by SP Edwards
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
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
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Lizzie was still sleeping badly, so Marr left her...
Copyright © 2015 by Shaun Edwards
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
For Mum.
CHAPTER ONE
‘Get back here, Hector!’
Brian McDermott moved down the hill, his breath visible against the cold air. Ahead of him, he caught a glimpse of the retriever. Hector was grinning: teasing Brian with the thought that he might catch up. When there was less than twenty feet between them, the dog bounded off again, a grin on its face.
‘Come back, you bugger!’ Brian said, though he was half-smiling himself.
He managed another twenty seconds before he gave up the chase. Leaning over, he rested his hands on his knees, trying to suck in as much oxygen as he could.
Too much filching the good stuff behind the bar, he thought to himself. Three years ago, he could comfortably run a 10k. Not anymore.
Initially, he’d thought that Hector would be a good excuse to start exercising again. As it turned out, the dog was just as happy as Brian to spend all evening in front of the TV, so little had changed.
Didn’t stop the little bugger out-running him, though.
Brian smiled. Hector was a chirpy little guy. He certainly brightened up the house, which had been too quiet since Paula died. Two years ago now. Jack? Well, Jack was studying at St Andrews: way too far to pop down for the weekend. Too expensive to do by train as well. Brian helped his son where he could, but the mortgage payments were high, especially on one income rather than two.
The plan, of course, had been to pay off the mortgage and then sell up. Get a place in Europe somewhere.
You and me, Bri. You, me, the sun and the sea.
No such luck.
Brian’s thoughts were interrupted by a sharp bark from somewhere ahead of him. Hector didn’t sound too happy, the bark having that nervous edge to it: the same one he got whenever the doorbell went.
Intruders, Brian, intruders.
Picking up his speed again, Brian jogged down the path to the bottom of the hill. He knew the field well: well enough to know that he wasn’t too far from the stream. He kept his eye on the ground beneath as he moved forwards: the last thing he wanted to do was to fall in.
God, had Hector fallen in? The poor bugger wasn’t much of a swimmer.
Brian quickened his pace a bit more.
‘Hector?’ he called out, ‘I’m coming, lad. Make a bit more noise.’
But there wasn’t any.
No, there was. Not barking, though; it was a slight whimper, and it was getting closer to him.
Brian felt a slight chill up his spine, and his pulse quickened. The fight or flight response. It never stopped. He was aware of just how little he could really see around him: how, dog or no dog – he was alone, in the middle of nowhere.
‘Coming, lad’ he repeated, as much for himself as anybody. He cursed his lack of fitness as the pounding in his chest increased.
By the time he finally caught up with the dog, the ground was softening, and Brian’s boots were sinking deeper into the mud. The stream couldn’t have been more than ten feet away.
Hector looked up at his owner, his eyes pleading. There was a red stain on his nose. Brian felt his pulse quicken even more as he reached down to pick the dog up.
‘You’re OK, lad’ he said, trying to keep his voice steady as he gently wiped away the blood. He saw what he had been half-expecting – and half dreading – to see.
There was no cut on Hector’s nose. No marks.
The blood wasn’t his.
And now, the dog was turning its body around to face where Hector knew the stream would be, whimpering as it did so.
Brian thought about heading back; about letting someone else deal with it. He couldn’t see a thing, but if he was in any real danger, surely something would have happened already? And Hector was OK, even if he had a fright.
Having decided that any real risk had gone, Brian took a few more steps forward, any remnants of grass vanishing as he reached the edge of the water.
Lying in the dirt was a body. The hair was matted and stuck to the grey of the face. The eyes were open, and facing him. The girl was dead, and it took Brian a few seconds to realise that he’d seen her before.
He shivered, involuntarily.
Then, absent-mindedly stroking the dog’s fur with one hand, he used the other to reach for his mobile.
CHAPTER TWO
Steven Marr breathed in the scent as he gently pushed down the plunger of the coffee maker. Try as he might, he couldn’t discern any difference between this blend, and the cheaper one he usually bought from Tesco. If there was a difference, it was the twenty quid he’d paid for this one.
The pot had been a gift from Lizzie as a ‘Isn’t my husband brilliant?’ present to go with his new office. His cramped, stuffy new office. First thing he’d done was p
ick up a desk fan, realising that without one, he’d be nicely roasted by the end of the week.
A detective inspector, at only thirty-two. Not bad going at all. Marr knew that cops were getting younger, and that it generally took less time than it would have done ten years ago to get promoted. But still, it was better than not being promoted. The office itself had been a pleasant surprise: the local force was being pared to the bone. Getting his own space – even if was a glorified cupboard – wasn’t something to be sniffed at.
Rachel West, a DI and friend who’d recently moved away to the City, had been less impressed.
‘A new office?’ she’d said, in a voice heavy with the same disgust usually saved for dogging enthusiasts.
‘Don’t get too excited’ Marr had replied. ‘New office, but the chair’s the same, the desk is the same and I’m pretty sure the pot of pens is the same.’
She’d shrugged.
‘The life of the big cheese…’
Marr sat himself down at the desk with the mug of no-different-to-Tesco’s coffee, and leaned down to turn his computer on. He didn’t get the chance, his mobile ringing loudly from the desk. The name BROOKE was a bright white against the screen’s black background.
'Your office phone's not working yet then?' said DCI Christopher Brooke, by way of a greeting.
Marr looked around the desk to where his phone sat, the digital display blank. He pulled at the wires, and they willingly came, revealing ends very visibly not connected to anything.
'Not yet.' He replied.
'Get the geeks onto it.'
''Will do. Could take them a week or two.'
'You'd think being public protectors we'd be higher up their priority list.'
'That bank pays them more.'
‘And don’t they like letting us know it. Bastards. Anyway, come into my parlour, and bring DI Reid with you.’
Marr thought he heard Brooke whistle the opening notes of 'Here comes the bride' as he hung up.
*
Whatever cut-backs had been made so far, they hadn’t yet reached Brooke’s office. On the top floor, overlooking the city centre, it boasted two comfy sofas as well as a gigantic slab of mahogany that Marr supposed was a desk. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Oval Office.
'Get hold of the geeks?' the DCI asked as Marr and DI Samantha Reid entered.
Marr shook his head.
'They put me on hold.'
Brooke snorted as his guests sank into the armchairs. Marr could tell that getting out of the chair wasn’t going to be easy work.
'Bloody comfy aren't they?’ laughed Brooke, ‘I've got one in my study at home, too.'
''Not claimed on the service, sir?' said Sam.
'I should be so lucky' said Brooke, 'It took ten minutes of pleading with DCS Hume just to get the bloody coffee machine fixed.’
The DCI pointed at a substantial black unit on the side desk. Marr could immediately see DCI Hume's point of view: there were coffee machines, and then there were coffee machines.
‘How many miles to the gallon does it get?’ Marr asked.
Brooke growled, his face creasing as he decided whether or not to take the bait, eventually deciding not to.
'Hendon House; know it?' He asked.
Marr shook his head, but Sam nodded.
'My friend Tara got married there last year' she said, 'Nice scenery, looks like something out of a Jane Austen novel. All lakes and stately buildings.'
'Sounds delightful.' said Brooke, his face positively un-delighted. 'Unfortunately, a body turned up in one of those streams this morning. '
'Drunk wedding fight?' Marr asked.
The DCI shook his head.
'No, there was no event on last night. Not according to Brian, the bar manager, at any rate. He was walking his dog around the grounds this morning when he found the body, identified her himself. The name of our no-longer-blushing-bride is Anna Markham.'
Sam raised an eyebrow.
'Bride?' she asked.
Brooke smiled; a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
'She was due to get married this afternoon, and I'll give you precisely no guesses where.'
CHAPTER THREE
There was next to no traffic heading towards Cambridge, with even the worst of the commuters now settled behind their desks. Reaching the edge of the Hendon House estate took even less time than they'd been expecting.
Sam turned off the main road, the gravel crunching beneath the car tyres as it rolled up the path leading to the venue. She’d definitely been right, Marr thought: Hendon House was a beautiful place. The main house was Georgian: four storeys leading onto a stone courtyard, which was in turn surrounded by three barns. Combined with the rolling fields and lakes they’d seen as they drove in, Marr could well see why someone might want to get married here.
It was a shame, then, that the scenery was scarred by the white forensics tent.
Marr was thankful that the location was far enough out of town to keep the murder out of the news, for the moment at least. These days, the press were more easily dealt with than the public: what remaining newspapers there were at least had regulations to abide by. The public, though, were armed with camera phones, Facebook and Twitter: keeping anything under wraps had gone from tough to virtually impossible.
Not that this was always a bad thing. At least three burglars in the last year had been caught as a result of savvy mobile-users taking photos of the van used to load the gear up. Technology wasn’t tactful, though, and sometimes tact really was needed.
There were only two other cars in the car park, both of which Marr knew. A black Ford Focus belonging to the attending officer, and a Silver Merc. As they pulled up, Marr saw that the Merc’s body was shot with dirt from the drive up the trail. He smiled.
The Merc belonged to Dr Eric Yovanovitch, the pathologist known for his love for cars. A love that often seemed to outrank that of his house, his wife and even occasionally, his two daughters.
'His poor beautiful baby, all stuck in the mud.' said Sam, spinning her wheels to add to the brown tapestry.
Marr grinned.
‘You’re brave,’ he said.
They left the car and quickly put on their own white.
'Morning' came a cheerful voice behind them. DS Rebecca Alexander was walking across the courtyard from the house. Becky’s disposition never got much below ‘sunny’. It might have been annoying in some jobs, but in theirs, a bit of chirpiness made a welcome change.
'Morning, Becky' Marr replied.
'Nasty business' Becky said, nodding towards the tent.
'What time was she found?' asked Sam.
‘About seven o clock this morning. Brian, the bar manager, was out walking his border collie. Gorgeous thing.'
'Brian?' said Marr, knowing that Becky had two German Shepherds and a Labrador at home. Becky rolled her eyes at the joke, which was probably as much as it deserved.
'Poor guy's currently working his way through his own bar's finest stock,'
In the case of some officers, it would have been worth double checking that a statement had been taken before the barman started drinking. Becky, though, was about as diligent as coppers got. As they made their way towards the white tent, Marr found himself wondering why Becky was here in Essex when she could be earning six figures in the City.
Anna Markham was lying face down on the mud of the bank, gazing aimlessly towards the water. The doctor was kneeling by the head, checking the neck area.
'Your Merc's looking dirty.' Marr said. The doctor turned around, smiled, and cheerfully raised a middle finger.
‘CSIs are already doing their good work?’ Marr asked, enjoying the sight of Yovanovitch rolling his eyes.
CSI stood for Crime Scene Investigation. Up until eight years or so ago, the men and women responsible for forensically examining crime scenes in the UK had been called Scene of Crime Officers, or SOCOs. In a bid to improve relations with the public, top brass in Londo
n had decided to replace that term with the American one, after the TV show.
Yovanovitch still refused to use the term CSI outside of official documentation.
‘I’m assuming someone’s told Anna’s family?’ Sam asked, receiving a nod from Becky.
‘Rob…sorry, DC Alexander has gone to notify the parents…and the groom, of course.’
DC Robert Alexander was the newest member of their team, having transferred over from uniform two weeks ago. He was also Becky's husband of three years. DCS Hume had voiced her concerns, and Brooke had handled the matter with typical delicacy, calling the Alexanders into his office.
‘You fuck up, one of you’s out on your arse’.
For the moment, that had been deemed sufficient.
Yovanovitch was still inspecting Anna Markham’s neck: Marr thought that he could see some dark colouring on the skin, and there was some dried blood on her lips.
‘Strangled?’ he asked.
The doctor nodded.
‘Almost definitely. Judging by the darkest points probably manual. Two thumbs pressed into the windpipe. Crude, but effective.’
Crime of passion, Marr thought. Strangling was a personal way to kill someone: if you didn’t know the victim, why risk leaving evidence?
Not that there was likely to be any here, especially if the body had been in the water overnight. If the killer had any brains, he’d have thrown Anna Markham in there as soon as she’d stopped breathing.
‘Any sign of struggle?’ Marr asked, and Yovanovitch shrugged.
'Nothing under the nails, if that’s what you’re asking. She was probably screaming bloody murder, but it’s not like it would have helped. Who’d hear you?'
Marr leaned his head through the flap and out of the tent. Colchester was visible in the distance, but he knew the doctor was right. This was a good place to kill someone if you wanted to avoid witnesses.
‘She must have known the killer. Otherwise, why come here?’ Marr said, but Sam didn’t look convinced.
‘She could just have been walking around. The night before her wedding? Bound to be a bit restless.’
‘Why wasn’t she staying with her friends, or her mum?’ Becky asked.
