Secrets of the Dead: A serial killer thriller that will have you hooked (Detective Robyn Carter crime thriller series Book 2)

by Carol Wyer

  It was impossible to keep turning a profit. Even a well-known brewery was shutting one of its pubs in the city. If they couldn’t make it, what hope was there for the Happy Pig? Truth be told, Rory couldn’t last much longer. The Happy Pig’s days were numbered no matter what new idea he came up with: quiz nights, events or happy hours. The brewery had pretty much told him that unless takings went up in the next month, he was out on his ear and the pub would be sold.

  Part of him didn’t care. It was a nightmare working late some nights, then navigating his way back to the car park. Gangs of youths holed up in shop doorways would look at him through glazed eyes, bristling with testosterone and resentment, brains befuddled by alcohol. There seemed to be a fight kicking off most nights. They didn’t try it on with Rory. He had adopted a look and stance that kept potential attackers away from him. Besides, most knew he ran the Happy Pig and might not ask them for ID if they went in to buy alcohol. He had to take business where he could, didn’t he?

  At last the stag party decided to move off, shouting and cheering as they half-carried the groom-to-be, now dressed in a pink tutu, through the door

  ‘Thank you, gents,’ he called after them. ‘Come back again soon.’ Rory breathed a sigh of relief. He would lock up and stack the glasses. That lazy cow Suzy could wash them when she came on shift tomorrow. She’d better show up or he’d give her her marching orders. He’d already made plans for his Saturday off. She was always taking liberties and calling in sick with ‘women’s troubles’. What about ‘men’s troubles’? He had plenty of those.

  He bolted the front door. His ankle pained him further as he limped back to the bar, collecting a few empties half-heartedly as he went. He dropped the glasses on the bar with a clatter. On the counter stood an opened bottle of Moët & Chandon, and beside it a glass of champagne, bubbles rising. Someone was still in the pub – probably one of the stag boys playing a trick on him. He was about to call out in what he deemed an authoritative way, a ‘no-nonsense yet able to take a joke sort of voice’, when he felt warm breath on the back of his neck. For a second he wondered if he was imagining it. Before he could react, a voice whispered, ‘Drink it.’

  ‘Are you having a laugh?’ he retorted, bravado building and masking his initial fear.

  ‘Drink it.’ The voice was more of a growl this time.

  ‘Now look here,’ began Rory. The rest of his words died on his lips as a knife was thrust into his line of vision. He recognised it. He had used it only that evening to chop limes for the stag’s tequilas. ‘You can take whatever you want from the till. I had a good night. Take it all and I won’t say a word.’

  ‘Drink it!’ The voice – a man’s voice – rose in anger. Rory picked up the champagne glass and downed it.

  ‘Again. All of it. Drink all of it.’

  Rory’s hand trembled as he poured glass after glass, drinking every one of them in turn, each becoming more difficult to swallow, until the bottle was empty. His stomach gurgled in protest. He didn’t much care for champagne, and certainly not in that quantity nor consumed at that speed. He belched. The champagne tasted sour in his mouth.

  The man spoke. ‘You have now made your payment in full.’

  Emboldened by the alcohol, Rory was about to ask what the heck was going on when he felt the sharp point being pressed against his throat. Rory’s brain scrabbled to comprehend as he felt his hair being tugged aggressively, forcing his head backwards. Rory felt a sudden warmth, as if he had spilt coffee down his front. He watched, eyes wide, as crimson spray misted the bar top and several glasses he had just collected. He wondered what it was, then slowly he realised it was his own blood. His attacker was sawing at his throat. All his terrified thoughts collided and Rory let out a high-pitched scream of terror that rapidly turned into a gurgle, before he slumped to the floor in a pool of warm sticky blood.

  Nine

  DCI Louisa Mulholland’s office was on the fourth floor, overlooking the staff car park. Outside, PC David Marker was leaning against one of the pool cars and talking to Mitz. Periodically, small groups of dead leaves, fallen from the oak tree that stood outside the station, were being picked up by the wind and whisked past the pair. David was waving his hands while Mitz stood patiently, nodding from time to time. David was no doubt talking about football. A keen supporter of Stoke City, he could talk forever about the Potters. There was a transfer window, so he was undoubtedly pontificating on that subject or giving Mitz a minute-by-minute analysis of the previous week’s match between Stoke City and Bournemouth.

  Robyn continued to stare ahead. She had been listening to Louisa Mulholland although she didn’t intend to take what her boss was saying too much to heart. This wasn’t the first time she had been called out for taking matters into her own hands. Mulholland had lambasted her for involving Anna in her ‘informal investigation’ and warned her that as a DI, Robyn was expected to set a good example. Robyn thought solving crimes and thinking outside the box encouraged good policing, but she kept that thought to herself. Louisa Mulholland was saying this more for Shearer’s benefit than her own. The man needed his ego massaging and Robyn would just have to put up with being in the doghouse for the moment.

  Beside her, Shearer appeared to be having difficulty breathing. He blew his nose on a tissue and turned rheumy eyes in her direction. It seemed he had lost a battle with the cold he had mentioned the day before and it was now taking a full hold of him. It had certainly not improved his mood.

  ‘So, in brief, I expect my senior officers to try to get along, or at least appear to get along. I do not expect them to bicker and snipe, nor do I expect them to be anything other than exemplary in their conduct. Your officers look up to you. They respect you. Give them no reason to think otherwise. That’s all.’

  Robyn stared at Mulholland and gave a curt nod. Mulholland had a job to do. That was all. In her eyes, there was no time for office politics or infighting. There was enough fighting on the streets, as DCI Mulholland had been explaining at length. She had read through the list of unsolved crimes and even Shearer managed to look a little shamefaced at having brought his petty complaint to the chief officer rather than getting on with cracking some of them.

  Mulholland dismissed them both and, once outside the office, Robyn held out her hand to Shearer. ‘I didn’t deliberately undermine you.’ She meant it. She wanted to be fair. She had not intentionally set out to prove Shearer incompetent. She had merely wanted to do right by Miles Ashbrook, but Louisa Mulholland had given her a pasting about going off-piste with her investigations into Miles Ashbrook’s death and made it clear that she was not, under any circumstances, to do so again. The case was closed, and Miles Ashbrook would be laid to rest in due course. Shearer grunted and accepted her hand.

  He walked away. She called after him, ‘Try a steam inhalation. It’ll help with the breathing. Hot water in a bowl, and hold your head over the bowl, cover it with a towel and breathe in the steam. Add some eucalyptus drops to the water. They’ll clear you up in no time.’

  ‘Or, I could just hang out in the steam room at Bromley Hall,’ he replied, with a small twitch of his lips.

  ‘Might be dangerous,’ she quipped. ‘Don’t want you to keel over.’

  He snorted and blew his nose again.

  Robyn left him to it and joined her officers. Anna was on the phone. ‘Got that. She’s just walked in.’ She waved Robyn over. ‘Matt’s at the Happy Pig pub in Lichfield. Looks like the barman’s had his throat cut.’

  ‘Tell him I’m on my way.’

  Robyn snatched up her car keys and sprinted from the office, all thoughts of Shearer and Miles Ashbrook gone. She yelled at her officers still chatting outside. ‘David, jump in. We’ve got a body. Mitz, work with Anna and drag up as much information about the barman at the Happy Pig as possible.’

  As she and PC Marker headed for the car she spotted Shearer standing by the front door. He snuffled into a tissue and dabbed at his streaming eyes. He seemed so miserable she alm
ost felt sorry for him. That was before she remembered his torrent of abuse earlier. With luck, he had flu and would be off work for a few days. She had a sudden thought. She might not be able to investigate Miles Ashbrook’s death, but she knew a man who could.

  Ten

  Ross Cunningham slammed down the phone receiver and fumed. It was times like this when he really needed a cigarette but, since his health scare two years ago, he had been adhering to a healthier lifestyle. Not only had he given up working for Staffordshire Police and set up a private investigation agency, he had also given up smoking and even allowed his wife Jeanette to change his diet. Gone were burgers and chips while out on a job surveilling a fraudulent insurance claim, and in were neat Tupperware boxes of salads. It was one of the Tupperware boxes he had picked up and hurled against the wall of his office beside his desk. It broke open, allowing the beetroot and quinoa salad to drip down the magnolia paint. Immediately he felt saddened. Jeanette had prepared it especially for him, had kissed him on the cheek as she passed it to him, informing him, ‘If you eat up your salad, you’ll get a special surprise tonight.’ She’d accompanied it with one of her sexy winks.

  Ross ignored the purple stain and lumps of what resembled tiny eyeballs on the wall, slumped onto his battered leather chair and reached for the bottom drawer. At this precise moment, all he needed was a cigarette. He was sure he’d left an emergency packet in the drawer. One wouldn’t hurt.

  As he rummaged for the elusive fag, his mobile rang. He snatched at it.

  ‘Ross, if I asked you to do something that would really cheese off DI Shearer and probably Louisa Mulholland too, would you do it for me? I’ll even foot the bill for your time.’

  He sat back and grinned. His cousin always made him smile. If she was asking for his help it could only mean she was doing something she shouldn’t. He liked that about her; she was ballsy, daring and usually right.

  ‘Will it be dangerous?’

  ‘Only if Tom Shearer gets wind of it.’

  ‘You have my full attention.’ He sat back in his chair, thoughts of the cigarette receding. He rarely got opportunities that involved him in police work, and there were still days when he missed his life in the force.

  ‘Grab your Speedos and treat Jeanette to a spa break. I’m paying. Call it an early Christmas present.’

  Ross pulled a face. ‘I’m not really one of those men who likes fluffy gowns and massages. Please tell me I’ll get to do something fun.’

  ‘There’s a super class you can attend that’ll put you through your ju-jitsu paces,’ she joked. ‘And of course Jeanette will be thrilled you’re doing something to stay healthy.’

  ‘I’ve done well enough without exercise classes, thank you. I’ve dropped five kilos since you last saw me. I’m a shadow of my former self. On top of that, I’ve taken up walking. Took Jeanette out to the Peak District at the weekend and walked all day.’

  ‘You’ll soon be able to join me on one of my marathons. Don’t suppose you fancy the Ironman next year?’

  Ross snorted in disdain. ‘Do you want to tell me more about this spa break?’

  Robyn spoke quickly. ‘I haven’t much time to talk now. I had a run-in with the big chief today. She told me not to follow up on one of Shearer’s cases. Actually, she told me not to do it on police time, so I did some snooping yesterday, on my day off, along with Anna Shamash. Shearer caught wind of it somehow and blew his top to Mulholland and I got ripped off a couple of strips. I’m officially banned from returning to Bromley Hall and I daren’t send in any of my officers.’

  ‘What were you checking on?’

  ‘The general manager, Miles Ashbrook, was found dead in the sauna. He supposedly had a heart attack. I have reason to believe Ashbrook wouldn’t have used a sauna because he had a heart condition. Shearer says Ashbrook might have committed suicide, although he didn’t leave a note. And there’s something else I can’t quite come to terms with: he walked through the men’s changing room, where surely he would have undressed, put his clothes in a pile in view of the surveillance camera, and went into a sauna. Why wouldn’t he leave his clothes in the changing room?’

  ‘Good point. Maybe he wanted to keep them in sight. Want to swing past the office and fill me in properly?’

  ‘I’ll do that. It’ll have to be later, not sure when. I’m about to head to a crime scene with David Marker. Is tomorrow too soon for you to go to Bromley Hall?’

  ‘Yes, sorry. Make it Monday.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll book a two-night stay and put your name down for a package which includes access to the whole spa and a treatment each. Would you prefer a hot stone massage or an eyebrow waxing?’ She could hear the sound of a stifled guffaw. ‘Better be the waxing. Got to go. David is driving. See you later.’ She grinned at David Marker as she jumped into the passenger seat. ‘Come on, get your foot down.’

  Ross replaced his mobile on his desk and stood up. He rubbed his tired eyes. It had been a shitty week. He could do with a couple of days in a spa – just him and Jeanette. More importantly, he could do with something to keep his grey cells occupied. He had no business at the moment and the last case he’d worked on had been a wild-goose chase.

  He wandered through to the small kitchen behind his office and sorted through a cupboard until he found a cloth. He ran hot water and added some suds to it. He’d better clear up the mess he’d made. He examined the food, now mostly on the floor, and sighed. It wasn’t like him to lose his rag. Still, it wasn’t every day someone deliberately slammed into your car and made off with your laptop, which contained highly sensitive material.

  Eleven

  It was another grey, dull day. He blinked his eyes, sticky with sleep, and groaned. He hated grey days. They affected his moods badly, and today, he reflected, was one of those days where the clouds were so thick and heavy they felt as if they were actually resting on top of your head. He had forgotten to draw the curtains before he went out last night, and outside the morning commuter rush was well under way. Derby ring road was full of ordinary people, going about ordinary lives, oblivious to him.

  He drew back the duvet reluctantly. The cold air rushed up to meet his bare legs as he sat up, stretching and yawning and trying to get some sensation into his mouth by smacking his lips together. His head was muzzy; his tongue felt as if it had been knitted out of coarse yarn. He remembered returning to his bedsit in the early hours, jubilant, blood coursing through his veins, and for a while he had felt more alive than he had since he had lost her. He had poured a glass of vodka, then another, and at some point his mood had changed and he had taken his pills. Had he drunk any more? He padded to the kitchenette adjacent to the bedroom-come-living room. The empty bottle of Grey Goose was lying beside the sink. He couldn’t remember finishing it. He couldn’t recollect how many pills he had taken either. All he could recall was the burning rage that consumed him from time to time, and that had flared up from nowhere and spoilt his happy mood.

  He stretched his sore hand. His knuckles were grazed from where he had repeatedly hit the wall. A flash of memory. A neighbour yelling, ‘Keep the fucking noise down.’ More rage. He had been going downstairs to knife the bastard when he remembered the plan. He shouldn’t draw attention to himself. He had to learn to keep a lid on his temper.

  He blamed the vodka. It had always been the same when he drank. Some inner demon escaped and transformed him into an uncontrollable maniac. He had always had a temper. It went hand in hand with the huge ‘black hole’ days. The days when he no longer cared about his life, or anyone else’s for that matter. Black hole days were the worst. He dreaded them. He never knew when they would appear, and when they did he was always powerless to fight against them. They sucked him in, drained him of all emotion except despair, and made him want to die. She had been able to keep him from falling into the black hole. Even the thought of her smile had always brought him back from the edge. Her laugh had kept black hole days away. She had been his very own guardian angel.
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  He ran the tap, stuck a dirty glass under it and drank the tepid contents. He needed to focus. The vodka had been a mistake. He had stolen the bottle from the bar after he had murdered Rory Wallis, unable to resist taking a souvenir of his first kill. He wouldn’t make the same mistake next time. No more heavy drinking. Not until it was all over.

  Twelve

  ‘Did you know that there are quite a few famous Lichfieldians, including Dr Samuel Johnson, Erasmus Darwin and David Garrick?’ said David Marker as he drove down the A38 towards Lichfield. Apart from football, PC Marker’s other passion was history, particularly local history. His colleagues had long since stopped ridiculing him and now marvelled at how he retained so much information about places and people. There were few places in Staffordshire that David had not visited.

  ‘Was Erasmus related to the Darwin who believed man was descended from apes?’

  ‘That was Charles Darwin. Erasmus Darwin was his grandfather. Erasmus lived in the large house by the West Gate entrance to the Close in Beacon Street. It’s now open to the public. Fascinating inside,’ he added.

  A deep crease appeared between Robyn’s eyebrows. ‘I’ve lived in Stafford for four years, and never knew that. And it’s only half an hour away from Lichfield! Mind you, I do all my shopping in Stafford so I don’t often think about heading this way.’