Detective Sophie Allen Box Set 2

by MICHAEL HAMBLING

  Lydia laughed. ‘Haven’t you spotted her? Not surprised. Back at their house it took all my will-power not to gape when she appeared downstairs. I think Martin was having a fit and I wouldn’t be surprised if we saw him sooner rather than later. He was on the phone making hurried changes to his evening plans when we left. She was a bit shy and crept in behind me.’

  Marsh looked around. ‘So she’s here? Where?’

  Lydia nodded towards a corner, trying hard not to giggle. ‘Over there, trying to hide behind the people at the punch table. Jade spotted the outfit in a charity shop and wore it to a New Year party, apparently. She talked the boss into it. Well, bullied her to be more accurate.’

  Barry looked over and his jaw dropped. ‘Not . . .?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Christ. I wondered who had dared to wear that. I thought it was one of my teammates’ girlfriends, doing it for a prank. She looks, well, stunning. But very extreme.’

  ‘I think we need to go over and calm her nerves, Barry. She’ll be fine once she gets a drink or two inside her.’

  Sophie was wearing a skin-tight, stretchy cat suit in a leopard-print pattern, complete with mask, whiskers and tail, along with stiletto-heeled knee boots. She was sipping at a small glass of punch as Marsh approached. ‘That bloody daughter of mine! She talked me into this, Barry. I need a pint.’

  ‘Of milk?’ he replied with a straight face. ‘Shall I fetch a saucer?’

  His boss aimed at him with her glass. Luckily it was empty.

  Lydia laughed. ‘Miaow.’

  THE END

  THE SOPHIE ALLEN BOOKS

  Book 1: DARK CRIMES

  Book 2: DEADLY CRIMES

  Book 3: SECRET CRIMES

  Book 4: BURIED CRIMES

  Book 5: TWISTED CRIMES

  Book 6: EVIL CRIMES

  Book 7: SHADOW CRIMES

  Book 8: SILENT CRIMES

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  EVIL CRIMES

  A gripping crime thriller full of twists

  DCI SOPHIE ALLEN BOOK 6

  MICHAEL HAMBLING

  First published 2017

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.

  The right of Michael Hambling to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  ©Michael Hambling

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  THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH VOCABULARY IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.

  To my wife Margaret and my three sons, Stephen, Malcolm and David.

  Prologue

  November 2015

  ‘Now. Let’s jump now. Let’s do it.’

  He looked at her, at the gleaming eyes, wild with a passion that was beyond anything he’d experienced with anyone before. She shouted the words and they rose above the noise of the roaring wind and crashing waves that struck the rocky shelf on which they stood.

  ‘Now’s the moment. Let’s do it.’ She turned to face him. ‘We agreed.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Okay. Take my hand. We’ll do it together. That will make it more special.’ It was hard to hold himself here, on the edge of this rocky shelf, battered by the wind, his face lanced by the sea-spray as if hundreds of tiny needles were being flung at him. As each moment passed, he felt his resolve weaken, his uncertainty grow. He looked at her again, and then he noticed it. Or had he imagined it? A sly look of triumph that was there and then gone? What was happening? A germ of doubt was growing inside him. He could feel it gnawing at his soul.

  ‘I said take my hand. We’ll jump together,’ he repeated, and tried to hold her gaze. Her eyes flickered everywhere but at his. ‘That’s what you suggested. You said we’d end it all still touching each other. Surely that’s what you want, isn’t it?’

  She nodded energetically. He could hardly hear her words above the roar of wind and wave. ‘Yes, yes. It’s what I want. For us. This life is no good any more. It’s going rotten on us and we have to end it. We have to jump.’

  ‘So take my hand. What’s holding you back?’

  ‘You jump first and I’ll follow you. You’re my true love, the one I’ll always follow. You go first.’

  ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘It has to be together. It has to be both of us at the same time. What’s wrong?’ For the first time he could sense something different in her. And yet it had been her idea to end their turbulent, passionate affair in this way. She’d planned it down to the last detail. The place, here on Dancing Ledge, and the wait until the weather was right, on a grim, stormy day. All this despite his own doubts. And now, when it came down to it, something in her was changing.

  ‘Take my hand,’ he shouted again. He needed to be sure.

  She came close, her long, red hair blowing wildly in the wind. And then he realised. She’d bought a parking ticket. Why had she done that? Why had she bothered if they were both going to be dead within a couple of hours? It had taken them an hour to walk here along the coast path from Durlston Castle. He looked at her again. She could make it back to her car before the ticket became overdue. What was going on? Too late. He felt her hand push into the small of his back and he plunged forward into the wild water.

  * * *

  The young woman, her hair still blowing wildly in the wind, moved closer to the edge of the shelf and peered into the maelstrom below. His body twice struck the rocky outcrop with sickening force and then vanished. She put her mobile phone away and pulled her collar up. She tucked her long locks inside the soft corduroy material and curled her lip.

  ‘Did you really think I was going to kill myself for you? Fucking loser.’ She spat into the foam, laughed and turned on her heels. It was a long walk back to the car, parked in a secluded corner at the Durlston Country Park. Better get a move on.

  Chapter 1: Discovery

  Tom Davis was depressed. This was one of the worst tasks in the world, and one he never thought he’d have to perform. Yardley Cottage was just an empty shell now that Eddie was no longer there, filling its rooms with her lively personality. It was a mere container, echoing nothing back to him, answering none of his questions, responding to his thoughts like the lifeless pile of bricks and plaster which, he finally admitted to himself, was exactly what it was.

  He held the mug of tea in both hands, as if it were too precious to handle carelessly. He supposed that was true, in a way. He’d given Eddie this very mug as a birthday present a mere five months earlier, knowing that she’d appreciate its intricate floral design, traced out in orange, yellow and deep red. Had he sensed, even then, a shadow cast across her normally cheerful persona? There had been something, he was sure of it. Something had touched her. Something had blunted her keen interest in him, that sibling care she’d bestowed on him ever since they’d grown up together in a small town not dissimilar to Dorchester. She’d always been the big sister, and had stepped easily into an almost parental role after the car crash that had taken their parents away. And now, who was there to take on that role? No one. He felt as if he were on his own for the first time in his life. He ached for her presence.

  He replaced the empty mug on the low table, stretched and looked around him. How much more was there to check before he could get the house clearance people in? He’d worked through the financial papers, bank statements, insurance claims and other assorted administrative details in the weeks follow
ing her death. Death? It was hardly an adequate term for the totally unexpected tragedy that had hit him like an express train. Even now, four months later, he couldn’t quite bring himself to use the word suicide. It choked him just to think of it, his darling Eddie choosing to end her life like that. The worst of it was that despite weeks of talking to Eddie’s friends, neighbours and acquaintances, he was no closer to understanding why she’d chosen to take her life. No one had a clue, least of all the neighbour who had discovered her body. They were all as bewildered as he was. Unless, of course, someone did know, but was refusing to let on. Tom scratched his dark curly hair. That would be the truth of it, of course. Someone probably did know but had decided to keep quiet for reasons of their own. Maybe they’d judged that the truth would be too cruel, that it would shed a different, less perfect light onto his idolised older sister. Maybe he’d been wrong about her for many years, blinded by the unswerving loyalty that he’d always felt towards her.

  He glanced out of the window. The sun was edging out from behind a cloud, its rays falling onto some late flowering dahlias and making them glow. Time to get busy again. There was just the little upstairs desk to check, the one occupying the far corner of Eddie’s bedroom. He’d had a quick look immediately after her death, checking for any important documents, but they’d all been filed in the bureau in this sitting room. He sighed, rose, and forced his limbs to move. He really didn’t want to do this, but who else was there? He certainly didn’t want strangers rifling through her personal papers, documents and diaries. It had to be him, and it had to be now. This was to be his last day in Dorchester, where Eddie had seemed so happy. He needed to travel back to London tomorrow. Work would be piling up on his desk and, in today’s economically challenging times, he couldn’t afford to be seen to be slacking, not in the cutthroat world of financial planning.

  The morning sun shone bright into her bedroom, but it still seemed lifeless. Tom started work on the small bureau, methodically sorting through its contents. He put aside the papers that Eddie had kept from their parents’ deaths, decades before, then started checking the rest of the contents, neatly divided into topics. As he already knew, all of the business documents had been kept downstairs. These were more personal items: letters, cards, photos and diaries. He’d already glanced through them soon after her death and found nothing untoward. He laid them out on the bed, arranging the diaries in chronological order. Strange. Eddie appeared not to have kept a diary for the current year. Maybe it was because she was already fighting depression. Even the previous year’s had been sparse, with only the occasional short, almost cryptic entry. He continued to sift through the small pile of contents. Then he came across a small notebook with a floral cover, lying at the back of the drawer, previously hidden under the other documents. How had he missed it during his earlier visits? He’d probably been too tired, too preoccupied. He flicked through the little booklet. He couldn’t make much sense of it at first. Most of the pages were blank and only a few contained short comments, written in a spidery hand. Tom took the notebook across to the window in order to see more clearly. He stood reading the sparse entries, and a feeling of unease started to grow within him. What was this? What had been going on?

  He took the small notebook downstairs, sat down and read through the entries once more. He felt tense, almost nauseous. So Eddie had been emotionally traumatised in the weeks prior to her death. Tom was angry with himself because he’d somehow missed this notebook in the days following her suicide, when the police were still involved in probing her life. Why hadn’t this innocuous looking jotter been placed in a more obvious spot, maybe with the other diaries? And then the realisation hit him. Eddie had planned this. She’d deliberately kept the notebook apart from the other diaries, almost hidden at the bottom of the drawer. But why? There was only one possible reason. She was worried that the wrong person might get hold of it. It had been carefully placed for him to find, and he’d let his sister down by failing to spot it earlier. Four long months had passed. Who would be interested now? Surely not the police, busy with a hundred and one other cases while grappling with the consequences of staffing cuts. But who else was there?

  Tom extracted his wallet from his jacket pocket and searched through the contents. There it was, the card given to him by the police officer who’d been in charge of the brief investigation into Eddie’s death. He took out his mobile phone.

  ‘Can I speak to Sergeant Simons, please? It’s Tom Davis.’

  * * *

  ‘So where are we off to, boss?’

  George Warrander followed the stocky figure of Sergeant Rose Simons, who was hurrying down the steps to the car park behind Dorchester police station, their current base. George was a young constable still in his probationary year as a uniformed officer in the Dorset police force.

  ‘The west side of town. There was a suicide there, back in the early summer when you were on leave. A middle-aged woman living alone. The closest family member was her brother but he lives in London. He’s just phoned to say he’s discovered a diary or notebook, or something like that. He said it’s a bit suspicious.’ They reached the car. ‘It’ll be a wild goose chase, but we’ve got an hour to kill before we’re needed back in the town centre. It was a choice between going out to visit him or listening to the boss at the station droning on about new initiatives to improve how we interface with the public. No contest, particularly since our Mr Davis is a good-looking guy who doesn’t seem short of a bob or two. Maybe I’ll be in with a chance. Toy-boys like you, Georgie, are all very well but you never have any dosh. I need a bloke who is handsome, fit, sexy, generous, cheerful, understanding, considerate and rich, but when it comes down to absolute necessities, I’ll just settle for rich. You can forget the rest.’

  As usual, George listened to his boss’s flight of fancy in silence. He stood meekly by the car while she checked for exploding booby traps. This was another of her strange habits. ‘There’ll be someone out there who’s out to get me,’ she’d explained to George once. ‘No idea who, or even why, but I’m not giving him the chance.’ George had lost count of the times he’d stood in the rain while his sergeant had inspected under the car and in the wheel arches, checking for unexpected lumpy objects with blinking lights and a dial counting down to zero. Too many James Bond movies was George’s conclusion.

  They finally clambered into the car and left the car park, heading west. During the short drive, Rose gave George the rest of the details. They pulled up outside one of the houses in a neat terrace. The properties all had small front gardens, and this one still had flowers in bloom, despite showing signs of recent neglect. They made their way along the short path from the gate of Yardley Cottage. The front door opened before they reached it. George looked at the tall man in the doorway and tried to visualise his boss’s imaginary love interest. Not very likely, he thought. This tall, slim, well-dressed, good-looking man and his dishevelled, slightly crumpled-looking boss?

  As if she could read his thoughts, she turned and whispered in his ear, ‘I’ll win him over with my personality and charm.’

  Rose gave a broad smile and extended her arm. ‘Mr Davis. It’s good to see you again. And on such a beautiful day.’

  The man attempted a smile in return. George thought he looked drained. Still, his handshake was firm when Rose introduced George.

  ‘Come in,’ Tom Davis said. ‘I’ve got the notebook handy for you. I’ve typed out all the relevant extracts on my laptop and printed it out.’

  George smiled. ‘That’s efficient of you. Do you usually bring your laptop with you when you visit?’

  ‘Not always, and certainly not when I’m on holiday, but I needed to do some work while I was here. I used an old printer of Eddie’s. I don’t carry one of those around with me. Another couple of days and it would have been gone. I’m getting the house cleared at the end of the week. All the proceeds will go to charity.’

  ‘That’s thoughtful of you, Mr Davis,’ Rose said. ‘Some peo
ple in your place would grab as much money as they could for themselves and to hell with anyone else. Any particular charity?’

  ‘Mental health. Maybe the Samaritans. I’m not entirely sure yet.’

  ‘Okay. I can understand your reasons. You’ll need to delay the sale though. CID may want a look at the house contents again, judging by what you told me on the phone. You said last time we met that you and your sister were extremely close. You still look a bit pale, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  They were now in the sitting room. Tom picked up a small jotter from the table top.

  ‘I was beginning to get over it. Then I found this just an hour or so ago. It’s really shaken me. Here’s what I think are all the important entries, copied out and pasted together. They’re the ones that mention someone referred to as H. When you see them all together like this, it paints a pretty dramatic picture. Have a look.’

  He handed a couple of printed pages to Rose. She read the contents with a furrowed brow, then flicked through the diary, cross-checking the extracts. She handed the pages to George.

  Rose turned to Tom. ‘Did your sister ever mention anyone whose name starts with the letter H?’

  ‘No, never. And you can see all this happened quickly and was over within a few weeks. I didn’t even know she’d been abroad. It all seems so unlike her.’

  ‘Other relationships?’

  Tom paused. ‘Look, I always knew that she was probably gay or maybe bi, but we didn’t really talk about it. She kept quiet about her private life. I did meet one of her girlfriends, but that was years ago, before she came to Dorset. It’s all a total shock.’