All Her Fears: DI Tracy Collier Book 3

by Emmy Ellis

  All Her Fears - Text copyright © Emmy Ellis 2018

  Cover Art by Emmy Ellis @ studioenp.com © 2018

  All Rights Reserved

  All Her Fears is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  The author respectfully recognises the use of any and all trademarks.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  Warning: The unauthorised reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s written permission.

  All

  Her

  Fears

  Emmy Ellis

  Prologue

  Last Week

  She’s about to find out he’s not who she thought he was.

  He glares at her. “Stay there. Don’t move. If you do, I’ll kill you.”

  She laughs at him, her head thrown back against the wall, her alcohol-addled brain probably refusing to accept what he’d said. It isn’t funny. He wasn’t being funny.

  She’ll understand that soon.

  Seems she doesn’t have a clue where they are, as though she’s forgotten the journey here, where she’d tottered on her spindly legs through the dark backstreets, then along the country road for around five miles. She’d skidded down a verge at one point, squealing, and he’d hauled her back onto the roadside, where the urge to hurt her had been almost too strong to ignore.

  Why hadn’t she questioned their destination? It’s not every man who takes a woman to a disused part of a building, is it, where he’ll keep her there until she’s done what he wants.

  Her hair doesn’t look so nice now they’re in brighter light. It’s stringy from sweat where she’d got all hot and bothered walking here.

  The humidity lately is a killer.

  “You’re so funny,” she says, eyeing him as though she doesn’t find him funny at all.

  “I’m being serious. Don’t move.”

  She blinks a few times, and it seems something’s dawning in her mind, the realisation she’s not as safe as she thought. That she isn’t going to have sex and make it home tonight.

  No, this one can stay.

  Here.

  Until he needs her services.

  Her head tilts to one side, and her eyes cloud over with what might be fear—or is that shutters coming down, where this situation feels familiar and memories have come flooding back?

  “What…what’s going on?” She frowns, her eyebrows dipping low.

  “You’ll see soon enough. Now be quiet. You’re getting on my nerves.”

  He steps forward, shoves a rag in her mouth, then uses rope to secure her wrists and ankles. Perhaps she thinks this is the way he likes it. Rough.

  Perhaps she thinks she can leave once they’ve done the business.

  Except there won’t be any business.

  Not the kind she’s expecting anyway.

  Chapter One

  Her laughter reminds me of a burbling stream, and I grit my teeth.

  “Come on now, Mrs Roberts, I need to get you into bed before nine. You know the rules.” I smile and nod, hands on hips, hoping I fare better at getting her to obey than the other nurse had last night.

  This old woman here, wanting to talk and laugh about the good old days, isn’t helping my schedule. If we can get everyone tucked in by eight instead of the usual nine, I’ll call that a win. There’s a good film on we all want to watch. The other nurses are having a cup of tea—the staff deserve a peaceful night after the hassle from Mrs Roberts yesterday and today. It seems the old woman doesn’t want to do as she’s told anymore. She’s already frazzled the nerves of the daytime staff and is intent on frazzling mine now, too.

  “I don’t want to go to bed,” Mrs Roberts says. “It’s too early. I have to wait until you’ve set the alarm.”

  “It isn’t early. It’s just right. And we’ll lock up soon.” I smile. “In you get.”

  She stands beside her bed, her expression one of worry. “Please don’t make me. He said he’ll come for me if I go to sleep.”

  “Pardon me?” I lift my eyebrows and give her my best glare. Who is ‘he’?

  “Plus, my son said—”

  “I’m not interested in what your son has to say. He put you in here and knows the rules.”

  “But it isn’t nine yet,” she whines, twisting a stand of hair around a finger in agitation.

  “No, but tonight is different.”

  “Why?”

  I grit my teeth again. It hurts. Why am I getting angry with her? I’m not usually so wound up. It’s like I’m a different person from time to time. “It’s not for you to ask why. Now get into bed.”

  “No.” She folds her arms over her rounded belly and stamps one foot. “I have rights. I should feel safe here, and I don’t.”

  I sigh, leave the room, and head for the next old fart’s. That woman back there…well, I’ll deal with her later. Annoyed at being challenged, I thump open Mrs Klark’s door, and she all but jumps a foot off her flower-patterned chair. Slim to the point of being a skeleton covered in skin, Mrs Klark gawps at me from behind thick-lens glasses, her eyes appearing golf-ball sized. Her scalp shines through her sparse, wispy white hair, and I hold back a bark that she should be wearing her bloody hat like she’s been told to.

  Calm down. Be Chrissy, the real Chrissy.

  “Come along, Mrs Klark. Bedtime is earlier tonight.”

  She nods and pushes herself up using the armrests. I’m surprised her wrists don’t snap.

  Mrs Klark is already in her long, light-blue nightdress, and she shuffles over to her bed, the scrape of her slippers over the carpet bringing on a red mist. It threatens to cloud my judgement, so I take a deep breath while she pops her glasses on the sideboard then settles under the quilt, the edge right up to her neck.

  “You’re a good girl, Mrs Klark, aren’t you?”

  I switch out the light then leave. Sorting out ten other ancient dears proves just as easy as my time with Klark, and I release some tension, rolling my shoulders and reminding myself that if Mrs Roberts finally does as she’s told, the nurses will have a nice, quiet night.

  I enter her room, and she stares at me from her leather recliner, mouth trembling. A programme about lions plays on her small TV, the animals roaring then chasing after unsuspecting prey.

  “Right, it’s closer to the usual bedtime now, Mrs Roberts, so come along.”

  She lifts her chin. “My programme hasn’t finished. I watch this every week.”

  “Look, you need your medicine as well, and I haven’t got time for you to mess me about.”

  “Please don’t let him hurt me,” she says.

  Who the hell is she gabbling on about?

  Once again, I leave her. I don’t know what to do to make her follow the rules.

  * * *

  He strides to the medicine laid out for this evening in the locked storeroom. With two syringes selected, he sorts out what will shut her up plus her usual drugs, then returns just as the closing credits for her infernal programme flows up the screen.

  “Get to bed,” he says to that old Roberts bitch who has caused so much trouble.

  “Yes…okay…”

  Onto the mattress she gets, and he jabs the needle into her arm, depressing the plunger until all the liquid has gone in. She’ll be out in no time. Then he administers the medication she’s sup
posed to have, and she opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out.

  “This is what happens when you do things that ruins families,” he says then leaves the room, disposing of one syringe in the proper manner and slipping the other in his pocket.

  He leaves Blooming Age and, at the nearest supermarket, picks up a tray of Krispy Kreme assorted doughnuts, pays for them, then, once outside, dumps the second syringe in the bin beside the door.

  He hopes, when he gets back, the carers are still sitting in the staff room, waiting for the film to start.

  It won’t do to have one of them check the olds and find Mrs Roberts dead yet.

  No, it won’t do at all.

  Chapter Two

  The phone rang on her desk, and Tracy reluctantly answered it. “DI Collier.”

  “Vic Atkins, boss.”

  Tracy closed her eyes momentarily—she didn’t need a new job on her hands. Not today. The serious crimes squad she ran had recently wrapped up a case regarding three brothers—same father, different mothers. With the paperwork finally completed, her team now worked on other, smaller crimes while they waited for the next biggie to turn up. They needed a bit more of a breather, the calm before another almighty storm, but if Vic from the front desk was on the blower, that dream of having time between was looking more like a sodding nightmare.

  “Shit, Vic. Bad news, is it?”

  “You could say that. Happy Monday to you. A body’s been found.”

  “You’re kidding me…” Adrenaline punched into her system, and she swallowed bile that had shot up.

  “No, boss. Not something I find amusing, death.”

  “Me neither—and you know what I meant.”

  “I did. Just fancied being facetious.”

  “Well…don’t.” She sighed, raking a hand through her ginger hair. It’d need a dye-job soon, what with the amount of grey she’d spotted this morning in the bathroom mirror, and her only young. Ish. “Come on then. What have you got?”

  “Odd one. An old lady in her nightie.”

  “What?” She scratched her head. “And this is coming to me because…?”

  “She didn’t just wander out of her house and fall down dead, boss. She had her throat slit.”

  “Fuck me sideways,” she muttered. “All right. Address of the crime scene, please. And you’ll get hold of Gilbert for me, won’t you?” A bright spot to the day. Gilbert, the ME, would have her laughing in no time. She needed a mood lightener after the past few months worrying her arse off about whether her deranged sister, Lisa, would show her spiteful face again.

  Something I don’t need either.

  Vic gave the address, and Tracy jotted it down.

  “Yep, I’ll get hold of Gilbert for you now, boss.”

  “All right. I’m on my way.”

  She replaced the receiver in the cradle, sighing again. At this rate, the town was going to end up like one of those weird ones in books and on TV, where everyone got killed once a month and the residents still remained, not thinking anything of living in place where people kept getting bumped off.

  Rising, she slung her jacket on and made her way to the incident room, also serving as a permanent, large office where her team worked. She stood in front of the three whiteboards and faced the gang.

  Damon, her partner at work and in life, raised his eyebrows. Yes, he knew what was coming, could probably tell just from a micro-expression on her face. Nada glanced up from her monitor and tilted her head. Tracy gave her a slight nod.

  “Right, team. Talk about not getting a moment to breathe. We have a new murder to deal with.”

  Lara and Erica snapped their heads up, while Tim and Alastair groaned.

  “Sorry, thought we’d be able to work the smaller cases some more, get them closed and off our backs, but fate has other ideas. Bollocks, I know, but it’s what we’re here for, so we need to get to it.” Tracy pinched her chin. “Not much to go on—an old lady, throat slit.”

  Someone hissed.

  “Indeed. Nasty.” Tracy glanced at Damon. “I’ll be off with Damon. You guys continue what you’ve been doing. When I know the victim’s name, Nada, I’ll call in so you can all do that needs to be done.” She pointed to the printouts she’d attached to one of the boards with Blu Tack. “This is a chance for us to put my new game plan into action.” She tapped the A4 paper. “You all have specific jobs to be getting on with once we know who the victim is. Family members, friends, bank records, work colleagues, social media accounts, CCTV, phone use. You’re on it like flies on shit, okay? This saves me actioning every little thing—and it means I trust you to get on with it.” She pressed a hand to the space beneath the A4. “You tick off on the sheet when you’ve done your tasks and write your information down here. Got it?”

  A flurry of yes, boss, then, “We’ve got it,” from Nada. “I made sure everyone recited what they had to do when a new case comes up—every day for the past fortnight we’ve been getting it into our heads.”

  Tracy smiled at Nada—the woman was a marvel. “You’re a Godsend. Thank you. Right, we’re off. I’ll ring in as soon as I have anything.” She scribbled the address where she’d be on the first board and tapped it so the team got the gist. Then she walked to the door and paused. “Oh, Nada, while we’re out, get on to missing persons and see if any elderly women have been reported as AWOL. If Chief Winter asks where me and Damon are, let him know, will you? Thanks.”

  She took the three flights of stairs at a clip, the downward momentum fuelling the rush careening through her at having a grisly case so soon after the last. Footsteps scuffed and squeaked above, signalling Damon followed.

  In the car park, she took a deep breath of exhaust-fume air and headed to her car. She’d switched it out to a different model so her damn sister wouldn’t know which one she drove now. Then again, Tracy’s bright hair would be a dead giveaway should Lisa be hanging around the station, watching. Maybe it was time to take a leaf from Lisa’s demented book and opt for a different colour completely. Lisa’s had been dyed black in her attempt to disguise herself, but Tracy and Damon had recognised her recently when she’d turned up, unbidden and definitely unwanted.

  Bloody woman had better not show her face again.

  In the car, Tracy waited for Damon to catch up. He flung himself into the passenger seat, panting, his breathing not too hot these days since Lisa had stabbed him. Not that Damon knew Lisa was Tracy’s sister. He thought she was just some woman who’d lived with Tracy’s dad.

  What a fucked-up situation.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “This’ll be tough because she’s old.” Damon plugged in his seat belt.

  “Yep, but they’re all tough, no matter their age.” She prodded the address into the satnav then gunned the engine and headed for the scene, the GPS’s voice no longer Australian from when Damon had switched it over as a joke.

  They didn’t speak, Tracy lost inside her head, thinking of where Lisa might be. Damon left her alone to do it. He knew better than to interrupt her when she zoned out. The crime scene was five hundred yards ahead, according to the patient-sounding but irritating satnav lady, a field by the look of it, a police car and a PC standing on the verge, although she couldn’t work out who it was yet. She still had a few coppers she hadn’t met, her being newish to the station.

  Tracy parked, and she and Damon got out. Ah, PC Newson, it was, and he smiled, holding out the crime scene log for them to sign, a far cry from the first time she’d met him when he’d been suspicious of who she was, a new DI on the block.

  “Morning,” she said, scribbling her name and the time on the tablet using the red plastic pen attached to it by string. “PC York with the body?”

  Newson nodded while Damon signed the log.

  “Let’s hope she’s taken better precautions this time.” Tracy dipped her hand into a cardboard box at Newson’s feet and helped herself to white protective clothing and gloves. She put them on, as did Damon. This would be the f
irst time Tracy had seen Simone York since she’d had a word with her sergeant about being careful at scenes. At the last one, Simone hadn’t been too bothered about where she was putting her size fives, scrunching through the leaves as though it didn’t matter, and it had got Tracy’s goat. “Where are we going?” she asked Newson.

  “Just behind the hedge, ma’am. Um, boss.”

  “Right. Thank you.” She suspected York would have heard what she’d said about her, but she didn’t give much of a shit.

  Tracy shrugged and went to push through a gap in the hedge but stopped. Was it the one the killer had made when either bringing the old lady out here to kill her or dumping her body?

  “Um, can you move along a bit, Newson, please?”

  He did as he’d been told.

  “It’s just that the killer might have been right here, and we’re fucking up the scene.”

  “Um, I doubt it, boss.” Newson pointed along the road ahead. “There’s a path up there. Blood on it. I put scene tape up. The path cuts across the field. There’s a wire fence either side of it and a gate in the middle a few metres in. Apparently leads to the farmer’s house—that’s who found her.”

  Tracy looked that way. A piece of tape fluttered on the bush. “Thank you. Did you speak to the farmer already, or did someone else do that?”

  “It was me.” He grimaced. “Poor bloke was about to let his cows out to graze and saw the woman’s nightie—said it stood out because it’s white.”

  “Take a statement, did you? His address?”

  “Yes, boss. If you turn around, you can see the farmhouse from here. There’s an access road just past the path.”

  “Righty ho. So, I’ll just go through the hedge then. Did York make the gap?”

  “No. She stayed there after we’d walked over the field from the farmhouse. That’s where we went first.”

  “Okay. Stick up a bit of tape here. It’s bothering me there’s a gap. Someone’s obviously made it. Or maybe it’s one of the cows. We’ll take the path, seeing as we’re suited and booted.”