by Celina Grace
Table of Contents
Author’s Note
Prologue
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
Requiem (A Kate Redman Mystery: Book 2)
A Prescription For Death (The Asharton Manor Mysteries: Book 2) – A Novella
A Blessing From The Obeah Man
More Books By Celina Grace…
Hushabye (A Kate Redman Mystery: Book 1)
Imago (A Kate Redman Mystery: Book 3)
Snarl (A Kate Redman Mystery: Book 4)
Chimera (A Kate Redman Mystery: Book 5)
Echo (A Kate Redman Mystery: Book 6)
Creed (A Kate Redman Mystery: Book 7)
Sanctuary (A Kate Redman Mystery: Book 8)
Valentine (A Kate Redman Mystery Novella)
Death at the Manor
A Prescription for Death
The Rhythm of Murder
Number Thirteen, Manor Close
Acknowledgements
Fury
A Kate Redman Mystery: Book 11
Celina Grace
Fury
Copyright © 2018 by Celina Grace. All rights reserved.
First Edition: March 2018
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Author’s Note
Some time ago, one of my readers asked me what Detective Chief Inspector Anderton’s first name was. The embarrassing truth was that I didn’t know. He’d only ever been Anderton for me! But I thought it would be a good thing to ascertain, so I asked my lovely reader team for their suggestions. A big thanks to them all for making so many good suggestions, some bonkers and some absolutely barmy (a special thanks to Thomas King for his suggestion ‘Derek Charles Ian’, hoho:)) but in the end I went with one from Angela Ferguson, so thank you very much for that, Angela! As for what it is? You’ll have to read on and find out ;).
Prologue
The leaves were beginning to fall, lying in rustling piles on the rough surface of the lane that led to Roland Barry’s house. They crunched satisfyingly under his shoes as he walked along under the setting sun, an orange orb in a blood-red sky. Very dramatic, thought Roland, who appreciated a good sunset. The outline of the trees on the ridge of the hill stood out like black sentinels. The day had been warm; one of those early autumn days golden with sunshine, but now the night was drawing in, and the faintest whisper of winter carried on the air. Just a touch of chill; enough to make Dr Barry plunge his bare hands into the pockets of his Barbour jacket and hurry a little faster towards home.
His house was the only one to be found down that particular lane. Sometimes, if he didn’t leave the house, he wouldn’t see anyone other than the postman for days. But today, he’d been for lunch with his sister, and after an afternoon of company (Barbara was a good soul, but she’d always been a talker) he was anticipating a quiet evening in front of the fire. A glass of wine and the new library book he had picked out a few days ago awaited him. Supper on a tray and perhaps a film, if he had the energy.
He kicked through the last of the leaves before he reached the driveway of his house, a small stone cottage surrounded on three sides by lawns and shrubbery. The garden looked a little frowsty. Might do some work on that tomorrow, Roland thought, providing the weather’s not too bad. The chill had set in now and he hunched against it as he hurried up the bricked path to the front door. The key seemed to stick a little at first, and he pulled it from the lock, frowning. The second attempt at unlocking the door proved more successful. Roland went inside, shutting the front door behind him, thankful for the warmth of the hallway.
Once inside, Roland paused. Had he heard something upstairs? He listened again but decided it was nothing. This was an old house, full of creaks and whispers. Haunted, probably, but he’d never seen or heard anything in the ten years he’d lived here. Roland had no fear of the supernatural. There was only one thing he feared, and he’d taken many steps to ensure that would never happen.
Frowning again as the memories resurfaced, Roland shook his head and moved towards the living room. He always laid a fire before he went out; he was a methodical man and knew it saved time when one returned at the end of a long day. Wincing at the crack of his arthritic knees, he knelt down and applied a match. As the fire blossomed into red and yellow flowers of warmth, Roland heaved himself back to his feet with a groan and went to switch on the table lamp by his favourite armchair.
Warm light filled the room, and Roland paused. A flicker of anxiety passed through his consciousness, so minute as to almost not be felt. But it was felt. He frowned again. There was something wrong with the room. What was it? He let his gaze drift from furniture to walls and floors, past pictures on the walls, and past the piano. What was wrong?
It took him another minute to pinpoint it. Once he’d realised what it was, he stared, feeling that flicker of anxiety grow bigger. Without taking his eyes off it, Roland walked forward. Where the hell had that come from?
Amongst the ornaments on the sideboard was a small statue, about six inches high. Looking as though it were carved out of black marble, the statue was of a woman, naked and posed in the classical style, unremarkable except for the wings that grew back from her shoulders. Roland stared, alarmed and puzzled. How had it got there? He knew he had never seen it before in his life. Where had it come from?
He was so lost in staring and puzzling that he failed to notice the faint footsteps behind him or the slight whisper of displaced air as someone moved quickly towards him. The thump of something hard and heavy across the back of his knees was the first thing he was aware of, the motion scything his legs out from under him. Roland had time for one quick squawk of distress before he hit the living room floor. His head hit the bottom of the sideboard as he fell, stunning him. For a few moments, he lost consciousness and was unaware of his arms being hauled behind his back, the snap of handcuffs around his wrists and his ankles. Groaning, he began to come around to consciousness just as his assailant hauled him into the centre of the room.
Roland managed to open his eyes. He could feel the warm tickle of blood running down one side of his face. For a confused moment, he thought it was one of the trees on the ridge standing there, a black sentinel, all sharp angles. But as he blinked and groaned, reality hit h
im. It was a person, black-clad—entirely black-clad. All he could see of their face was a pair of eyes gleaming from behind the mask of a balaclava.
A terrorist. That must be it. Roland remembered all the pictures from the media; the black-clad murderers, their bomb-belts, their guns and their knives. He felt paralysing terror. Was he about to be beheaded? But that didn’t make sense. Why would a terrorist be here? Why him?
“Please,” he croaked, “Don’t hurt me. I don’t know what you want but please don’t hurt me.”
His assailant had been standing with both arms behind their back, their feet planted square. Something about their stance recalled the military to Roland. It was the stance of a soldier standing to attention. Was this person a terrorist after all?
The person—he couldn’t say whether it was a man or a woman—brought their arms forward. In each hand was an object, one innocuous and one that brought a moan of fear to Roland’s lips. The person stepped forward, bringing the photograph and the knife within inches of Roland’s face.
Roland had focused on the knife, a wicked six inches of steel with a black rubber handle. It wasn’t until the knife was drawn back a little and the photograph thrust into his line of sight that Roland realised what it was.
All the blood seemed to leave his body. Dimly, over the paralysing wash of fear, shock and horror, he felt his bladder go, the warmth of urine flooding over his trousers. In less than a second, upon recognition of the photograph, Roland knew that whatever steps he had taken hadn’t been enough. Perhaps they had never been enough.
Those gleaming eyes met his. Roland opened his mouth to gasp, to say ‘no’ or to beg and plead for his life; he didn’t know which. But by that time, the knife was coming down, moving through the air in a shining streak of silver, and by then, it was too late—far too late—to say anything at all.
Chapter One
“Can I get up yet?”
“Not yet. Just give me one more minute.”
Anderton’s voice sounded as though he was downstairs. Kate Redman rolled her eyes and settled back against the pillows. It was always warm at Anderton’s place, and Kate was grateful for the warmth, especially this morning. Whilst the autumn days were warm, the mornings and evenings heralded the promise of the chill soon to come.
There were the sound of footsteps on the stairs and the chink of china and glass. Kate, pretty sure of what was about to happen, pinned an expectant smile on her face. Not that she wasn’t pleased – breakfast in bed was always a treat.
“Ta-da!” Anderton pushed the bedroom door open with one foot and manoeuvred himself through, juggling a tray loaded with dishes and cups, a newspaper clutched under one arm. As he successfully fitted himself into the small space at the end of the bed, the paper crashed to the floor in a flurry of pages. Anderton nearly dropped the tray.
“Bugger—”
“Let me help.” Kate was already pushing back the duvet.
“No, no. I insist. Come on, Detective Inspector Redman. Sit back and enjoy it.”
Kate giggled. “You know, that still sounds very weird. I’m a DI. A DI!”
“Not before time.” Anderton dumped the heavy tray onto the bed with a sigh of relief. “I think my table waiting days are over.”
“Bed waiting, surely.”
“Those too.” He waited until Kate had settled the covers back over her legs and moved the tray to her lap. “There you go. Happy—happy detective inspectoring.”
“Thank you.” Kate was genuinely touched. She’d been studying hard for her DI exams for several months and she and Anderton hadn’t seen as much of one another as they both would have liked. Now that she’d finally achieved that elusive qualification, Kate hoped that they might rekindle the relationship that they’d been enjoying before the studying started. Not that it was bad now, not at all. But…well, it could be improved. She hoped Anderton felt the same way.
She tucked into her breakfast with a will. Anderton, since his forced retirement, had really developed his cooking skills. He was now a better cook than Kate had ever been.
“Oh, I forgot.” Anderton picked up the last of the newspaper from the floor and assembled it in a slapdash fashion before dumping it on the bedside table. “I forgot the most important part. Hold on a sec, Kate…”
Obediently, Kate paused in her eating; it was difficult, as the smoked salmon and scrambled eggs were going down a treat. She took an anxious look at the clock as Anderton creaked off down the corridor towards the stairs. Whenever she stayed over, the drive to work took an extra twenty minutes. At least she didn’t have to worry about Merlin, her cat, going hungry in the mornings anymore. She’d worked out an arrangement with her next-door neighbour, Janet. Janet would feed Merlin if Kate was away for the night, and in return, Kate would cut Janet’s grass and do the other garden maintenance tasks difficult for her elderly neighbour.
Kate, her mind racing ahead, looked out of the window at the weak morning sunshine. From the bedroom window, she could see the distant green and grey of the hills that encircled Abbeyford. Although she had a key to Anderton’s house, they’d never discussed whether she would eventually move in with him. Or would he move in with her? That was something else they’d not talked about. I suppose we have to, at some point, thought Kate. But it was difficult to imagine a satisfactory conversation on the subject when Kate wasn’t even sure what she wanted. Did she want to move in with Anderton? She’d never lived with a partner before. Perhaps I’m too set in my ways, she thought, rather gloomily. And if I’m not, he most definitely is.
She was so lost in thought that she jumped as Anderton crashed the bedroom door open again.
“Ta-da—again.”
Kate saw what he held in his hands – a bottle of champagne and two flute glasses. She laughed. “I can’t have that. I’ve got to drive to work in a minute.”
Anderton grinned. “Just a mouthful. As your senior officer, I permit it.”
Kate smiled back but there was a slightly awkward pause just the same. The thing was, Anderton wasn’t Kate’s senior officer anymore. Technically, he was still a DCI, but as time went on, the idea of Anderton making a return to the Abbeyford station seemed more and more unlikely. Kate knew he’d just been making a joke, but… Shrugging, she held her hand out for the glass and Anderton sploshed a great deal more than a mouthful into it.
“Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass against hers. “And I meant what I said. This promotion is not before time. You’ve worked really hard, Kate. I’m proud of you.”
Kate blinked, her eyes suddenly stinging. Not having been showered with praise and affection for much of her life, unexpected displays of it always affected her. She sniffed, trying to smile, and thanked him. “I’m glad it’s all over,” she said, clearing her throat. “At least now we might be able to spend a bit more time together.”
“Mmm.” Anderton sounded more non-committal than she would have liked. Almost as if he weren’t listening. He tipped up his flute and emptied the dregs of the contents down his throat. Kate took a prim sip of hers and then handed him her nearly full glass.
“Here, get sozzled. I’m off to work.”
“Don’t tempt me.” Anderton put both glasses down and moved the tray off her lap before sweeping her into his arms. “Try not to be late home tonight if you can. I’ve got something to talk to you about.”
“I’ll try.” Kate felt a not-unpleasant thump in her stomach. That sounded serious. She was half tempted to ask him what it was now, but a glance at the clock told her she was really going to be late if she didn’t get a wriggle on. And with the new DCI, Nicola Weaver, at the helm, late was really not what you wanted to be.
Anderton kissed her and released her. “Off you go then. I’m going to drink this and then—”
“Go back to sleep?” Kate grinned as she climbed out of bed.
“Probably,” Anderton said with dignity.
“Have fun.” Kate tipped him a wink as she made her way towards the door and the bat
hroom beyond.
**
It was a lovely drive to work—at least the first twenty minutes of it, as the road wound its way through countryside, past farms and fields and over the rolling expanse of the river Avon, glittering in the sunshine. It had been a fairly wet summer, and the leaves were still green, touched here and there with tints of ruby and gold. They were falling, despite their colour. Kate stopped outside the Abbeyford station doors to detach a large yellow leaf that was stubbornly adhering to the back of her shoe.
She made it to the central office with thirty seconds to spare. Under Anderton’s watch, he’d never much minded if people trickled in over the course of half an hour or so, as long as you didn’t take the piss and roll up at eleven o’clock. Thinking wistfully of those days, Kate hurried to her desk and switched on her computer, quickly stashing her bag and coat beneath the desk so that it looked as though she’d been there for ages.
“Well, well, well,” said DS Chloe Wapping, who sat opposite her. “Late on your first day as a DI. I’m going to report this, you know. DCI Weaver needs to know.” She mustered a reproachful, sober expression. “I’m surprised at you, DI Redman. I’m not just surprised, I’m disappointed.”
Kate burst out laughing and made an eloquent, two-fingered gesture across the desk. Chloe guffawed, sober face melting away. “Alright, bird? Detective Inspector Bird?”
Kate laughed harder. “Give me a break, bird.”
“Seriously, though, congratulations and all that. You’ve done well.”
“Thanks.” Kate looked up apprehensively as a shadow fell over her desk. But instead of the dreaded figure of DCI Weaver, she caught the eye of the rather more appealing shape of DS Theo Marsh.
“All right, mate?” Kate searched his face for sarcasm but could only find his usual amiable expression. “Had a good break?”
Kate and Anderton had just been away for a three day visit to the Isle of Wight. “Not bad, thanks.” She waited for the congratulations she felt sure were coming.
