DEAD SECRET a gripping detective thriller full of suspense

by JANICE FROST

  “Nancy! Love, why didn’t you call me?”

  Though she had dreaded him coming, Nancy suddenly realised that his familiar face was all she wanted to see. Speechless, she turned to him, her eyes brimming with tears. Of course she had wanted to call him. In the eight years that she had known Richard Turner, there had been scores of times when she had wanted to call him and blurt out the truth about her past, why she would not marry and settle down with him like normal people do. Any other man would have given up on her by now, but not Richard.

  A little older than Nancy, divorced, with two teenage children of his own, rarely seen when they were small, Richard had no doubt harboured hopes of starting a new family with her, but she had made it clear from the beginning that marriage and children were not on her agenda.

  Over the years, he had come to accept the terms of their relationship, but her unwillingness to share was, she knew, a constant source of frustration for him. Above all, he could not understand why she still refused to live with him.

  “Amy’s dead,” she heard herself wailing.

  “I know.”

  “Who would do such a thing?”

  “You know I loved her like a daughter, don’t you?” Richard asked. There were tears in his eyes too, she realised. Nancy sniffed. It was true. She looked at Richard, thinking that he deserved to know the truth at last, and fearing that once he did, she would lose him forever.

  “Sit down,” she said. Richard, who had been kneeling on the floor beside her, heaved himself tiredly onto the sofa. “There’s something you should know.”

  Richard regarded her quizzically. At that moment, Nancy had been sure she would tell him, but when she spoke, her words were a shock to them both.

  “When all this is over, when they’ve found Amy’s killer and he’s safely behind bars, then we’ll get married.”

  Chapter 4

  Jim Neal was re-reading the medical report on the cause of Amy Hill’s death. It contained no surprises, and only confirmed what was evident that bleak morning on the common; that she had been strangled to death.

  Technically, Ava had been correct in saying that Amy’s killer had snapped her like a twig, for the tiny hyoid bone in her neck had been crushed, the most likely cause being a ligature of some sort, tightened around the girl’s throat by a man, or even a woman with enough strength to overpower the petite victim.

  Ava Merry interrupted his thoughts, rapping impatiently on the glazed panel of his office door.

  At his nod, she barged into the room, saying, “Foot soldiers have come up with a lead, sir. A girl answering to Amy Hill’s description was seen outside the Odeon cinema at around ten forty-five on Saturday evening with a lad aged around eighteen to twenty years old with dark hair, black plastic-rimmed specs and a mild case of acne.”

  Before Neal had a chance to point out that half the town’s student population would fit that description, Ava’s smug expression gave her away.

  “Do you know something I don’t, Sergeant Merry?” he asked patiently, then listened, frowning as Ava described her impromptu meeting with Anna Foster and her son.

  “Simon denied knowing Amy but the description fits. He could be Amy’s stalker, sir. Predictably, your fancy woman shoved an alibi his way; claimed they were at her place sorting through some books on Saturday evening, but what mother wouldn’t lie to protect her child?”

  Neal let Ava’s remark go without comment, but he cursed himself for his indiscretion in revealing his thoughts about Anna Foster in the café. It had been a tiny slip, but Merry was sharp, damn her. He was well aware of the speculation that went on at the station about his personal life, particularly amongst the female staff, and let it pass. He had two lives, and it was vital to his sense of balance that they remain separate.

  Archie knew what his father did for a living and when he was younger he had often asked Neal to tell him stories about real-life criminals. Neal had told imaginary tales, sweetened versions of the real thing that would not give his son nightmares. Maggie often accused him of being over-protective, but he had seen enough of what happened to unprotected children to worry about damaging his son with too much kindness. And his sex life — or lack of it — was none of their damn business.

  “Let’s not leap ahead of ourselves, Sergeant,” he said dryly, adding, “Find out where Simon Foster lives at the university. We need to question him as soon as possible. And while you’re at it, see if you can find out anything about that other lad, Bradley Turner. We’ll need to question him as well, and his father.”

  * * *

  The complex of buildings that made up the new university campus and student village had sprouted up on former brownfield land, which in the city’s past had been the site of a sizeable goods yard for railway freight, taking in disused railway sidings, warehouses and buildings that had long ago lapsed into various stages of dilapidation and disrepair. After a big clean-up operation that had included decontaminating the site and demolishing or renovating a substantial number of buildings, the whole southern aspect of the Stromford Pool area had been transformed. The area was now vibrant and modern; several of the new and renovated buildings had won prestigious awards for their daring design and architectural style. There were ambitious plans for sports facilities, a theatre and an arts centre.

  Across the water, on the north bank of the Stromford Pool, (or the Marina, as the modest lake was increasingly referred to nowadays) restaurants, hotels and a new Cineplex had sprung up.

  Many saw the regeneration of the area as a new golden era for the small city, an opportunity to reclaim some of the prestige and grandeur it had enjoyed in its glory days in Medieval times, when it had been a religious and commercial hub. Certainly the university was attracting private investment that would otherwise have passed the city by, enabling the planners to think big and long term.

  Of course, there were others who were against the whole venture; who had seen the redevelopment as an abomination, but even they would sometimes now admit, albeit grudgingly, that on a good day, it fitted in well with the town’s older and more prestigious edifices — the cathedral and castle to the north.

  Stromford had been an important destination for tourists and visitors even before the coming of the University, thanks to its rich Roman and Medieval heritage. It had long been a site of significance. Archaeological remains confirmed its early importance in pre-Roman times as an iron-age settlement and capital for the Celtic tribe that inhabited the area at the time of the Roman invasion.

  Neal remembered taking Archie to the city museum to see the canoes and other artefacts that had been hauled out of the silt along the banks of the River Strom, and how eager his son had been to touch and admire the skilfully crafted swords, daggers and shields of another age. Whichever way he looked, north or south of the river, Neal saw much to celebrate in his adopted city.

  Neal and Ava parked in one of the university car parks and walked to the ‘student village;’ clusters of student residences, shops and eating-places that zigzagged along the south bank of the river. The residences were modern three or four storey buildings with recessed windows and blue and silver cladding, which harmonised pleasingly with the watery hues of the marina. Neal and Ava paused a moment outside Simon Foster’s block to take in the view of the Pool; longboats, river cruisers and swans jostled for space on the crowded expanse of water where the river Strom broadened before narrowing again to wind through the city centre.

  Simon Foster lived on the second floor of one of the newest residences, known as Cathedral; so new that as Neal and Ava entered the reception area, they almost collided with a group of surveyors and contractors in business suits and hard hats waiting for the lift.

  As the group stepped into the lift, Ava hung back for a moment, then, seeing that Neal was following them, squeezed in last of all. The group of men, who had been discussing snagging on the roof in loud voices, fell silent and the atmosphere was suddenly charged with sexual tension.

  No one was impol
ite enough to stare at Ava, but there was a lot of throat clearing, and the men looked around as though the walls of the lift were suddenly fascinating. Neal smiled inwardly, thinking how awkwardly men always behaved in the presence of an attractive woman.

  If anything, Ava played down her looks on the job, preferring to dress in trainers or flat shoes, with jeans and casual jackets but as Neal had occasionally observed, she wasn’t averse to using her looks to her advantage. Today, she was wearing a snug red cashmere sweater with skinny jeans tucked into knee length tan leather boots. Over the sweater, she was wearing a beige fur-lined gilet. Her blonde hair was swept back from her face and tied in a ponytail, loose strands tucked behind her ears. Ordinary enough, yet she looked stunning.

  The lift jolted to a halt on the third floor and as they stepped out, all eyes turned to the window to admire the view of the Cathedral after which the residence had been named. Neal and Ava trod springy new carpeting down a long corridor until they came to Simon Foster’s flat. Loud music boomed from within; Brandon Flowers singing about Mr Brightside. Ava began to sing and from the sound of it, at least three male voices inside the room were doing the same. The sound was ratcheted up for the chorus:

  “Destiny is calling me

  Open up my eager eyes

  ‘Cause I’m Mr Brightside”

  “God, Archie played this non-stop for weeks,” Neal groaned.

  “Reminds me of my student days, this place,” Ava remarked.

  Neal was aware that Ava had completed one and a half years of a degree course in London before opting for a career in the force. When questioned at her interview about why she abandoned her studies, Ava had replied that it was not because she was academically weak, nor was she the type of person who gave up easily, but she felt that what she was studying no longer had any relevance to her or to the world that she lived in, and that she had quite literally woken up one morning knowing exactly what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. Neal hadn’t been convinced of this, but he had no worries about her conviction. In the interview, her enthusiasm — and naivety — had come across strongly. He recalled her saying that her reason for wanting to be a police officer was, ‘so that she could make a difference.’

  It had been different for Neal. At the age of eighteen he had received offers from all the best Scottish universities, and he’d had his sights set on a law degree. Becoming a policeman could not have been further from his thoughts, or desires. A year later he was a single father with a child to support, and his dreams of becoming a lawyer seemed suddenly extravagant.

  As he had faced up to his responsibilities and embarked on the daily grind of earning a living as a policeman, there had been no time to mourn his bankrupt future. He had never expected to like the job, but gradually it had taken hold of him, and now he could barely remember a time when he had wished to do anything else. Nor had he missed out on his education; he had a first class Open University degree under his belt and was studying part time for a Masters in Criminology. And he had never regretted being a father. “Sorry. Time to stop the music,” he said to Ava, rapping loudly on the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Police. Open the door.”

  “Just a minute!”

  Neal and Ava exchanged glances. “I expect they’re tidying up for us, sir,” Ava said, her tone ironic. Neal rolled his eyes.

  “Come on lads. We haven’t got all day,” he called, impatiently. The door opened and they were invited in by a young man in black skinny jeans and a T-shirt bearing one of those slogans about keeping calm and carrying on.

  “Good vibes boys,” Ava commented as she stepped into the communal kitchen, which was surprisingly clean and tidy; so much for students’ unsanitary living habits. There were no piles of unwashed dishes, no rubbish overflowing from the bin, and Neal was sure he could detect the faint odour of a chemical air freshener.

  Two lads were seated at the kitchen table; another was turning the music off. The one who had answered the door looked Ava up and down and asked if they’d like a drink.

  “We’re on duty,” Ava said, eyeing the half-empty bottle of scotch on the table.

  “I meant a cup of tea,” the lad said. Ava shook her head. She explained the reason for their visit.

  “Sy’s not here,” one of the lads said.

  “Your name is?” Ava asked.

  “Ray Agorini.” Ava wrote his name down and asked each of the others in turn for their names, jotting them all down in her notebook.

  “Is Sy in some sort of trouble? “asked a gangly lad with a black goatee beard, who’d identified himself as Gary. As he spoke, he sat down abruptly, clearly attempting to cover an ashtray with his elbow, only succeeding in drawing attention to the burned-out end of a joint. Neal resisted the urge to sigh.

  “It’s alright. Your mate’s not in any trouble, not at this stage anyway. We just want to ask him a few questions, that’s all.” Ava reassured them.

  “This hasn’t got something to do with that dead girl, has it?” asked one of the lads, called Ric.

  “Amy Hill. Did you know her?” Neal asked. There was a collective shaking of heads.

  “Are you sure, not even to look at?” asked Ava, flashing them a photo of Amy on her smartphone.

  “I might have seen her around,” said Gary, “she looks sort of familiar. This isn’t a huge campus; you get to know people by sight.”

  “Yeah,” she does look a bit familiar, probably seen her in the bar or somewhere,” Ric agreed. After looking more closely at Amy’s picture, the others agreed.

  “What about Simon Foster. Did he know Amy?” Ava asked. They thought not, but no one knew for certain.

  “Does Simon have a girlfriend, or has he mentioned recently that he’s been seeing anyone?” Neal asked.

  “There’s girls he likes, same as all of us,” Gary said, seeming embarrassed.

  “Simon’s kinda quiet, shy, you know,” said Ray.

  “I think he did like Amy,” the fourth flat member, Dan, said, “like I was with him in the bar once and she was there with a group of friends. I asked him which one he fancied and he pointed Amy out.” Dan looked at Ava as he spoke; blushing bright red, he added, “Funny thing was, he said he didn’t like her that way.”

  “In what way do you think he did like her?” Neal asked, with a raised eyebrow.

  Dan shrugged, “Dunno. Maybe he thought she was too good for him. Amy was hot.”

  The others nodded in agreement. Neal sighed.

  “Which room is Simon’s?” he asked. The lads looked at each other and Gary pointed down the hallway at a door on the left. Neal tried the handle and was unsurprised to find it locked.

  “Are you going to kick the door in?” Dan asked, sounding excited.

  “Sorry lads, that only happens in the movies,” Ava answered, smiling, “The warden will have a master key. Much simpler.”

  Simon’s flatmates could offer no further information. They seemed relieved when Neal nodded to Ava that it was time to leave. He did not need to look back to know that all four lads had their eyes on Ava’s backside as she walked down the hallway towards the door.

  “Has Simon done a runner, do you think?” Ava asked as they made their way to the car park. Neal shrugged.

  “Probably keeping a low profile. He must know he would have been spotted with Amy on Saturday evening.”

  They reached the car and Ava slipped into the driver’s seat. “I take it we’re going to pay Anna Foster a visit?” she asked, putting the car into gear and barely waiting for an answer before heading towards the Turning Leaves Bookshop.

  * * *

  When Neal and Ava walked through the front door, Anna Foster was busy at her desk in a draught-protected alcove behind the entrance to her bookshop, tapping busily on her keyboard. Was it his imagination, or did she seem displeased to see them? Neal came straight to the point.

  “My son doesn’t live here, Inspector,” Anna Foster replied in answer to Neal’s enquiry concerni
ng Simon’s whereabouts. “Yes, this is his home and he has a room here, and he occasionally stays over, but we both agreed it would be good for him to be with people his own age when he went to university. No doubt at this time of day, he’ll be hard at work in the library. He’s very studious. He’s exceptional, in fact.” An image of the young man Ava had described flashed into Neal’s mind. There didn’t seem to be anything particularly exceptional about him. Clearly Anna Foster was a besotted mother. Neal smiled at this, for of course, in his eyes Archie was the most exceptional young man he had ever met.

  He cleared his throat. He had been looking steadily at Anna Foster as she spoke and his professional detachment had begun to slip. Today her auburn hair was loose about her shoulders and she was wearing wide black linen trousers and a silky blouse in a floaty material that was practically see-through. If there was a type Neal preferred, Anna Foster fit the profile. There was the small matter of the age difference between them, which he thought might be as much as ten years, but was that really an issue?

  “When did you last see your son, Ms Foster?” Neal enquired, after explaining that they had checked the university library and Simon’s flat.

  “On Monday evening.” Anna turned to Ava. “We had supper at a bistro on the long hill after we bumped into you, Sergeant, and afterwards Simon went back to his flat at the university. I’m stocktaking this evening; he’s supposed to be coming by to give me a hand.”

  “Is he often out of touch for this long?” Neal asked.

  “This long? It’s barely been a day, Inspector. Simon’s a student; he has his own life. I don’t expect him to check in with me every day. “

  “But he does work for you?” Neal prompted.

  “On an informal basis. Simon loves books; he likes to help out. And of course he finds the money useful, although I think he’d help out even if I didn’t pay him; he’s that kind of person.”

  Again, that glowing maternal admiration and pride. Neal wondered how objective Anna Foster was capable of being when it came to her son. Probably about as objective as he was about Archie.