Soft Summer Blood

by Peter Helton

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Peter Helton

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  A selection of recent titles by Peter Helton

  The Chris Honeysett series

  HEADCASE

  SLIM CHANCE

  RAINSTONE FALL

  AN INCH OF TIME *

  WORTHLESS REMAINS *

  INDELIBLE *

  The Liam McLusky series

  FALLING MORE SLOWLY

  FOUR BELOW

  A GOOD WAY TO GO *

  SOFT SUMMER BLOOD *

  * available from Severn House

  SOFT SUMMER BLOOD

  A Detective Inspector McLusky novel

  Peter Helton

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2016

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Trade paperback edition first published 2016 in Great

  Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2016 by Peter Helton.

  The right of Peter Helton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Helton, Peter author.

  Soft summer blood. – (Liam McLusky series)

  1. McLusky, Liam (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. Police–England–Bristol–Fiction. 3. Murder–

  Investigation–Fiction. 4. Italian students–England–

  Bristol–Fiction. 5. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9’2-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8577-7 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-685-5 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-741-7 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Thanks to Juliet Burton, to everyone at Severn House and to Clare Yates for making this book possible. As ever, special thanks to Jess Knowles for keeping me sane. No thanks to Lulu the cat for jumping on my keyboard and engaging the numbers lock. It took me ages to find out why I appeared to be typing u77er n4n5en5e.

  ONE

  Charles Mendenhall let himself out of the house via the French windows and stepped into the soft evening air. It had been a hot June day, which was why he had waited until it was almost dark. Not that it mattered; there would be moonlight and starlight, and having lived at Woodlea House for over thirty years, he believed he could probably negotiate every shrub, tree, pond and path of the gardens blindfolded.

  Jogging. It really was the most moronic thing to do. But quite addictive. Yes, it was moronic, repetitive, boring and extremely unsightly. After all, who would want to look at the blotchy legs of a flabby sixty-four-year-old puffing along the lanes? Which is where grounds of nearly four acres came in so handy. Charles Mendenhall would not be seen dead running around his neighbourhood in shorts, trainers and sweat-stained T-shirt, but there was no one to see him here in the evenings, except perhaps David, should he make an unannounced visit. He had bought the trainers and shorts and the step-counter thing he couldn’t get to work two months earlier and for six weeks had just looked at them as they lay, neatly arranged, on a chair in his bedroom. He’d been too tired or too busy with other things; it had been raining or it had been patently too warm to run. The whole idea was stupid; he would look utterly ridiculous. Then one day he had realized he could just jog through the garden. Round and round the house. He felt silly for not having thought of it earlier.

  The first time he had ventured out in his unfamiliar sports gear, brimming with good intentions to jog each day for at least half an hour, he had lasted five minutes and had to lean against the big oak for support, panting and heaving, wondering whether he was going to have a heart attack. He had gone to see his doctor who had examined him and told him that his heart was fine and exercise would not kill him. But even his doctor thought jogging was stupid. It could give you jogger’s bladder, ruin your joints if you ran on hard surfaces, pump you full of car fumes if you did it near a road.

  But how else were you supposed to lose the flab? He had been doing it for two weeks now, had lost four pounds and had become quite addicted to running. Looked forward to it. Always at dusk, always the same route.

  Charles closed the door, took a deep breath of the summer-scented air and set off: across the terrace, on to the expanse of the large lawn, green fading to grey in the settling darkness, diagonally to the western edge, around the long flower bed, on to the stone-flagged path. Past the cool greenhouse, seven strides, past the heated greenhouse, eleven strides, across the circular scented garden with its curved benches, past the oaks, on to the small lawn with the statue of Hebe, along the eastern edge of the lily pond, down into the dell and the apple orchard, once around the double row of ancient unproductive trees, up the eight steps to the gravel path, his least favourite bit of the run, through the long borders and between the dark yews and so back on to the large lawn at its eastern end.

  And around again: across the large lawn, past the greenhouses, seven strides, eleven strides, across the scented garden. Charles slowed beside the three oaks, stopping by the edge of the small lawn. There was that strange feeling again. He had felt it the other day and it was just as strong as it had been then: the conviction that he was not alone in the garden. Trying to calm his breathing, he stood and looked back. The sensation had come to him in the scented garden, as though someone was running silently behind him. There was enough light left to see that there was no one in the circular garden, but the feeling that there was someone present besides himself was so strong it would not have surprised him to see a person sitting on one of the two benches. It was difficult for deer to get into the gardens unless someone left the rear gate open. Someone could only mean the gardeners or his own son, but when David did visit he showed little interest in the garden and even less in the woodland that lay beyond. He should check, of course. Deer had caused havoc in the gardens last time the gate had been left open.

  His breath had calmed a little, but not completely, and he realized that anxiety had got hold of him, here, in the centre of his own realm. He turned and looked unhappily across to the statue of Hebe, a mere silhouette in darkness. It was late. One and a half turns round the garden
would have to be enough tonight. He retreated from the statue as though it was a living threat and crossed the scented garden in a hurry, but he was loath to run now because the noise of his running steps would mask any other sounds. Walk, don’t run. Walk, don’t run. He retraced his steps: hot greenhouse, cool greenhouse, stone-flagged path. He sighed with relief when he reached the open space of the lawn and started jogging again, back towards the safety of the house.

  Until he saw it. One side of the French windows stood open. Had he not closed it properly earlier? Fear crept up on him from the empty gardens behind and crawled towards him from the gaping darkness of the open door. You forgot to close it, that’s all. Charles tried to convince himself of it, but there was nothing wrong with his memory; he could clearly see himself shutting the door, could hear in his mind the snick of the lock. Irresolute, he stood in starlight in the centre of the lawn. The house is too big for you now that Yvonne is gone. You have become old and frightened, and you are jumping at shadows. He forced himself to take calm breaths, straightened up and crossed the lawn to the offending French window. Cautiously, quietly, he slipped inside the drawing room, stood still and listened to the aching emptiness of the house. Never before had the stately ticking of the long-case clock sounded so loud in his ears. It took several minutes of listening for Charles to convince himself that he was alone in the house.

  McLusky stepped out of the shop into the bright sunshine and experimentally stomped his brand-new black gentleman’s umbrella on to the pavement. He held it in his right hand and walked a few paces, using it like a walking stick. Then he changed to the left hand and took a few more steps but failed to get the rhythm right. He felt foolish and decided to carry it instead. DI McLusky hated umbrellas even more than he hated rain. They were a nuisance when it was windy and an even greater nuisance to carry around when it wasn’t raining at all. Which it was not, though heavy thundery showers had been forecast. Not that McLusky cared all that much about thundery showers or getting wet. He had bought it because Laura had pointed out to him only the other day, as they were getting drenched running from a restaurant to a nearby pub, that it was the man’s job to keep his dinner date dry; that a bit of old-fashioned courtesy – and courtship – would not go amiss if he was serious about them getting back together. Which McLusky was: quite serious. Brolly-buying serious, even though he found the chivalrous-male routine a touch sexist.

  He was on his way back to Albany Road police station through the pedestrianized part of Broadmead. It was busy and he was in danger of – and sometimes tempted to try – puncturing his fellow lunchtime shoppers with the metal point of his furled umbrella. There was a sudden commotion a few yards ahead of him: calls of protest and people moving quickly. Ahead he heard the prattling sound of a scooter engine. A young man on a black Benelli scooter had come up across the crowded pedestrian-only thoroughfare and was holding station, engine revving, in front of a men’s clothes shop. The rider was wearing a full-face helmet and had his face obscured with a scarf. He was looking over his shoulder at the entrance to the clothes shop, which was wide open because of the heat. McLusky knew a getaway rider when he saw one. He sped up to get to the scooter. Just at that moment he heard a shout and a bareheaded teenager came running from the shop, holding a thick stack of men’s designer shirts in front of him. He swung himself across the back seat of the scooter, hotly pursued by a male shop assistant. McLusky took two steps forward and jabbed his umbrella into the spokes of the rear wheel just as the rider sped off. It was a short journey: the engine whined and the scooter jerked forward but came to an almost immediate and sudden halt, unbalancing rider and pillion. Both fell to the ground and the scooter engine cut out. The pillion, still clutching the stolen shirts, fell heavily, hitting his head on the unforgiving pavement. The rider scrambled to his feet only to have them knocked from under him by McLusky, while the shop assistant pounced on the pillion who had still not let go of the shirts and was bleeding over them from a split eyebrow.

  ‘Sit on him!’ called McLusky to the assistant, but the man was more interested in recovering the shirts and let go of the twisting, punching and kicking thief who took off down the road at a speed that suggested he might have achieved a cleaner getaway without a scooter. The scooter rider was also trying to punch his way out of McLusky’s grip, but the detective inspector remembered much of his basic training and once he had hold of one of the man’s arms the outcome of the struggle was predictable. The rider screamed in protest inside his helmet as McLusky bent the arm until the struggling stopped. He wrenched open the visor of the helmet but left the silk scarf that covered the suspect’s face in place, not wanting to get bitten.

  The rider was rolling his eyes, trying to get a look at his assailant. ‘Let me go, you stupid wanker! I’ll fucking kill you!’

  ‘That’s been tried before,’ growled McLusky truthfully. ‘I’m a police officer and you’re under arrest.’

  ‘What?!’ he wailed, disbelief in his voice.

  McLusky dropped a heavy knee into the man’s back to make sure of him, rattled down the caution and thumbed his radio. Just then a uniformed police officer, guided there by the CCTV operators, arrived at the scene. It was PC Becks, whom McLusky knew well. The DI handed the still restless man over to him once Becks had cuffed him.

  ‘I did caution him, Becky. The other one got away, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No, he didn’t; he ran straight into us. We were just around the corner getting out of the car and CCTV relayed that he was on his way. Pym has got him in the car. Let’s have your helmet off, lad,’ PC Becks said. The suspect tried to headbutt him with it so McLusky kicked him hard in the back of the knee, grabbed his cuffed wrists and forced him to the ground. This was unpopular with the man who started swearing incoherently.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Becks.

  ‘My pleasure. Charge him with robbery, reckless driving, resisting arrest and ruining my umbrella. The scooter will be stolen so charge him with that as well.’

  The PC removed helmet and scarf from his prisoner. The driver looked no older than fourteen. ‘And driving without a licence; he’s far too young.’

  Young, yes, thought McLusky, but he could see the hard lines of grown-up contempt in his face. The boy still hadn’t quietened down when PC Becks marched him away and offered to introduce him to his new, improved pepper spray if he didn’t cooperate.

  McLusky tried half-heartedly to retrieve his umbrella but it was comprehensively mangled. ‘Poor thing never lived long enough to see its first drop of rain,’ he muttered and, leaving the scooter lying there, walked back to the umbrella shop to buy another one.

  He made it back to Albany Road station without further incident. Still feeling foolish carrying it around but quite pleased with his lunchtime exploits, he strolled exaggeratedly across the CID room towards the kettle, swinging his umbrella in time.

  DS Jack Sorbie looked up from his desk and eyed McLusky with distaste. He held the unshakeable conviction that his own low promotional prospects were entirely due to McLusky having been ‘imported’ from Southampton into Bristol CID. He burped quietly behind his hand, bringing back the taste of his lunchtime pints of cider, and looked studiously down at his computer screen when McLusky sauntered past him with a mug of coffee.

  In his office McLusky leant the umbrella against a filing cabinet and then manoeuvred himself into the narrow space between his desk and the window. His office, which he suspected had been converted from a broom cupboard, was minute, possibly not large enough to open his umbrella in without knocking the collection of empty coffee mugs off the filing cabinets. Albany Road station was a cramped 1960s cube of a building near the harbour. It had never been modernized, which meant that the electric wiring was fragile, the plumbing was noisy and there was no air conditioning. Sometimes McLusky heard unexplained rustling from inside the wall beside his desk, which he thought was either rats or the sound of cheap cement bricks crumbling.

  His office was a complete tip a
gain. Files covered all the surfaces, including the floor. The small desk had barely enough room to accommodate the computer screen, keyboard and phone as well as the files and forms he had dumped on it. In winter his office was well-heated since the radiator under the window had been designed for a much larger room, but in summer it could get stifling in here. The window was wide open; it gave on to the service area at the back of the station and overlooked the backs of houses. He made room for his mug of coffee on the desk and turned on the plastic six-inch fan which started up with an annoying buzz and shook its head jerkily from side to side, making a squeaking sound at every jerk. Its airstream lifted the corners of files and papers and contributed to the impression of disorder on his desk.

  He lifted the mug of economy instant towards his lips but was gripped by a sudden cough and splashed several forms with coffee while setting it back down. This cough was getting annoying; it had started over a month ago and he could not get rid of it. It was beginning to worry him, too. McLusky smoked – had smoked since his early teens – and he had now given up trying to give up since it always failed and cost him weeks of irritable misery. Once his cough subsided, he took a few sips of coffee and lit a cigarette, the latter strictly against regulations since the entire building was a no-smoking area. Perversely, smoking usually stopped his cough, as it did now.

  He picked up the topmost form and shook a couple of drops of spilt coffee from it on to the carpet. It was the form that came with the memo informing him about his upcoming AFT. McLusky hated acronyms almost as much as the nonsense they usually stood for – in this case his Annual Fitness Test. This worried him as much as his cough. He had recently tried to cut down, luring himself away from cigarettes by eating sweets and chocolate bars. He had put on a stone and a half in a very short time. He had stopped eating chocolate now – almost as hard to quit as smoking, he had found – but the weight had stayed on. The AFT was looming closer; he’d never manage to lose the weight in time. He pushed the form aside only to reveal the next piece of bumf he had brought back from the latest PIM he had attended. PIM stood for Performance Improvement Meeting where they had talked at great length about PPAF, the Policing Performance Assessment Framework, and the paper he was staring at now was headed The Changing Face of PPAF. It was so naff you could not make it up, yet someone obviously had. Anything to avoid having to go out there and catch criminals.