, despite being identified, even having the audacity to state that he didn’t attack the undercover officer, but ‘merely pushed her away’, because he believed she was a prostitute propositioning him for sex. Scarlett had taken an instant dislike to his conceited arrogance, and took great pleasure in facing him in the custody suite and charging him with three rapes and an attempted rape, the day after his arrest. She’d felt even greater satisfaction in childishly waving him off in the prisoner transport bus to High Down Prison, where he had since been detained.
Since then, because of other pressing matters within the department, his arrest had drifted into distant memory, but had resurrected itself over the past couple of days as Scarlett focused on preparing herself for the trial. In particular, it had invaded her thoughts last night, unsettling her sleep as she rehearsed a list of answers for the tough line of expected questions from the defence. In spite of feeling tired, she had arisen in buoyant mood.
Now though Scarlett wasn’t feeling so upbeat. For the past ten minutes she’d been sitting at a table in the witness room, switching her gaze between the clock and the blank screen of her BlackBerry, trying her best to hide her concern. It was 10 a.m. and her main witness had not yet arrived.
She had rung Claudette Jackson yesterday afternoon to check she was okay – one of the many reassuring calls Scarlett had made during these past four months – and although Claudette’s voice had sounded fragile she’d confirmed she was still prepared to give evidence against the man who had viciously raped her. Scarlett had ended the call by asking her to be at court for 09.30, so that they could go through her evidence one final time before the trial started. Claudette not being here was worrying; she was their last opportunity to prosecute serial rapist Green: since his remand, the Crown Prosecution Service had been forced to drop two of the rape charges because both of his vict
ims had been deemed medically unfit to give evidence; one of the girls had been hospitalised after a nervous breakdown and then diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, while the other had been so disturbed since the attack that she had locked herself away in her bedroom and refused to speak to Scarlett: a month ago she had also been diagnosed with PTSD.
Over the past quarter of an hour Scarlett had called Claudette’s mobile every couple of minutes but it had rung out and then diverted to voicemail. She had left messages for Claudette to ring her back, but the pleas had gone unanswered. The last time she had rung – two minutes earlier – Scarlett had tried to hide the tension in her voice.
‘She’s probably got stuck in traffic.’
DC Tarn Scarr’s voice broke Scarlett’s concentration. Dragging her gaze away from her BlackBerry, she eyed her working partner seated opposite. He was leaning back on his chair fiddling with his dark blue tie, tightening the knot into his white button-down collar. She gave a worried half smile, ‘I hope so. I hope it’s nothing else. She was nervous on the phone yesterday. I hope she’s not had second thoughts.’
‘You worry too much Scarlett. Claudette’ll be here. She said so, didn’t she?’ He finished with his tie, flicked away invisible flecks from it.
Scarlett smiled to herself. Tarn had fussed over his appearance throughout the four years she’d known him. He was the best dressed guy in the office and checked himself every time he passed a mirror. All the Homicide Squad pulled his leg about it. Scarlett glanced down at the blank screen of her phone again, willing it to ring. ‘I told her to be here for 9.30, that the court started at ten. It’s gone ten o’clock now.’
‘Only just. Give her another couple of minutes and then try her again.’ Tarn pulled the front of his jacket together and scrutinised the alignment.
Scarlett was about to respond when the door to the courtroom opened and in walked the CPS barrister leading their case. Scarlett had first met Katherine Nicholson six weeks earlier at a pre-trial review of the evidence. Katherine was in her late forties, but her unblemished features made her look younger. She was in court attire, wig partly covering a shoulder length bob of shiny light brown hair. The first time Scarlett had set eyes upon her across the conference table she’d admired how elegant Katherine looked. If things hadn’t turned out the way they had for her, maybe Scarlett could have been a barrister, enjoying the lifestyle trappings that came with it, instead of being a put-upon Detective Sergeant in an overstretched Homicide Squad.
A welcoming smile on her face, the barrister made a bee-line for her.
Scarlett stood.
‘James Green is downstairs in the cells. Are we all good to go?’ Katherine asked cheerily, rubbing her hands.
‘We are,’ Scarlett replied, pointing to herself and Tarn, ‘but our main witness is not here yet.’
Katherine’s smile disappeared and her face creased into a frown. ‘Delayed?’
Scarlett shrugged, ‘Don’t know. I’ve tried ringing her mobile and she’s not answering. I rang her yesterday afternoon and confirmed everything with her. I don’t know where she is.’
The barrister pushed back the sleeve of her gown and glanced at her watch, ‘Well they’re just selecting the jury now. The trial's scheduled for starting at eleven – in fifty minutes’ time. Does she live far away?’
‘Twickenham.’
‘Well look, can I suggest you get yourselves over to her place and see what’s happening with her? I’ll go and have a word with the judge and request a short adjournment. I’m sure he’ll approve, he knows of the difficulties we’ve had with the other witnesses in this case.’ She looked at her watch again. ‘I’ll ask for a twelve o’clock start. Meet me back here at quarter to twelve.’ With a reassuring smile, she turned on her heels and made her way back to the courtroom door.
Scarlett scooped up her bag and phone, nodded at Tarn for them to go, and speed-dialled Claudette Jackson’s number again as she made for the exit.
Two
They headed out of Croydon on the busy A23 towards Twickenham, where Claudette Jackson rented a two-bedroom semi with a friend from university.
Scarlett ended yet another call to Claudette’s mobile – it had again diverted to voicemail. She stared out through the windscreen, gazing at an endless ribbon of traffic before them. They were moving, but not very fast. She would have loved to have switched on the blues and twos but she didn’t have that option – they were in Tarn’s car and not a squad car. Anxiety was again beginning to take hold – she could feel her chest tightening. She inhaled deeply, and breathing out slowly said, ‘I’m getting a bit worried.’
Tarn kept his eyes on the road. ‘There’ll be some simple explanation. She said she was coming.’
As they entered Twickenham, Scarlett directed Tarn away from the main stretch of road into the estates. After negotiating a number of streets, they pulled up outside a 1960s red brick end town house. Part of the front garden had been block-paved and an aged blue Nissan Micra was parked on the drive.
‘That’s her car,’ said Scarlett, opening the passenger door while pushing her mobile into her jacket pocket. Shutting the door with a swing of her hip, she studied the front of the house. The curtains were closed, upstairs and downstairs. She had a bad feeling about this. With Tarn following, Scarlett walked quickly to the front door and rapped hard. It was solid wood and stung her knuckles. She waited a few seconds, and when there was no answer, banged again, this time with the side of her fist.
Still no answer.
‘Let’s try the back,’ she said over her shoulder, and walked around the side. The back door was also wooden, although the top half panels contained frosted glass. The kitchen window blinds were partly open. Scarlett cupped her hand against the glass and peered through the gaps. The kitchen was small – though slightly larger than her galley one back home. Nothing looked out of place. She turned back to the door and knocked. After a few seconds without a response she tried again. Nothing. Scarlett looked around to see if there was anywhere obvious that a key might be hidden. Two wheelie bins were parked close to the back fence and she shuffled them aside to check beneath but there was no secreted key. She said to Tarn, ‘Let’s see if any of the neighbours are in. Maybe they’ve seen her?’
After returning to the front of the house they tried the adjoining neighbour’s home. Scarlett’s knock was immediately answered by a shout of ‘Just a minute,’ followed by the sound of shuffling feet approaching. The front door opened a fraction on a chain and an elderly man’s unshaven face appeared in the gap. He gave her the once-over, his eyes trailing up to her deep-red dyed hair, and his enquiring look turned to one of suspicion. Scarlett smiled to herself; it was the usual first response people gave her. It then generally turned to one of disbelief when she told them she was a cop. She greeted him with an engaging smile in an attempt to disarm his wariness, and then announced who she was, holding up her warrant card for him to see.
He scrutinised it carefully and glanced at her hair, before meeting her look. ‘Police! Is there something up?’
Scarlett told him there was nothing wrong and that they just wanted to speak to his neighbour Claudette Jackson.
The man closed the door a second to unclip the chain and then opened it fully. He was dressed in a sweatshirt, baggy joggers and slippers and looked to be in his late sixties or early seventies. ‘Do you know if she’s in?’ she enquired.
The man stepped onto the path and gazed at Claudette’s house. ‘Her car’s there, but I haven’t seen her this morning. It’s not usually there at this time. She’s usually gone to work in it by now. I heard her friend, Rachel, go early doors. They’re teachers. Different schools though. They have told me where they work but I’ve forgotten. I think Rachel’s at Archdeacon Cambridge. That seems to ring a bell. She’s good to me. Always asks me how I am – my health not being how it is...’
‘You’ve not seen Claudette go out then?’ Scarlett cut him short. She wasn’t being rude, but she had co
ncerns about Claudette and no time to listen to someone’s health problems.
The man took a wobbly step along the path and looked up at the bedroom windows. He shook his head. ‘No. Like I say she’s usually up and gone by now. I don’t normally hear the pair coming back until sixish, but it looks to me as though Claudette’s still in bed. Her curtains are normally open at this time of day. Maybe she’s not very well. Have you tried banging?’
Scarlett told him they had. Front and back doors.
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘You haven’t got a spare key, have you?’
‘No.’
Scarlett thanked the man for his help and turned back to Tarn. ‘Come on, we’ll give it another knock. I’ll try her mobile again.’
They returned to the front door. The neighbour remained on his path watching them over the fence. Scarlett gave him a smile and thumped Claudette’s door again. After waiting for the best part of twenty seconds, with no response, she bent down, opened the letter box, speed-dialled Claudette’s mobile and pressed an ear close to the open flap. After a few seconds, she heard a soft ringing tone. The tinny sound mimicked that of an old-fashioned phone and seemed to be drifting down from the first floor. She looked up at Tarn. ‘Her phone’s ringing. I can hear it. Something’s not right. We need to get in there. Now!’
Three
At 5’ 8’’ Tarn wasn’t very tall but he was solid, and it only took him two flying kicks to send the back door crashing in, whereupon they dashed into the kitchen and up the stairs. The neighbour had said Claudette’s bedroom was at the front, so they doubled back at the top of the stairs and Scarlett anxiously pushed open the facing door. The room was in gloom, the only light coming from a gap in the curtains, but it was enough for them to pick out Claudette’s body, draped over the edge of her three-quarter bed. Below her head, on the carpet, was a crusting pool of vomit. Her eyes were shut, and her mouth open and some of the sick had dried around her lips. Scarlett didn’t need to check her to know she was dead. She did a quick scan of the upper body, looking for signs of violence. There was none visible, and her gaze diverted to the bedside table where she saw a wine bottle, a wine glass, with what appeared to be the last dregs of some white wine in the bottom, and next to that an upturned small brown tablet bottle and a couple of small white pills near the open top. She also spotted a handwritten note next to Claudette’s mobile.
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