Sweet Murder: A Blackbridge Novel

by J. S. Spicer

  It was a nice place; there was no doubt about it. The double-fronted house was partly screened by a run of neat fencing, a pillared gateway interrupted their march around the grounds. Felix could see the glint of metal where an intercom had been fixed halfway up the right-hand pillar. This bid for privacy was overt but lacked resolve. Pear trees grew snug against the pristine fence panels, their gnarled limbs stretched invitingly across the pavement beyond. The house would be alarmed, Felix was sure, but he wasn’t too concerned. These people would fear burglary, and probably only set the alarm when they left the place empty. He would be going in when the house was occupied.

  Something caught his eye; movement through the quivering leaves. Back and forth swung a thick length of rope. From his vantage point across the street he heard the creak of the branch from which it hung. Felix stood in the shadow of a high wall on the other side of the road. The neighbourhood was a well-manicured sprawl. The wealthy residents liked a lot of space, space they filled with shrubs and trees, summer houses and swimming pools, all preciously encased by premium fencing or hidden behind tidy brickwork. The advantage was there were any number of blind spots to conceal him.

  For now he was invisible, but the creaking tree branch and mesmeric swinging rope drew him from the shadows. Curiosity fuelled his body, so the first steps across the tarmac were almost irresistible. Out in the open he caught himself; he was taking a risk. There it was again, the choice; take the risk or play it safe. If he had to see, then best to make it quick. Even in such a quiet space lingering might attract attention.

  Swiftly he crossed the road. In moments he was directly below the sturdy-looking arms of one of the pear trees. Felix stretched up, linked both hands around the branch. He pulled, testing the strength. Satisfied it would hold he placed one foot to brace against the fence and heaved upwards. It wasn’t hard. The ease of it made his head tingle with joy. It would be so simple, just to pull himself up and over. He could be on the other side in a second. But he didn’t do that. Instead he remained suspended, raising just high enough to peer over the top edge of the fence.

  He looked towards the house first. He’d taken this risk now, might as well make the most of it. The back of the house had large windows and French doors, but around the side was less exposed. Felix quickly identified a small window, probably a downstairs loo or pantry, which could be the perfect entry point. He filed the details away in his mind; location, distance, any potential obstacles. It would be dark next time he came.

  Now he took a moment to look around the garden. One side was all lawn, an expanse of flat, green perfection. Closer to hand were pockets of flower beds and topiary interwoven with narrow gravel pathways. The larger trees were mostly spaced around the edge of the property, like silent sentinels, but near the bottom of the garden was a trio of mature apple trees. The rope that had so captured Felix’s imagination was attached to the centre tree. It was still swinging back and forth, back and forth, propelled by the little boy clinging to the thick knots tied at the base of the rope.

  Despite the discomfort spreading through his hands and shoulders from his awkward position, Felix was transfixed by the sight of the little boy. He looked around nine years old, with gangly limbs which were pumping erratically to keep his momentum going. Felix could see a mop of sandy hair flying around the red-face of the boy. He looked so very like the other one, the one from all those years ago. It was a sign, it had to be. A sign that he was following the right path.

  A smile found its way onto Felix’s face. Then it froze. The boy was staring right back at him.

  Bryan Doyle didn’t get many days off. He supposed spending the morning clearing out his inbox wasn’t exactly the down time activity most people went in for, but he’d be glad of it when he was back in the office tomorrow. He wasn’t working, not really, just doing a bit of tidying up. It was almost therapeutic.

  Nicole wouldn’t see it that way, of course. But since his wife was out shopping, again, he’d do as he pleased.

  Doyle picked up his coffee, taking a moment to admire the personalised mug, a gift for his last birthday from Harry. OK, maybe ‘World’s Best Dad’ was a bit cheesy, but the photo covering most of the mug’s surface more than made up for it; a day at the beach, Bryan in sunglasses, Harry’s freckles standing out in his tanned face, and that beaming smile that never failed to touch Bryan’s heart.

  He took a sip of coffee. It had cooled more than he liked. Doyle got up from the kitchen table to refill his cup from the pot, leaving his laptop for a moment; the emails could wait. As he poured more hot coffee into his beloved ‘dad’ mug Bryan looked out across the garden. This wasn’t such a bad way to spend the day. The garden was bathed in sunlight and a hint of breeze drifted in through the open door. It took a second before Bryan registered that Harry was no longer playing on the rope swing.

  He stepped out onto the patio, coffee in hand. Bryan noted the grass could do with cutting; he never let it get too long, too unruly. He liked it perfect. Besides, it was the only domestic chore he enjoyed. Other jobs he did around the house were carried out with a healthy lack of enthusiasm, but mowing the lawn was relaxing, just Bryan with his thoughts.

  The garden was quiet. Harry was a good kid. Like most boys of his age he was full of energy, curiosity, with a pinch of mischief thrown in for good measure. Harry tore around with boundless energy from the time he got up until he was reluctantly tucked in at night. Just watching him was exhausting. He was only still, quiet, when he was sick, or when he was up to no good. Bryan, over the years, had learnt to filter the noise. He could happily watch TV, work on his laptop, hold a conversation, all with his son prattling and crashing around in the background. It was the silence that really got his attention.

  “Harry!”

  Bryan listened, sipping from the freshened coffee cup. No reply. The rope swing hanging from a tree at the end of the garden was still moving drunkenly back and forth. Harry loved to fly around on that length of knotted rope, and the boy had no fear, always swinging as high and fast as he could. He also liked to disembark at full speed, usually flying through the air to leave the rope snaking wildly behind him. This is how Bryan knew he’d only recently deserted his favourite perch, since it had yet to come to a standstill.

  “Harry!”

  Still nothing.

  Setting his coffee on the windowsill Bryan Doyle let out a heavy sigh and made his way down the garden. Whilst Bryan’s pride and joy was his sleek lawn, Nicole loved the flower beds, shrubs and trees which dominated the other half of the garden. This was also Harry’s favourite place. Most kids would want to gambol about on smooth grass, but Harry liked to disappear amongst the nooks and crannies of the denser garden foliage.

  Bryan negotiated the delicate pebble pathways that wove around the garden. He called out again, his temper rising with each step. Harry knew better than to hide, than to ignore his father. He got away with a lot with Nicole. Bryan kept telling her that spoiling him wouldn’t do him any favours in the long run, but she was too soft. It was up to Bryan to always be the bad guy.

  A rustling to his left caught his attention. Bryan craned to see, hoping he didn’t have to weave through all the plants and risk snagging his clothes. The sound seemed to be coming from behind the trees nearest the fence.

  Bryan picked up his pace, getting stabbed with a few thorns in the process. Swearing he ducked beneath the lowest branches of a pear tree and thrust his head around the trunk to peer into the shadows.

  There was Harry.

  Crouched against the base of the tree.

  “Harry.”

  The boy looked up, alarm and guilt evident even in the half-light beneath the branches. He tried to quickly hide what was in his hands, but Bryan reached out and snatched a paper bag from his son’s grasp.

  “What’s this?”

  Inside the bag was an assortment of goodies; hard sweets, penny chews, bright coloured lollies. Bryan’s first thought was that he hadn’t seen these kinds of sweets
since he was a kid. Suddenly he was back in his old dad’s shop, with its shiny scales, huge glass jars brimming with candy, and a clunky old till. Then he noticed the bag was half empty. With all that sugar swirling through his system it would be gone midnight before his son stopped spinning out of control. Finally the most important notion popped into his head.

  “Where did you get these?”

  Harry glanced guilty upwards, towards the fence.

  “Harry, did someone throw these over. Are you eating somebody else’s rubbish?”

  “No, Dad. He gave them to me. Honest.”

  “Who, Harry? Who gave these to you?”

  “The man looking over the fence.” Harry pointed upwards.

  Bryan’s instinct was to scale the fence, or run around front to get out onto the street. Instead he scrunched the bag of sweets inside his fist and forced himself to be calm, rational. Then he squatted next to his son, one hand reassuringly placed on the boy’s shoulder.

  “OK, Harry. It’s alright. Just tell me exactly what happened.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Breakfast was a compromise. An inadequate attempt to make up for standing her up. Jennifer had been surprisingly understanding about the night before, and had agreed to this early meeting at the Coffee Hut.

  All the tables were full, early morning executives fuelling up for their high-flying day ahead. The Coffee Hut was in the same district as HeathTrent Enterprises, so Max wouldn’t be late for his rendezvous later with Lorraine for their trip up the river. Most of the conversation around them was deals being done, money being made, occasional office bitchiness, but he also heard one or two references to the murder of Andrew Trent. Natural, he supposed. Andrew probably frequented this very place. Still, Max had to fight the urge to pounce on any morsel of information, he was here for Jennifer. She sat opposite, dressed in work clothes, smart but feminine; her long dark hair swept over one shoulder. He kept his focus on her as he worked his way through a bacon sandwich on thick bread.

  “So, you’re taking a boat up the river?” She poked unenthusiastically at her mushroom omelette, even though it looked pretty tasty to Max.

  “Yeah, just to be sure we don’t miss anything. Sorry again to cancel on you last night.”

  Jennifer managed a smile, that same show of patience and tolerance. He didn’t like it; too polite, too cool. Max would prefer warmth, even in the form of angry heat. This detached composure unsettled him.

  “I get it; I know your job isn’t exactly nine to five.”

  Max wiped the crumbs from his fingers and reached for her hand. “I just don’t want you thinking my job takes priority over you.”

  She squeezed his fingers, but then pulled her hand from his and resumed eating.

  “I know this isn’t the time or place,” he said, picking up his sandwich again. “But we should really talk about things.”

  Jennifer took her time to chew and swallow a mouthful of omelette before responding. “The thing is, Max, I’m not sure I want to talk about things.”

  “What do you mean?” She put down her cutlery and started fiddling nervously with her napkin. Max had the horrible feeling he was about to get dumped, right here in the Coffee Hut, surrounded by the laughter of over-privileged arseholes. He watched Jennifer. She looked everywhere but right at him, the napkin was being twisted and tortured by her nervous fingers. She didn’t do confrontation well. It was one of the things he liked about her; not like Lorraine, who’d never had any problem telling him exactly what she thought of him without pulling any punches. Jennifer was sensitive, considerate, she was never thoughtless or cruel. It was attractive, but it also made it damn difficult to know what she was thinking.

  “I just mean, every time we talk, it’s the same thing.” She risked making eye contact, but just for a second. “You always want to talk about what comes next, you know, like living together.”

  He knew he’d pushed that one too far. Thick-headed as he could be, even Max had figured out he’d been too keen. He hoped all his eagerness hadn’t finally pushed her away.

  “OK, I understand. It’s too soon.”

  “Yes.” She pounced on these words, suddenly more animated. “I like how things are, Max. I can’t think about anything more than that, not yet, and not anytime soon.”

  Now she wasn’t avoiding his eye. Now she was staring intently at him, her brown eyes almost pleading. She became still, like she was holding her breath, as she waited for his response.

  Max had mixed feelings. She’d just told him that she didn’t want them to live together, and those words, ‘not anytime soon’, meant she had no intention of changing her mind for the foreseeable future. This wasn’t what he’d hoped for. Max was desperate to get out of his father’s house. To feel like his life was his own again. But he hid his disappointment. The pressure of trying to move their relationship on to another level had been the cause of the recent rift. He had to grab on to what was positive; at least she wasn’t dumping him.

  “You’re right, Jen.” Again he reached for her hand, gently extracting it from the rumpled napkin. “We haven’t been together that long, and things really are good as they are. I’m sorry if I pressured you. Won’t happen again, I promise.”

  His smile was fake, forced, but the one returned by Jennifer wasn’t. The spark was back, all the tension seemed to flow out of her body at his words.

  The warmth was back.

  Lorraine had regained her equilibrium. The diamond-tipped, ice bitch veneer was back in place; immaculate and impenetrable. Given the constraints on time and resources it hadn’t seemed worthwhile to try to requisition an official police launch to take a trip upriver. Instead a local boatman, named Ali, happily hired out his services for a relatively modest fee. No doubt Ali saw this as easy money for an hour of his time, just tootling upriver then back again.

  Ali hadn’t counted on Lorraine, and her demanding nature.

  When Max arrived riverside they were in a face-off; Ali with folded arms and a flushed face. Lorraine, hands on hips, resolute, implacable.

  “There’s really no point unless we take it as slow as possible,” she was telling him, with the kind of forced patience that suggested it wasn’t the first time she’d said so.

  “It’ll take all morning at that pace,” he fumed. “I didn’t agree to this.”

  “Actually.” Lorraine took a step towards him. She was still calm, still unruffled, but was now inches from his face, using her height to its intimidating best. “You did agree to it, and took payment. If you back out now you’ll be hindering a police investigation.”

  OK, the guy had been trying to make easy money and now was bitching about it because it would take a bit longer than he’d thought. Hard luck. Still, Max couldn’t help but feel a little bit sorry for the boatman as he watched his face contort uncomfortably under Lorraine’s clear gaze.

  Max reached into his wallet. Behind Lorraine’s back he waved a couple of twenties at Ali and winked. The other man hesitated only a moment before finally backing down. Eventually they were underway.

  If he’d expected conditions out on the water to be fresh and pleasant, Max was in for a big disappointment. It was maybe a couple of degrees cooler, but that was all, and any benefit was chased away mercilessly by the hordes of flies which descended upon them the moment they set off.

  He and Lorraine positioned themselves on either side of the small craft, leaning out to examine the water, the banks, and any structures close to the river. A couple of times Lorraine threw Ali dirty looks when he tried to surreptitiously increase the speed of the boat.

  At first they passed industrial units and scrap yards, the dark backs of office blocks and rows of lock-ups; not too different from the mooring they’d just left. About two miles further up the river it became strangely quiet. Here nature was left to its own devices, no tarmac or buildings or traffic intruded, no more than an occasional distant drone drifting down to them from the roads hidden beyond the overgrown embankment.

/>   Max’s heart sank a little more the further they went.

  “Even in the daylight you could pass by here without anyone seeing,” he grumbled.

  “True,” Lorraine agreed. Somehow it was a little easier to communicate when they had their backs to each other and their eyes scouring the water and riverbank. “But, why risk it at all? Why take the body to the bridge?”

  Max was wondering that exact same thing. He’d felt certain there must be something along this stretch of river, a reason, a clue, maybe another antagonising taunt from the killer.

  He held out a small morsel of hope right up until the shadow of the Black Bridge blocked out the heat of the sun.

  “Perhaps it’s the bridge itself, this location I mean, that’s significant in some way.”

  Lorraine stood beside him now, arms folded, for once looking hot and bothered like a normal human being.

  “Maybe.” Her voice had an uncharacteristic pouty edge to it. Either the case was getting to her, or she just hated having to work it with Max. Probably both.

  “Like you said, it was a risk to steal that boat and move a dead body all this way. The murderer must have had a reason.”

  Lorraine gave him a wry look. She so rarely looked right at him these days; he’d forgotten how blue her eyes were. “Doesn’t mean it was a rational reason though does it? We know we’re dealing with someone violent, dangerous, but he might also be downright nuts!”

  “Assuming it’s a man.” He risked a grin.

  Lorraine tutted in disgust. “Of course it’s a man. He followed me in that Toyota, remember?”

  That wiped his smile away.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Katie tried to sip from the cardboard cup with allure, but the coffee was scolding and made her wince. She put it down instead, propping the cup on the corner of the serving window of the refreshment van. Teddy Moses leaned out, his long, thin torso threaded through the gap. Supported by his elbows he tilted his face to the sun, enjoying a breather between customers.