Psychological Thriller Series: Adam Stanley Boxed Set: Behind Shadows, Positively Murder and Mind Bender

by Netta Newbound

  We took the lift to the ninth floor. Frances looked decidedly green by the time we stepped out.

  “What’s up with you?” I asked.

  “I hate those things.”

  “Why didn’t you take the stairs?”

  “Nine flights of stairs—are you mad? No thanks. I prefer the lift.

  I chuckled. “I think I may have found somebody who enjoys physical exercise even less than I do.”

  The public areas in the building were plush and well cared for. A huge green plant in a gold-coloured pot took up a whole corner at the end of the hall.

  I tapped at number 908. When nobody answered, we walked along the hallway to the next door.

  An effeminate looking man opened the door before I had finished knocking. He’d clearly been spying through the peephole.

  “Sorry to bother you, sir.” I held out my badge. “I’m trying to contact the lady from 908. Do you know where we can find her?”

  “You mean, Fiona?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “No, sorry. I don’t. How did you get in?”

  “One of your neighbours allowed us to enter,” I said. “Could you tell me all you know about Fiona?”

  “Not a lot, really. She’s quiet, pretty—if you like that sort of thing.”

  “Can you tell me if she drives a Peugeot?”

  “Yes. A red one. She gave me a lift into town one day when my car had broken down.”

  “Thank you, sir. One last thing. Could I trouble you to contact the supervisor or the person in charge of the apartments? Tell them I need them here urgently.”

  The man frowned. “Why? What’s all this about?”

  “If you don’t mind, sir.” I smiled and nodded into the apartment.

  “Fine. I’ll call him, but you should tell me what’s going on. It’s all one-sided with you lot—ask questions and expect everyone to tell you the inside out of a cat’s arsehole. But as soon as you’re asked something, it’s schtum!” He made a zipping motion with his lips.

  “If you don’t mind, sir,” I repeated with a sigh.

  The man huffed and slammed the door.

  Frances sniggered.

  “Tosser!” I said under my breath.

  A few minutes later, a man, with slicked-back ginger hair, wearing a tailored business suit and shiny black brogues, stepped from the lift.

  “I believe you called for me?” the man said.

  I introduced us both. “We need to get into apartment 908, if you don’t mind.”

  “Do you have a warrant?”

  “I’m trying to identify a dead body found at the cemetery this morning. We have reason to believe the body is that of Miss Mills.”

  “And if it’s not?”

  “Then we’ll be on our way, sir.”

  “Leaving me to explain to Miss Mills why I let you into her apartment without permission. No, I don’t think so.”

  Just then the lift opened and Calvin stepped out carrying a handbag and a bunch of keys.

  “No need to say anything now, Mr ...?”

  “Kn—Knowles,” the man stuttered, shaking his head as though confused.

  “Thank you, Mr Knowles.” I walked along the corridor to meet Calvin. “Now, if the body we found is that of Miss Mills, the contents of the apartment could well be useful to the investigation, so try not to touch anything.”

  Frances placed a hand on the man’s arm and urged him to step to the side, allowing me to enter the apartment.

  I took tentative steps into the small hallway and opened the door straight ahead of me. I stopped in the doorway of the lounge and scanned the room. My eyes rested on a framed photograph sat on the sideboard.

  Moments later, I stepped back out into the corridor.

  “Call the station, Calvin. It’s a positive ID.”

  *

  Fiona Mills lived a minimalistic life according to her home, and it soon became apparent that nothing had taken place in the apartment. The only item of interest was the safe inside the wardrobe. I didn’t expect to find much of anything in it, presuming the safe was a built-in feature of all the apartments in the plush building.

  Calvin opened the safe door in a matter of minutes and gave a long slow whistle. I strode to his side to investigate.

  “How much do you reckon?” I asked, fingering one of the wads of cash Calvin held up.

  “One hundred and ten thousand, if this is anything to go by.” He handed me a notepad that showed a list of numbers increasing in increments of ten thousand pounds. “It previously said one hundred and sixty thousand, but the last five entries have been crossed out,” Calvin continued.

  “Fifty grand short?” I flicked through the notepad and found it was empty, except for the front page.

  “Looks like it.”

  “We may as well wrap up here. Can I get you to search through the victim’s laptop and phone back at the station, Cal? I’m hoping there’s something on them. Otherwise, once again, we’ve got very little to go on.”

  I stepped outside and was greeted by the neighbour from earlier. The once zip-mouthed friend could no longer wait to blab.

  “She was an odd one. I always expected something like this to happen to her.”

  “And why would you say that, sir?” I fought to keep the impatience out of my voice.

  The man glanced around him before whispering. “She had a problem. You know ...” He tipped his hand in front of his face as though drinking.

  “She was an alcoholic?”

  He nodded.

  “Are you sure?” I’d been into hundreds of alcoholics’ homes and would find empty bottles stashed under beds, under the sink or in drawers. We found nothing of the sort in Fiona’s apartment.

  “She’s on the wagon. She sees some counsellor-shrink guy who helps her. I noticed his business card in her car, and she told me.”

  “How is this relevant, sir?”

  “Well, she may have gone back to her old ways. Boozing can kill you, you know. I’ve a friend ...”

  “Not this time,” I cut in. “I can assure you that Miss Mills’ death had nothing at all to do with alcohol.”

  Chapter 18

  “So, you think she killed Malik?” Frances asked as we hit the motorway heading for Southend-on-Sea, and the home of Fiona’s mother.

  “The pattern certainly fits the MO, although without evidence we’ll struggle proving it,” I said.

  “Shall we inform her mother we think she may be involved?”

  “Probably not at this stage.”

  *

  The quaint thatched cottage resembled something off a picture postcard. A petite woman in her sixties, with strawberry blonde hair and bright pink lipstick, answered the door.

  “Mrs Mills?” I asked, holding out my ID for her to see.

  She nodded. Her forehead creased and framed her watery grey eyes.

  “Moira Mills?”

  “Yes. What’s wrong? Is it Fiona?”

  “Can we come in, please?”

  She stepped back and allowed us to enter.

  The cottage was filled with ornaments and mementoes and smelled of cake. My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten for hours.

  We sat side by side on the floral sofa. Fiona’s mother perched on the edge of the armchair opposite.

  “We’re here about your daughter, Fiona,” I said.

  “I knew it. I’ve had an awful feeling for days. What happened?”

  “I’m sorry. There’s no easy way to tell you this, but you’re right—something has happened to her.”

  The older woman gasped and sank backwards into the chair, as if mentally preparing herself for what was next.

  “Your daughter is dead, Mrs Mills,” I said.

  Her eyes went from me to Frances several times, as though trying to figure out what the hell we were saying.

  “How?” she managed eventually.

  “She was shot,” Frances said.

  “I told her not to go. I said this would happen, but she
insisted she’d be in a safe place.”

  “Go where, Mrs Mills?” I asked, puzzled.

  “Wherever they sent her. She wouldn’t tell me any of the details. She said it was a secret.”

  “Who sent her where? I’m confused.”

  “The VSO, a voluntary organisation like the Peace Corps. She’s been gone for ages now, and I’ve not even had a phone call. I watch the news. I know what’s happening in the world. My poor, poor girl. All she ever wanted to do was help people, and now she’s paid the ultimate price.”

  I glanced at Frances, and frowned, before continuing. “I’m sorry, Mrs Mills, but there appears to be some confusion. Your daughter wasn’t living abroad. She was shot in a cemetery—in Pinevale.”

  *

  “What have you got for me, Cal?” I asked, as I breezed into the office a little over an hour later.

  “Seems the victim had been blackmailing several businessmen in the area. Her computer is full of compromising images and videos. I also found ransom notes demanding money or else the footage would be made public.”

  “Well done, Cal. Anything else?”

  “That’s just it. The correspondence appears to stop after she sent the initial notes and photographs. The instructions say that somebody will be in touch.”

  “Quite a gamble for a hundred and sixty grand. How many men are we talking about?”

  “Seventeen at this stage, boss. She hadn’t yet sent the current victim a note.”

  “So she’s getting ten grand per job. Doesn’t sound a lot to me. These men would easily hand over ten times that without breaking a sweat.” I rubbed my jaw in frustration.

  “That’s what I thought, boss.”

  “Any connection with Malik?”

  “Not a thing.”

  Chapter 19

  The cries from his ten-month-old twins followed Grayson Phelps out to the street and to his car. The relief only came once he’d shut the door to his Alpha Romeo and turned the key.

  He felt guilty leaving Paula to deal with the babies alone, but his mother would arrive soon. And besides, they needed his income now more than ever. This appointment could prove a nice little earner.

  As he turned his head to back out of the drive, he spotted a glob of baby puke on the shoulder of his business suit.

  “Shit!” he said, slamming on the brakes and lifting the handbrake. He reached into the glove box for the packet of baby wipes Paula insisted live there for exactly this purpose.

  He repeatedly wiped at the white mark and contemplated how different their lives were now. For the past twenty years, he and Paula worked side by side in their estate agency. Their only daughter, Elsa, now grown up and left home, was busily planning her own wedding to Dexter, a structural engineer from Birmingham. After years of trying to no avail for more babies, they began looking forward to Elsa starting a family of her own. They planned on being hands-on grandparents.

  When they found out Paula was pregnant with the twins, she had been six months gone already. Jack and Sam arrived less than two months later—premature but perfectly formed.

  The tiny mites spent their first weeks in the baby unit until their lungs had matured, but that was nothing compared to some of the heartbreaking cases they’d witnessed in the unit.

  All in all, it had been plain sailing for the first few months. Although Grayson’s mum helped a lot, they believed the reason the babies were so chilled out and easy must be due to the fact he and Paula were older and more relaxed than they’d been with Elsa.

  Then the teething began and so did the sleepless nights.

  Now, everything seemed to be turning to shit. His once immaculate appearance showed signs of neglect. His hair needed a cut. He only ironed his shirts on the parts visible outside his jacket. But with all his time being taken up at home, at least he’d managed to get his gambling problem under control.

  Glancing at his watch, he headed into town and parked beside the bank. After withdrawing the maximum daily amounts from his accounts, he carried the cash back to his car and added it to the sports bag full of money already in the boot.

  When his car phone rang, he hopped back into his seat and pressed the handset.

  A sharp tone filled the car’s speakers, followed by childish voices singing …

  ‘Half a pound of tupenny rice

  Half a pound of treacle

  That’s the way the money goes

  Pop goes the weasel’

  Grayson hung up, put the car into drive and headed across town to a multi-storey car park.

  Chapter 20

  “I told you she not be trusted, but do you believe me? No!” Victor ranted as he viciously chopped carrots.

  “Stop moaning, Victor. If Carly hasn’t got a good excuse, I’ll do as you say and start looking for a new sous chef. Deal?” Lynley said.

  He shrugged and continued chopping.

  “I want to check she’s okay. She seemed sincere yesterday when she said she’d come back.”

  He gave a loud harrumph and muttered something under his breath.

  Fuck him, she thought. “I’ll be half an hour tops.” She took off her apron and ducked out the back door to her car.

  Fifteen minutes later, Lynley pulled up outside the squalid building. She tucked her handbag underneath her jacket in the foot well, so no potential thieves would try and chance their arm.

  She headed for the building. As she reached the top, she noticed Carly’s door was slightly ajar. Prickles formed at the nape of her neck and descended down her arms as she remembered the bolts Carly had used the day before.

  “Carly?” Lynley tapped lightly and pushed the door open a little further.

  She waited a couple of minutes and then opened the door fully and stepped inside the hallway.

  “Carly?” she called again, slowly proceeding down the hall.

  The first door on the left was open wide and the room held nothing more than a bare mattress and several items of discarded clothing. One red leather boot lay half in, half out the door.

  “Carly, it’s me, Lynley.” A feeling of dread prevented her from moving faster. She would have preferred to run from the building as if it were on fire, yet her legs refused to cooperate. They propelled her forwards.

  The next door on the right was ajar a couple of inches. Lynley nudged it wide open with her toe. The kitchen was also empty except for a stack of takeaway containers on the benchtop. A steady hum came from a black rubbish bag that had overflowed on the floor, the contents crawling with flies and maggots.

  She couldn’t understand how Carly, who was an amazing chef and one of the best workers they’d ever had, would choose to live in such disgusting conditions. She closed the door behind her and pushed on past the bathroom to the last door at the end of the hall.

  A cry caught in her throat as she tried to process the sight before her. Carly was lying on her back on the shit-coloured, threadbare sofa. Her head lolled off the side of the sofa, almost touching the carpet. Her mouth was open and her eyes had rolled back.

  Lynley froze on the spot for what seemed like forever, but in reality it was only a matter of seconds. She raced to the younger woman’s side and lifted her head back onto the seat.

  “Carly! Carly, can you hear me?” As she moved her further down on the sofa, something cracked under Lynley’s foot. A used syringe and other drug paraphernalia lay on the floor beside the sofa. Her blood ran cold.

  “Carly!” she almost screamed, slapping Carly’s face, but there was no response. “Oh, you stupid, stupid girl.”

  Lynley reached into her pocket for her mobile phone, but it suddenly struck her—she’d left it in her handbag in the car. “Fuck!” she squealed, her head in a spin. She got to her feet and, in sheer panic, began pacing the room and wringing her hands. She couldn’t focus, couldn’t think what on earth she was to do. She didn’t want to run for her phone and leave Carly to die alone. She might already be dead for all she knew.

  She ran back to the girl’s side an
d pressed an ear to her chest. Lynley wasn’t sure if the faint thud came from Carly or was the sound of her own pounding heart.

  “Carly, come on, love. Let’s get you to the hospital.”

  In her panic, Lynley found the strength to physically lift the younger, smaller woman. But by the time they reached the staircase, the muscles in her arms burned, and she had to place her down while she had a rest.

  A young boy, around five or six-years-old, with messy hair and a snotty nose, appeared behind them.

  “Where’s your mummy?” Lynley asked.

  The boy shrugged.

  “Help—help me, please, somebody!” She figured the boy’s parents couldn’t be far, yet nobody came to assist.

  Although a struggle, she eventually got Carly down the stairs and into the back of the car. Then she ran around to the driver’s seat and, after rummaging through her bag for her phone, she called the restaurant. Victor answered after several rings.

  “It’s me. Carly’s taken something—she’s overdosed. Call casualty and tell them I’m on my way.”

  “Why you no ring for ambulance?”

  “There’s no time for that. Just do it, for fuck’s sake!”

  She dropped the phone onto her knees and slammed her foot down on the accelerator, all the while, inside her head, pleading with the powers that be to send a police escort. Moments later, the phone rang again.

  “Yes, what is it?” she snapped.

  Then she suddenly slammed the brakes on and did a u-turn in the middle of the busy road. She ignored the honks and curse words that were hurled at her from several disgruntled drivers and only just managed to avoid a collision. She sped off, driving in the opposite direction to the hospital.

  She drove to the top floor of the multi-storey carpark and found a space along the back wall. She took a holdall from the boot and ran off.

  Chapter 21

  The offices of Councillor Richard Rowntree were in the old part of town, although the décor was anything but old. Plush leather armchairs were placed around a low oak coffee table, and original paintings by local artists adorned all four walls.