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

by Carol Wyer

  Jeanette smiled. She knew where the conversation was leading, and took her cue as they had discussed on the journey there. ‘I told you – women and men come to spa hotels, Ross. It’s quite normal. I don’t know where you get your antiquated ideas.’

  Ross nodded in agreement. ‘I guess I just find the whole idea alien. Do you get many men coming here, Charlie?’

  Charlie chuckled. ‘I know what you mean. I’ve been here years and I’ve never actually experienced a spa day. There are more male visitors than you’d expect. The younger generation are far more open-minded about having facials and treatments than my generation. We also get quite a few couples, like you, who come along and spend some time chilling – that’s the modern-day expression for it, isn’t it? I often see the men using the gym more than the women. They also seem to like the sauna and steam rooms. They’re supposed to relax you. You’ll have to try them.’

  Ross lowered his voice. ‘Not sure if this is true, but I overheard someone say that one of the chaps here had a heart attack in the sauna.’

  Charlie frowned. They reached their room and he showed them in. ‘It wasn’t one of the guests,’ he replied after the door shut behind them. ‘I’m not supposed to talk to the guests about it, but I don’t want you put off by what you heard. It wasn’t a guest who died. It was the manager of the hotel. He had a sudden heart attack. I don’t think it was related to anything to do with the sauna.’

  ‘Gosh! I bet that upset the guests who were in the spa at the time. What a dreadful thing to happen.’

  Ross pulled out a ten-pound note and handed it to Charlie, who refused it.

  He shook his head. ‘That’s too much, sir.’

  ‘Go on, put it towards buying something for the grandchildren for Christmas.’

  Charlie pocketed it with thanks and continued talking. ‘It happened late at night, so no one knew about it until the following morning. The spa is out of bounds after seven, so nobody came across his body until the cleaner found him. It’s okay though. The sauna has had a deep clean and you wouldn’t even know it had happened.’

  ‘I’m not squeamish. I’ll give it a go. However, if I fancy nipping to the pool for a spot of skinny-dipping after seven, I can’t?’ He grinned at Charlie, who responded with a chuckle.

  ‘That’s right. The spa is open from nine a.m. to seven p.m. The door automatically locks out of hours, and only staff with access keys can get in, so I wouldn’t go skinny-dipping if I were you, Mr Cunningham.’

  ‘That’s scuppered my plans for the weekend,’ joked Ross, slapping Charlie on the back. ‘Unless you have an access key?’

  ‘Sorry. I’d have to be management to get an access key. We’re like you – we only have day passes.’

  ‘It was worth asking. Thanks for making us so welcome. I think I’ll be okay here. I thought I’d feel like the proverbial fish out of water.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. What with this lovely lady to share it all with,’ he said, bowing to Jeanette. ‘The bar opens at six and dinner is at eight.’

  ‘No vegetable juice?’

  ‘Only if you request it. They have a good selection of beers in there.’

  Ross kept up the camaraderie. ‘Excellent news. I know where I’ll be hiding out this weekend. Thanks, Charlie.’

  Charlie grinned back before leaving with a cheerful ‘Enjoy your stay, Mr and Mrs Cunningham.’

  Once the door had shut, Ross peered out of the sash window at the manicured lawns below. ‘Tasty here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very nice,’ replied Jeanette. ‘What are you planning on doing?’

  ‘Continuing my “hapless husband who isn’t sure what to expect” routine and seeing if I can get any info on Miles. There are twenty-two rooms and, according to Charlie, only eleven are occupied, including the penthouse. Some of those guests have been here a few days. I’ll work on the gym staff and find out some more about Miles. I’m booked in for a personal training session in half an hour. The things I have to do in the line of duty,’ he sighed, dropping onto the king-sized bed.

  ‘Think of all the dessert you’ll be able to eat tonight if you burn off enough calories,’ replied Jeanette, unzipping one of the bags Charlie had deposited on a stand, and pulling out a swimming costume. ‘I’ll start in the spa. I’m sure I’ll find someone to chat to. Who knows, they might have been here a couple of days and like to gossip.’

  ‘That’s my girl.’

  At the gym, Ross was met by Brad Turnpike, whose wide smile and upbeat nature was infectious.

  ‘Mr Cunningham?’ he asked, holding out a huge hand that completely enveloped Ross’s. ‘I’m your trainer today. I’ll have to run through a few preliminary things first to make sure you’re okay to train, and we’ll get started.’

  Brad turned out to be far cagier than Charlie, and all Ross learned was that the gym had three members of staff, recently reduced from six. They took instructions from Scott Dawson, the gym manager, who – Brad let slip – had not always seen eye to eye with Miles Ashbrook, the manager who had been responsible for the sackings.

  Brad had been at the gym for four years, the longest-serving member of the team apart from Scott. After half an hour, he revealed he too was planning on leaving and was waiting for the outcome of test results to get into the fire service. ‘Pay will be double what I earn here,’ he confessed, as Ross persisted in questioning him. ‘It’s a pittance here – little wonder staff don’t stay. Shame, because we used to have a decent team, until management began axing the staff and messing about with work schedules. I don’t think I’ll be sad to leave now.’

  Ross left the gym sweating profusely and under the distinct impression that Miles Ashbrook had made quite a few enemies at Bromley Hall.

  Nineteen

  Robyn pinched then rubbed the bridge of her nose. ‘Nothing? Nothing at all?’

  Mitz continued in his usual calm voice. He knew his boss was getting angry at the lack of progress in the case, but he could only present what he knew. The two men they had interviewed had been nonchalant and cocky. They hadn’t cared that a man had been murdered. They had sat in front of Mitz with sneers on their faces. It had not been an easy interview, even though neither of the men were suspects. ‘Dixon and Copeland couldn’t remember much about the night. They recalled a “grumpy bastard who told them to keep the noise down” and they remembered being hauled out of the Happy Pig by their mates and mooning in the street at a couple of girls. However, they couldn’t even describe the women.’

  ‘Useless! I suppose they were too far gone to pick up on any strange activity. So, we have no witnesses at all. There’s nothing untoward on the car park CCTV. What the heck happened? How did the attacker get in the pub and why did no one see him going in? We’ll have to hope the TV reconstruction this evening brings in some information.’

  She crossed the room to her desk. All her officers were working flat out. If they couldn’t unearth something soon, she didn’t know what she’d do. She didn’t want to stand in front of DCI Mulholland and say she had no idea why Rory Wallis had been killed. Her phone rang and she answered curtly. She recognised Shearer’s voice immediately. His words sent an icy frisson through her. ‘Carter, I have a body that might relate to your investigation. Care to join me?’

  It was an average-sized bathroom, clean and fresh with fluffy blue towels hanging on a rail beside a cream bath. A wind-up frog and submarine were propped up on the side of the bath, waiting for their owner to play with them. A plastic bottle of bubble bath was lying in one of several small puddles on the floor, a plastic fish and several colourful plastic boats were scattered about, and in the bathtub now half-filled with water lay Linda Upton, fully clothed, her lips a shade of blue, and her bloodshot eyes wide open.

  ‘Judging by the mess on the floor, she struggled hard.’ Shearer’s face seemed more lined than usual. ‘Pathologist reckons she suffered several injuries before the assailant hoisted her into the tub. She was hit behind her knees and across her shoul
der with some force by a blunt instrument. There’s no weapon in the bathroom, although we’ll obviously conduct a thorough search of the entire house inside and out.’

  She was overcome by an overwhelming sadness. This was a defenceless woman who had been brutally attacked and killed – a woman with a young child. She couldn’t understand the mentality of someone who could be so barbaric.

  Shearer sensed her mood and did not come out with any of his usual quips or comments. ‘We shall have to wait for the forensic post-mortem to establish the cause of death. I think at this stage we can assume she drowned in the bath, and that it was no accident.’ He folded his arms and waited for her to respond. A small cough alerted her to the presence of Harry McKenzie. He stood by the door. When she turned, he spoke. ‘Mrs Upton was fully clothed, including outdoor clothes and shoes. These were clearly removed by force. They were left in a pile in the bedroom. As you can see, she’s only wearing underwear. It is difficult to say if she was sexually assaulted without proper examination. Her body displays several areas of haemorrhaging where she was attacked with a blunt instrument. When I arrived, she was lying on her side as she is now, but I believe she was held face down underwater until she was dead. Judging by the angle and swelling, her nose was broken before she drowned. A forensic toxicology report will determine if she had been taking any pills or alcohol and accidentally drowned. I think it is unlikely she drowned herself. There is significant evidence that she was hit, injured and attacked before entering the bathroom, although at this stage we have to take everything into account until the evidence speaks to us. I’ll get on to this immediately.’

  Shearer nodded. ‘Thanks, Harry.’ He and Robyn moved away from the bathroom and into the hall, where she spotted a sit-on toy fire engine. She felt her heart sink further. Some child was now without his mother. She couldn’t shake the sorrow that accompanied that thought. Shearer spoke. ‘My lad had one like that.’

  ‘Fire engine?’

  ‘Yes, when he was little. He loved watching Fireman Sam. We bought him a fire engine just like that and he went up and down the house on it all day. He used to make a siren noise too. Drove me mad.’ His eyes told a different story. She had no idea he had a son. This was a Shearer she didn’t know. She felt compelled to continue the conversation.

  ‘How old is your son now?’

  ‘Nineteen. He’s at university. Doing some pretentious subjects that’ll land him a job in politics. He went off fire engines. I don’t understand his world any more. He’s into rap artists I’ve never heard of, and technology that is beyond me. They all grow up too soon.’

  ‘What about the boy here? Where is he now?’

  ‘With his dad and grandmother. His teacher alerted us. Linda didn’t come to collect him at home time. Mrs Simmons, the teacher, became concerned and rang Linda’s mobile. When she couldn’t raise her, she walked here, saw Linda’s car outside and rang the doorbell. When she got no answer from that, she phoned us. The front and back door were locked when we arrived. There was no sign of a forced entry. The neighbours saw her accompanying her son to school. They didn’t see her return because they were watching breakfast television. My team is doing door-to-door questioning.’ Shearer shifted uncomfortably. ‘I found this around her neck. I spoke to Mulholland and she told me to call you.’

  He passed her a red plastic waterproof container on a red cord. ‘It’s for storing cards, money and keys when you go swimming to keep them dry and safe. Open it.’

  She popped open the container and withdrew the piece of paper inside. She had already guessed what was written on it. She unfurled it and read,

  INVOICE TWO: LINDA UPTON

  PAYMENT NOW DUE

  THE SUM OF TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY THOUSAND POUNDS

  £250,000

  She sighed deeply. This was undoubtedly related to the killing of Rory Wallis. Robyn studied the demand left with Linda’s body. The fire engine on the landing was a stark reminder of how great the loss would be to this small family. How many more motherless and fatherless children, and how many invoices were there going to be before she tracked down the killer?

  She descended to the lounge, where scattered pieces of plastic lay on the rich burgundy carpet. The room was tasteful and homely, with light-grey walls and comfortable settees. She sighed again when she spotted a teddy bear sitting in the corner of a chair, another sign that this was a family home. She steered around the pieces of plastic and noted the diagram of a dinosaur skeleton on the table. The more she searched, the more evidence she saw of the boy: children’s DVDs stacked neatly on shelves, and toy cars parked alongside china ornaments. There were photographs of the family lined up along one shelf: auburn-haired Linda with a healthy glow, arms wrapped around a small boy, both giggling; pictures of the three of them at the zoo, in front of an elephant enclosure. There were other photographs of her and her husband on a beach, eating dinner at a restaurant and at a friend’s wedding, and one of Linda with a friend in running gear, holding up medals after a Race for Life event. In it, Linda had shorter hair and was plumper. Her friend was willowy and blonde-haired, with the body of an athlete; both wore pink ribbons in their hair.

  Robyn turned away from the photographs and took one last look around. The whole house would be taken over by forensic officers now. She would leave them to it. She glanced once more at the broken pieces of the dinosaur, wondering who could be so cold-hearted as to murder a woman who had a child. Whoever he was, she vowed to catch him.

  Twenty

  He was growing ever closer to her. He knew it in his heart. He could feel it in the very marrow of his bones. He could hear her calling. The pills that eased the pain in his head had made him drowsy and he couldn’t focus on the television programme. The presenter’s face seemed familiar – blonde hair to her shoulders and fine features just like hers. The more he squinted at her, the more convinced he became that it was his love. He blinked several times; however, his vision remained blurry. He shouldn’t have mixed his pills and beer. At this rate, he’d end up killing himself and wouldn’t fulfil his promise to her.

  His mobile showed it was 9 p.m. The fact the room was in darkness also proved it was nine at night. He’d taken some tablets and washed them down with some beer. He couldn’t recall why. Was it something to do with hurting somebody? Ah yes, Linda Upton. He savoured the sketchy memory of raising the baseball bat and the sound of her shoulder shattering, her weak cry. She was so feeble. She gave in too easily.

  As he’d carried her upstairs, she’d been no more alive than a marionette. No doubt she had thought he had wanted her body. That made him wince. He’d never wanted anyone less. Even when he yanked at her clothes, turning her this way and that, removing the garments one by one, tearing at the buttons of her blouse that would not undo easily, revealing a lacy bra, he had not desired her. Then, when she had stared blankly at him and shuddered at the thought he might force himself on her, the rage descended. How dare she! He had grabbed a handful of her hair, yanked her from the bed and into the bathroom. She’d whimpered like a child and obediently waited on her knees while he ran water into the bath, desperately trying not to launch a volley of blows on her feeble body. He had to control his urges until she climbed into the bath at his demand, uncomprehendingly. Maybe she’d hoped he would let her go. She had knelt in the bath as he commanded, and only when he shoved her face in the water had she put up any fight, although by then it was too late. He forced her head into the tub, bashing her already broken nose into it and ensuring she took great gulps of water until she kicked and flailed no more. The memory made him smile again. She’d got her comeuppance. On getting home he’d had a drink to celebrate and then another, and he’d fallen unconscious in front of the television.

  He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten. It might have been the day before or maybe the one before that. Sometimes he lost track of normal actions like eating. He ought to eat. It was Monday night and he had work the next day. He shuffled into an upright position and hi
s head swam. He wanted to lie back down on his couch and return to the dream world, but he couldn’t. On the television, the presenter was smiling, revealing teeth so white they hurt his eyes. Now he could see properly, the presenter was trashy in her glittery dress, with her breasts straining out of the low top. In an instant, he became angry. How could he have thought this woman even looked like his beautiful angel? He hurled the remote control at the television and it hit the screen with a thud and fell to the floor. There was no damage. He wouldn’t have cared if there had been.

  He pushed himself onto his legs and swayed. The room spun for a moment. How many pills had he taken? Six cans were strewn on the floor and the smell of stale beer hit his nostrils, making him want to gag. The room was in darkness apart from the television, whose blue light flickered on and off like a lazy disco light, throwing random shadows against his walls. He stumbled against a small table and swore. Reaching out a hand, he fumbled for the light switch and shut his eyes when the bulb that hung above the couch lit up. He glanced around the room, making a mental inventory, reminding himself of what he had become: beer cans, a faded couch with worn-out patches, a second-hand television, a small, scratched table. He didn’t care for possessions – the most precious thing he had ever owned had been taken from him, and nothing would ever replace it. The television flickered, spreading light over the walls and the hundreds of photographs of the woman covering them.

  He shuffled into the kitchenette – a galley kitchen just off his bedroom. It contained the bare essentials: a sink, a fridge, a microwave, a gas cooker, a kettle and a toaster. He opened the fridge and wrinkled his nose at the sour smell. He had forgotten to throw away the out-of-date milk again. A piece of unappetising cheese, a half-eaten can of beans and a Cornish pasty sat on the shelf. He grabbed at the latter, removed the cellophane wrapping and bit into the pasty, chewing thoughtfully as he tried to focus. He had been out of it for over a day. He had to build up his strength. He glanced at the calendar beside the fridge – a large, red letter ‘X’ was placed beside the twenty-seventh of November. He chewed some more. The pasty tasted of cardboard. He ran the tap and tried to wash down the lumps of meat and pastry stuck in his mouth. After a while he gave up and put the remainder back in the fridge. He drank some more water, slowly tracing the letter X with his finger. He didn’t have long left.