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

by Carol Wyer

He nodded.

  ‘Suzy was supposed to be on shift that night. How did the assailant know she wasn’t?’

  Matt pondered her question.

  ‘Rory invited his attacker to the pub?’

  She shook her head. ‘He didn’t make any phone calls from his mobile or the pub phone. The only call came from Suzy at seven thirty.’ She leant back in her chair and tucked an invisible hair behind her ear. Matt thought some more. ‘The perp was obviously casing the pub. He had been watching for the right moment. He didn’t know it was Suzy’s night to work. He saw an opportunity and took it?’

  ‘That’s what I thought. I think he seized an opportunity, which leads me to believe he didn’t plan this.’

  ‘What about the champagne?’

  She tapped her fingers on her chin. ‘If he suddenly decided to carry out the killing, on a whim, and his plan involved champagne, surely he would buy it from somewhere near the pub. He wouldn’t be carrying it around for days waiting for a chance to carry out his plan.’

  ‘Unless he had a car and kept it in the car.’

  She cursed. ‘You’re right. He might have driven into town. Let’s check the car park CCTV for that night and see if any there are any number plates that crop up regularly. Before you do that, see if any off-licences, pubs or restaurants sold a bottle of Moët & Chandon that night.’

  ‘Okay, boss.’

  She leant back in her chair again and shut her eyes. She couldn’t get a handle on this case. She had no idea why somebody would murder a man and leave an invoice for such a large amount in his hand. A voice in the corridor made her sit up again, eyes now trained on the door. She watched as Shearer scurried past her office, talking into his mobile, looking very calm and efficient. She thought about Mulholland’s words. She would make more of an effort to get on with Shearer, even though he really needled her. She ought to forget him altogether and focus on her case, and that was the problem. Although she was deploying all her team and they were doing what they could, it was becoming a frustration. She couldn’t settle. Why had someone left a demand for quarter of a million pounds? What could Rory have bought or done to warrant that? Had he borrowed money from some moneylender who couldn’t wait any longer to be paid? If he had, what had he used it for? There was no sign he had spent it. There were too many questions at the moment. She breathed in deeply and tried to clear her mind. What she really needed was a breakthrough in this case. Her thoughts skipped briefly to Ross. She knew she should be concentrating on the murder in Lichfield, yet she hoped Ross would uncover something useful at Bromley Hall.

  Seventeen

  Linda Upton wrestled with the sleeve until a pudgy hand appeared.

  ‘There, it’s on. Now let’s do it up,’ she said brightly to her four-year-old son, who managed to look sulky and cute at the same time.

  ‘Don’t want to go,’ he repeated for the fifth time. He held on to a toy dinosaur that he brandished at his mother. It was the same routine every Monday morning but Louis was being especially awkward today because of the plastic dinosaur skeleton that had just been delivered.

  ‘Louis, you love school. And you have art with Mrs Simmons today. Maybe you could draw me another lovely picture, perhaps of a dinosaur for the fridge.’

  The fridge was filled with colourful pictures of dogs, dinosaurs and cats that all looked very similar, with stick legs and brown ears. He gave her a pensive look. ‘A big dinosaur. A terryansaurus.’

  ‘Tyrannosaurus,’ she replied, smiling at him as he screwed up his face to try the word again. He got it right and beamed at her. She gave him a squeeze.

  ‘How about you draw me a big dinosaur at school and tonight we’ll make up the skeleton together? Look, let’s lay out the pieces on the table and you can put it together as soon as you get in from school.’

  Louis gave her another heart-warming grin and collected the box containing the precious skeleton. He tipped the contents out, carefully positioning them on the table, studying the larger pieces of white plastic.

  ‘There’s lots of bones,’ he remarked.

  ‘We’ll soon work out how they fit together,’ she replied. ‘That one looks like a long leg bone.’ She pointed out a femur. Louis nodded wisely. He pulled out the instructions and laid them next to the plastic pieces.

  ‘I get to make it and you can be my helper. You can read the destructions.’

  She laughed. ‘Deal. And they are instructions not destructions.’

  She bustled the boy out of the house. He held her hand and chatted animatedly. She loved that he still wanted to hold her hand. One day, he wouldn’t want to. However, no matter how old he was, he was always going to be her little boy. It was only a ten-minute walk to his school, and one of the reasons Linda and her husband had settled in Kings Bromley. She thanked her lucky stars that they had found a house so close to such a charming village school with nursery classes. Only seventy pupils, most of whom were local to the area, attended it, and it had excellent Ofsted reports year after year. Linda checked her watch. They were running late. It was almost 9 a.m. Louis’s teacher was on duty in the playground. She had shepherded all Louis’s classmates together and they were about to enter the school. As Louis entered the gates, a loud buzzer sounded marking the start of the school day. He scurried over to his teacher and joined the group.

  ‘Hi, Louis. What’s that you’ve got?’

  Mrs Simmons was in her fifties – a rotund, motherly figure whose eyes crinkled with pleasure whenever she spoke to her pupils.

  ‘Tyrannosaurus,’ replied Louis with pride, waving the toy dinosaur at his teacher.

  ‘Wow! We’d better take him inside before he scares all the children, eh?’

  Louis joined his friend Harry and prodded him with the dinosaur. They fell about laughing and roared at each other. Then he headed inside, his mother forgotten as he entered the building. At the last minute he remembered, and turned and waved. Linda blew him a kiss, waiting for him to disappear from sight before she headed home, a smile playing on her lips. Her husband would be home tonight. He’d been away all week on business and she’d missed him. She opened her garden gate and walked up the path, thoughts on dinner, Louis and the dinosaur skeleton they were going to make up when he returned that afternoon. She wasn’t aware of the man until she had put the key in the lock.

  ‘In,’ he whispered. ‘No screaming or I’ll kill you, and later today, your kid.’

  He forced her roughly through the door and, dragging her by her arm, pushed her onwards into the lounge. She lost her balance and crumpled in a heap on the floor next to the table.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked, voice quivering.

  ‘Payment,’ he replied.

  Her face stared blankly at the man. There was some mistake. She didn’t owe any money. Neither did her husband. They were fairly well off. No debts. This was a mistake. She was going to tell him so until she saw the look in his face. He was no debt collector. He was a killer.

  ‘Please,’ she began, heart pounding so loudly she thought even he would hear it. ‘My little boy. He needs me. He’s only four. Please don’t hurt me. I’ll do whatever you ask.’

  He ignored her pleas and her eyes now filled with frightened tears. He had a job to do and time was running out. He cocked his head to one side, dark eyes glittering, and pretended to consider her request. For a moment, she believed he would let her go. She had no idea why he was doing this. She didn’t recognise him. Who was he? Had he made a mistake in choosing her? Then, as he delved into his backpack, her brain registered the fact he had allowed her to see his face, making no effort to conceal his identity. There was only one reason for that. It made no difference to him if she could describe his appearance to the police. He was going to kill her. She had to act fast.

  A dramatic burst of adrenalin fuelled her and she leapt to her feet while he rummaged through his backpack, knocking into the table covered with bits of plastic skeleton, and made a mad dash to the front door. She fled through the hallway,
stumbling frantically, and put out her hand to grab the door handle. She was in reach. She had used the element of surprise. Once outside she’d scream as loudly as possible and rouse her neighbours, a retired couple, who were at home. As she touched the handle with her outstretched fingers, she felt a severe pain behind her knees, causing them to buckle completely. She fell headlong into the door and smacked her face on the floor. Her nose crunched sickeningly. Waves of agonising pain burned behind her knees. The fight drained out of her. Reality sank in. She was going to die and she didn’t know why. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks. The man stood over her, brandishing a baseball bat. His mouth twisted into a cruel smile.

  ‘Tut, tut. Naughty girl. Now you’ve just made it worse for yourself.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Your payment is due.’

  ‘What payment? I haven’t bought anything on credit.’

  He pondered her response, tapping the head of the baseball bat against the palm of his hand. She hoped he was going to say she wasn’t the person he thought she was. That he had made a mistake and he would let her go if she kept quiet about it.

  ‘I won’t tell anyone if you let me go,’ she managed to blurt out.

  He ceased his tapping as if coming out of a trance.

  ‘If you’ve got me mixed up with someone else—’

  He silenced her with a wag of his finger and whispered, ‘Shh!’

  She fought back the waves of nausea. The pain was terrible, although nowhere near as bad as the icy fear that flooded her body. He stared hard at her and tutted again.

  ‘You owe payment. You haven’t given it a thought since it happened, have you?’

  She shook her head. It seemed to be the response he wanted. Her hands and body were shaking so badly she could barely react. She feared she might actually shut down, and if she did there would be no chance of talking her way out of this. He prodded her with the baseball bat and smirked.

  ‘You’ve got a wonderful life and future with your little boy.’ A snigger escaped his mouth and he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Except there is no future for you, Linda Upton.’

  She let out a squeak. He knew her name. There was no mistake.

  She babbled, ‘No… Please, no. I’ll make it better.’

  His features changed again. He was bored with talking. He raised the bat and brought it down on her shoulder, making her scream out.

  ‘Shut up,’ he hissed. ‘You can’t make it better. It’s too late. However, you can pay for it.’

  Linda drifted towards unconsciousness and was only aware of him lifting her from the floor and carrying her upstairs. There was no point in struggling. She was dead already.

  Eighteen

  Ross Cunningham chatted convivially to the porter who escorted them to their room. The man was in his mid-sixties, as he had been proud to tell Ross’s wife, Jeanette. Jeanette had arrived at Bromley Hall in full 1940s outfit with faux fur collar over her tweed jacket and a retro victory roll hairstyle, which had provided a conversation starter with the man called Charlie. She now held onto her husband’s hand tightly, squeezing it now and again to show support. She’d been in this sort of situation before, playing the quiet companion while Ross was on a case. She may have come across as the silent partner, but she was also taking in everything she saw or heard, ready to share information with him when they were alone.

  Charlie talked enthusiastically about the history of the Hall, and had been most informative, although Ross had yet to find out anything to help him ascertain if Miles Ashbrook had been murdered. His efforts to steer the conversation in that direction had failed until Jeanette spoke up.

  ‘I still can’t believe you’re sixty-five. Surely you must be thinking of retirement?’

  ‘I wasn’t, because I love this place, but I’ve been forced into it. The powers that be are doing away with us porters. They say guests don’t need us to meet them, and gone are the days when we used to be really busy. I was forever organising limousines or trips into town for guests, or collecting them in the golf buggy from their helicopters. The management has already cut us down to two porters, and we’re both part-time. You might have noticed Dan, the other porter. He was standing by reception when you came in.’

  Ross recalled the solemn-faced young man whose arms had seemed too long for his sleeves and who wore a black beanie hat pulled tightly over his head. Ross had tried to engage him in conversation but the man had been called away by a member of staff, and Charlie had been sent across to accompany them to their room. Charlie carried on, ‘Dan and me, we don’t have the same sort of duties as we used to. We’re more dogsbodies now. It’s unusual to have us both on duty but we had to chauffeur one of the regular’s wives about today in the boss’s car. I let Dan do it. He’s good at that sort of thing. He doesn’t like chatting to guests so he’s happy to drive them about in silence. I like people. I like getting to know the guests. Can’t help it. I’m like that,’ he said with a grin. ‘These days though, I spend far too long hanging about the door doing nothing. Shame, really. I preferred it in the old days when we were always busy. There used to be two porters on every shift. The reception staff are going to take over the meeting and greeting part, and guests will have to wheel their own bags to their rooms. Dan and I are both leaving at the end of the month. It’s all right for me cos I can draw my pension and enjoy some time off with the other half and the grandkids, but he’s only in his thirties. He’s a bit quiet like, you know? He doesn’t sell himself very well. I can’t see him easily getting another job. I don’t know what he’ll do after this. There aren’t many jobs like this one about today.’

  Jeanette patted the man’s arm in a friendly gesture. ‘It will take away some of the class not being met by someone like you.’ He gave her a smile.

  ‘It’s lovely to meet someone as stylish as yourself, Mrs Cunningham. Took me right back to my dear mum. She was always dressed smartly like you, even when she was doing the housework. Her hair was always immaculate, and when we went out she was a right bobby-dazzler.’

  Jeanette chuckled at the old-fashioned expression.

  ‘There’ve been a few changes the last few weeks. It affects the atmosphere, you know?’ He whispered, ‘You can tell when someone’s been told they’re getting the chop. They walk around with glum faces, or moan the odds about being let go. Me and Dan, we’ve kept quiet about it. We haven’t told any of the staff here. We’re not ones to socialise with them anyway. We’re only the porters, after all. Besides, there’s no point in dragging morale down any further. It’s been depressing working here some days. There are still guests coming and they don’t want to be greeted by miseries, do they?’

  ‘Times are changing.’

  ‘As they are everywhere. I don’t mind. I’ve seen this place during its heyday. What’s the reason for you coming here? Is it to de-stress?’ he asked Ross.

  ‘It’s a belated anniversary treat. Thought we’d have a couple of days away together. It was Jeanette’s suggestion. She said I’d benefit from time off work and being pampered. Never been to one of these places before. I always thought they were too girlie. What’s the routine?’

  Charlie gave a genial smile. ‘You just pretend you’re the lord of the manor for a while and enjoy yourself.’

  ‘I’m not used to that. I’m not even lord of my own manor.’ He laughed loudly, then whistled. ‘This is very plush, isn’t it?’ as Charlie took them through the Long Gallery, a stately room with wooden panelling and large paintings of serious people. ‘It’s a proper palace. This is way out of my comfort zone.’ He stared open-mouthed as they passed huge oil paintings and velvet-covered settees. ‘I’m not sure what I expected.’

  ‘Lord and Lady Bishton bought and restored it as close to the original house as they could,’ Charlie explained. ‘It took two years to get it to this standard. They had tremendous taste in furnishings and were heavily into antiques and period furniture. It was their passion. Lady Bishton travelled abroad regularly to find the perfect fu
rnishings and the marble for the floors. They spent months researching the interior and took on a top designer to help them plan the perfect spa. Bromley Hall featured in all the glossy magazines when it opened up. We had some very special guests for the grand opening night.’ He ran through a list of high-profile names, and Ross whistled again.

  ‘You got anyone famous staying at the moment?’ Jeanette asked.

  ‘No. There’s a minor royal from Saudi Arabia in the penthouse with a few of his entourage who’s leaving today. He’s been here a couple of times. No one ever sees him. He has a personal trainer, eats his meals in his room and his wives are escorted to the beauty salon by a bodyguard. Apart from them, there’s no one well-known here now.’

  ‘Do Lord and Lady Bishton still live here?’

  ‘They have a house just outside the grounds, although they spend most of their time in Thailand now. They sold the Hall in 2014, after the new spa extension was built. It’s not been the same since they left.’

  ‘See, I’d have kept it just like this. It’s a lovely hotel.’

  ‘There’s more money to be made if you can offer beauty treatments and a spa experience as well. Guests today want more than just a nice, comfortable room and a full English breakfast. The new owners took it on in the belief the spa and luxury hotel mix would be big selling points. For some reason it hasn’t done as well as they hoped, hence the redundancies. The last few weeks quite a few heads have rolled. I shouldn’t talk about it, but hey, I’m off soon, so what the heck!’

  ‘I think it’s beautiful,’ said Jeanette, taking in the gold and red wallpaper, and the antique tables in the corridor. ‘I quite like the idea of old and new.’

  Ross gave a little laugh. ‘I imagined spas just involved sitting around in a thick towelling gown, reading magazines or getting bored in a warm, chlorinated pool, watching my swimming trunks losing their colour and my skin wrinkle like the skin on custard, all while drinking glasses of vegetable juice. Jeanette says I’m a blinkered old dinosaur about such matters and she wants to prove me wrong. So far, I’m impressed.’