Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Also by Isabelle Grey
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
Acknowledgements
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Quercus
This edition first published in 2016 by
Quercus Editions Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
Copyright © 2016 Isabelle Grey
The moral right of Isabelle Grey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Ebook ISBN 978 1 78429 282 9
Print ISBN 978 1 78429 283 6
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk
Isabelle Grey is a television screenwriter. Author of three other novels, she has also written non-fiction and been a magazine editor and freelance journalist. She grew up in Manchester and lives in north London.
Also by Isabelle Grey
Out of Sight
The Bad Mother
Good Girls Don’t Die
1
Russell Fewell’s white van skirted the raised area of green that fronted the old stone church. A middle-aged woman was waiting for her Jack Russell to finish sniffing around the base of the metal pole that bore the heraldic village crest. The woman looked up and watched as his van turned left into the long, meandering High Street. Russell wondered if she, like him, was spending Christmas Day alone and, if so, how she felt about that.
Several of the front doors of the crooked old Essex houses had been decorated with evergreen wreaths brightened with red berries or chevroned ribbons, and lights shone from many of the casement windows. As he cruised along the narrow street, he could see Christmas tree lights twinkling in one or two of them. He thought the houses themselves, painted pink, yellow, pale green or white and packed tightly under their overhanging gables, looked like wrapped presents. The gifts he’d chosen and carefully wrapped for his two kids were in the back of the van. On top of the rifle.
Russell lowered his window. He’d imagined that he’d almost be able to smell the aroma of roasting turkey, but all he got was the biting metallic tang of impending snow. The news programme on the radio this morning had banged on about the bookies’ odds on it being a white Christmas, and already a few stray flakes were drifting down and melting on his windscreen. He had a vivid mental flash of jolly Santa Claus colours, fresh scarlet against unblemished white.
At the end of the High Street he passed the turning to the lane where his grandparents had once lived. That’s where he always used to go for Christmas dinner when he was a kid, much the same age as his son Davey; all the family together, uncles, aunts, cousins packed in around two small tables pushed together even though they were of different heights, everyone flushed and laughing and waiting for his grandmother – the only one able to get in and out of the room unless people climbed over one another – to bring in the plum pudding, eerily alight with a flickering blue flame of poured brandy. Every year the same. Family. Family didn’t change. At least not until people got old and died. That was the whole point of family, wasn’t it?
The chill air stung his cheeks and made his eyes smart. No wonder so few people were out and about. He brushed away the tears and closed the window.
Last year, even with the divorce, he and Donna had managed to spend Christmas together. That’s the one thing they’d firmly agreed upon: they might no longer be married, but they’d always be family. That’s how they’d treat one another. Not only for the kids’ sake but because it was true.
Not any more.
He speeded up. Then slowed down again: no rush. Important to do this right, just as he’d planned. He passed the primary school on his left. It was deserted, closed up for the holidays, but it was the school he’d attended and where he’d taken each of his kids in turn. This was his home town. His mum had been able to trace her kith and kin back through generations of local agricultural labourers; his dad’s family, from the neighbouring county of Suffolk, were much the same, impoverished and probably illiterate workers. This was the soil to which he belonged. To which he’d return. He didn’t mind. Better to lie in the new burial ground than allow himself to be cast out, tormented, humiliated in the eyes of his own children. That was a life not worth living.
His was the only vehicle on the road, but nonetheless he indicated before turning right into Fairfield Close. Neat houses built of brick with white woodwork and picture windows. Driveways for two cars. Front gardens that weren’t enclosed by hedges or fences, leaving space for kids to kick a ball about or circulate on bikes. Here the front windows had fairy lights looped across them and it was possible to glimpse more of the rooms inside, to see animated television screens, Christmas trees, colourful decorations, people sitting together. It wasn’t that he was jealous of the people in these houses or envious of what they had and he didn’t: it wasn’t that. It was the injustice of it all. It burned like acid, ate away at him, shrank him until he could bear it no more.
Fairfield Close capillaried into three cul-de-sacs. Russell drove to the end of one of them and turned the van round. He was aware that he might be drawing attention to himself, but he wanted to be pointing in the right direction. He wasn’t sure what would happen afterward
s, whether he’d get back in the van or would simply walk away. That bit wasn’t so important. Besides, whether he walked or drove, he didn’t foresee anyone making a serious attempt to stop him, not when they’d be all slowed up from booze and second helpings of turkey and stuffing and roast potatoes and he had a rifle in his hands.
He parked outside the house, positioning himself so he’d be able to cover the front door from the back of the van, and got out. He could see them all indoors, sitting around the festive table. He opened both rear doors and lifted out the presents he’d wrapped with such love. As he placed them on the ground beside him, a couple of snowflakes landed gently on his bare hands. He glanced up at the sky, which looked pulpy and malignant, before reaching in to pull the rifle into position. He closed one of the doors so that he could turn smoothly, take hold of it, raise it to his shoulder and fire, just the way he’d practised out on that deserted country lane. Then he leaned back against the closed door, pulled up the hood of his black anorak, stuck his hands in his pockets and waited.
2
The dogs – black Labradors, mother and son – were threshing around, wagging their tails and scenting fresh air. The heat of the Aga, which had been on full blast all day, had warmed even the quarry-tiled lobby where Robyn Ingold and her parents hung their coats and cleaned their boots. None of them had dressed up for the day; it was enough to put on the silly paper hats that came out of the crackers, and she was wearing her everyday jeans and a warm sweater. There would be enough roast goose to keep the three of them going all week. Just as well really. Her mum and dad would be busy tomorrow with the Boxing Day shoot. With the wildfowling season finishing at the end of January, the sportsmen would be wanting to make the most of the holidays; among them would be some of her dad’s best clients, the City types who’d spend tens of thousands on a single gun and then bring it to him for hand-crafted alterations. And meanwhile she’d be stuck into her revision, preparing for the mock exams she had to sit as soon as term started in the New Year. The minimum fuss of cold meat and leftovers would suit them all fine.
The moment Robyn opened the back door the dogs were through it and off, lolloping down towards the line of poplar trees at the end of the garden where they could sniff around for rabbits or other creatures in the long grass beside the fence. She grabbed a jacket and followed them out. It was beginning to get dark, but she could see the snow swirling in over the fields from the marshes beyond the sea wall a quarter of a mile away. She’d already fed the hens and made sure the two donkeys had water and fresh hay, but she made her usual circuit, checking they were all safely locked up for the night. The grass was speckled white and, though it was mushy underfoot, she hoped it would settle. It certainly felt cold enough. She loved waking up to the deep snow-clad silence which always seemed so mysterious and full of promise.
She whistled to the dogs and, when they came immediately, let them know they were released: it was important with gun dogs never to slack on enforcing their obedience, even when it didn’t seem to matter. Martha was getting old, maybe a little deaf too, and didn’t always come as quickly as she should. That wouldn’t do in the field; there was no room for sentiment, not when the guns had paid a lot of money for their day out. But Bounder was a good dog, trained partly by Robyn’s father and partly by his own mother, Martha.
She looked east towards the estuary but the gathering snow obliterated the view. The Ingolds had no immediate neighbours and the only visible lights were at least half a mile away. She caught the muffled cry of a curlew carried on the wind. The sound rose, repeating, questioning, wild and lonely like the cry of the wind itself. She loved it, had always loved hearing it, especially at night when she was all tucked up warm in bed. She wondered again what it would be like to leave this place, to go away to university and be constantly with other people, to lose that unconscious absorption with the cast of the sky, the shivering leaves of the poplar trees, the morning’s dewy animal tracks in the grass, all the accumulating details that defined the little kingdom of her childhood. The thought was strange but also exhilarating.
She turned to look back at the house, a rather lumpy extended bungalow at right angles to two solid brick-built Victorian barns, one the garage, the other where her dad had his workshop. Her mum hadn’t yet drawn the curtains and Robyn could look right into the living room, aware that, as darkness fell, her parents wouldn’t notice her watching them. The red candles on the dining table still shone amid the remains of their traditional dinner. Burning logs smoked on the open fire. Coloured lights on the Christmas tree went on and off in pattering sequence. Her parents stood with their backs to her, watching the television, the news probably, or maybe the Queen’s speech. Her dad, in worn jeans and a soft Viyella shirt, was stocky, still with a full head of resilient sandy-brown hair. Her mum was about the same height, round and comfortable in a denim skirt and striped blouse, with a practical bob of blonde-highlighted hair. Robyn felt a wave of deep affection. An only child, she’d never been tempted to indulge in teenage angst: every day she saw how hard her parents worked and knew how ready they were to share the rewards with her, so why should she give them any grief?
The dogs brushed against her legs, and she felt a cold dribble of melting snowflakes run down the side of her neck. Time to go in. As she started to move towards the house, something about the way her parents stood within the cosy frame of the window – leaning forward, intent on the TV screen, her mum’s hand clasping her dad’s arm – made her stop and look again. Somewhere in the world the news could not be good. A dreadful road accident? Some awful terrorist act? Whatever it was, it didn’t really affect her. She knew she ought to feel more pain, more empathy, more involvement with what went on in the wider world, but the honest truth was that she didn’t. She leaned down to pat the two dogs. They needed no urging now to run back indoors, and she followed them across the whitening grass.
They stopped optimistically in the kitchen to check their empty bowls, so Robyn entered the living room before their boisterous presence alerted her parents to her return. Although Nicola immediately switched to a more neutral expression, Robyn had just enough time to catch the troubled look in her eyes. Leonard, as always, appeared imperturbable.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘Some madman over Sudbury way has gone on a killing spree,’ he said. ‘I suppose all the pressures of Christmas are too much for some people.’
Still alert to some vestige of concealed tension between her parents, Robyn picked up the remote control and flicked through to a twenty-four-hour news channel, which cut from a studio newscaster to library stock shots of sunny summer streets and an ancient church.
It’s reported that five people have been shot dead and three more have been taken to hospital with what are described as life-threatening injuries. No motive has yet been established for the killings, but unconfirmed sources suggest that the gunman, who has yet to be identified, has turned the gun on himself. The nightmare in the historic Essex village of Dunholt began shortly after half past two this afternoon when . . .
Robyn let the newscaster’s voice wash over her.
‘Dunholt?’ she asked in alarm.
‘Yes,’ said Nicola. ‘But it’s all right. I mean, we don’t know anyone there, do we? Thank goodness.’
It was clear from her mother’s question that Nicola hadn’t remembered the casual conversation a week or so earlier with Robyn’s best friend at school. ‘But that’s where Angie and her family were spending Christmas,’ Robyn told them. ‘With her grandmother. She’s got one of those quaint old houses in the High Street.’
3
The call from HQ to say that the Major Investigation Team was urgently required thirty miles away in Dunholt, followed by a look at the breaking news story, gave Grace Fisher the kind of heart-sinking moment that made her wish she had a different job. She and Lance Cooper had no choice but to sober up and drink black coffee until a driver came to pick them up. She had never been even peripher
ally involved in an incident of such tragic scale before, and realized how very glad she was that Lance was here with her so she did not have psych herself up to face it alone. She knew it would be easier to deal with the potentially overwhelming human cost once she was able to start concentrating on the details, making lists and accomplishing straightforward achievable tasks, but the waiting was unbearable, especially when only minutes earlier they’d been laughing over a chaotic game of Scrabble and finishing a second bottle of wine.
Plus she felt terrible for Lance’s boyfriend, Peter Burnley, who, as they got ready to go, was decent enough to accept their apologies and make light of his abandoned Christmas. Grace assured him he was welcome to stay for as long as he liked and should make himself at home, even though she knew it would be the middle of the night before she got back – if then.
She and Lance had become good friends over the past few months. She was well aware that he’d been with the Colchester Major Investigation Team longer than her, yet he had been genuinely pleased for her when she’d been made back up to detective inspector after the successful conclusion of the Polly Sinclair case. At work he remained discreet about his sexuality, and she was touched to be one of the very few in whom he confided, and been delighted when he and Peter had accepted her invitation to Christmas lunch in her new home. If they were all now technically over the drink-drive limit, it was thanks to the delicious wine that Peter had brought. She’d only met him one or twice before, and, despite an inbuilt prejudice against financial advisers, had liked him instantly: he was self-deprecating and observant, and also kind and considerate towards Lance, which was all that really mattered. She disappeared upstairs to change into warmer, more practical clothes – offering Lance the chance to express his own more tender regrets for a ruined afternoon – cheered by today’s revelation of how truly happy and in love they seemed.
Pulling on a warm jumper, she thought how unbelievable it was that, this time last year, she had still been married to Trev and living in Kent. Last Christmas she and Trev had gone to stay a couple of nights with her sister and her rowdy young family, and Grace was well aware that this year Alison had been rather offended that she’d turned down the annual invitation. But Grace had longed to create a holiday tradition of her own, and wanted to mark her first winter in Wivenhoe by planning and cooking a full Christmas dinner, which, if she said so herself, had been a success.
Shot Through the Heart: DI Grace Fisher 2 Page 1
