DS Lasser Crime Series
Needle House
The Way That It Falls
Tethered To The Dead
Twisted
More Equal Than Others
Vanished Beneath
Riven
Bad Self
Crave
Moments Back
Conspiracy of Ravens
Dark Necessities
Living Ashes
Stations Of The Cross
The One With All The Pain
Shadows Cast
Blood Bought
Desolate Hearts
D.S. Marnie Hammond
Keep Her Near
Cut The Threads
Plymouth
Stormcock
The Strife And Grime Of Charlie Roebuck
Pinches Of Salt
Desolate Hearts – DS Lasser 18
Author Robin Roughley
Copyright © 2018 by Robin Roughley
Published on Amazon 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover by Valerie Hammond.
Table of contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
Desolate Hearts.
Prologue
The man tried to concentrate on the thin ribbon of twisting white, but the pain in his head felt as if someone was hammering a six-inch nail into his brain, his vision was blurry, face creased in torment, every bump in the road adding to the agony. Now, the snow was hitting the windscreen in a flurry, making him wince and screw his eyes almost shut as the blinding white flakes dashed towards him, the wipers swishing back and forth at full speed in an effort to keep the snow from obliterating the view.
Hunched forwards in the seat, he swiped the sweat from his brow with a shaking hand, the van lurched to the left and he gripped the wheel tight as he adjusted the steering, the tyres battling for grip on the treacherous surface.
Reaching down, he flicked the heater to maximum and swallowed the dry click in his throat. The pain had been building all day, gnawing away at his brain, pulses of pain that had increased as the hours ticked by. He had spent the afternoon over at Oak Tree Farm, trying to fix a tractor with a broken gearbox in a freezing-cold barn, fingers numb as he worked on the engine. He had done jobs at the farm before and knew the farmer was a tight-fisted, miserable bastard who loved to moan about anything and everything. When he had told him that he needed a spare part costing the best part of three grand, the farmer had looked shocked to the core.
'Three frigging grand!?' Milkwood had spluttered in disbelief.
'Two thousand eight hundred actually,' he had replied, rubbing at his temple in an effort to shift the nagging pain.
'But what about a second-hand part?' the farmer asked, thrusting his hands deep into his empty pockets.
'That is second-hand, if you wanted new then you would be looking at twice that amount.'
Milkwood had shaken his head angrily. 'Right, you can put it back together, there is no way I am paying that amount of cash for a spare bloody part.'
As always, at times like this the man thought back to all the tight-fisted farmers he had known. Occasionally, you would come across one who understood that farm machinery broke and had to be fixed and they would pay the price with a sigh. Though the majority he had done jobs for were misers who wanted the work doing for bugger all.
'If you don't get it sorted, the thing will be bollixed,' he had tried to explain.
'I don't give a shit, there is no way I am paying you that amount of cash,' Dave Milkwood had snapped.
They had been standing in the freezing barn, the ramshackle doors open, revealing a hostile world of white.
'Look, I can try and cut back a bit on the labour, but…'
'Not a sodding chance, no way,' Milkwood had moaned. 'I mean, why didn't you tell me all this before you stripped the bloody engine?'
The bolt of pain had rocketed through his head and he had blinked as his vision blurred, Milkwood glared at him, an accusation burning in his eyes.
'I told you I had to strip it down before I could find out the extent of the damage.'
'Yeah, but you never mentioned anything about any three grand!'
'But you were the one who called me out, you were the one who said you needed it fixing…'
Milkwood had folded his arms, his face sucking-lemon sour. 'I know what you lot are like, I bet the part costs a fraction of what you want to charge me and…'
'Hang on, I've just spent the last half an hour tracking the part down and now you think I'm trying to rip you off?' The man had felt the anger blossom, prodded and poked along by the stabbing pain that had taken root in his head.
Milkwood had barked a bitter laugh. 'It's all right for you, you make a bloody fortune out of the likes of me and…'
The man had started to gather his tools, thrusting wrenches, spanners and screwdrivers into his bag, and all the time the pain had clanged inside his skull.
'Hang on, what do you think you're doing?' Milkwood had demanded.
'I'm going before the snow gets worse.'
'But what abo
ut my bloody tractor?'
'It'll have to wait.'
'''Wait'', bloody well ''wait''!' Milkwood's eyes sprang wide in disbelief.
'Kill the whingeing cunt!'
The man had jerked as the voice screeched inside his brain and just for a second, he had looked at Milkwood's blotchy red face and almost lashed out with the wrench, his fevered mind showing him an image of the heavy chunk of metal slamming into the whingeing farmer's head, blood spraying out in a wide arc as he toppled to the filthy ground in a heap.
'It'll give you time to decide what you want to do.'
'What are you talking about?'
'You can either pay for the part, track one down yourself or you can scrap the thing.'
'Scrap my tractor!' Milkwood made it sound as if he was being asked to choose one of his children to be put up against the wall and shot.
When the wheels of the van left the road, the man jerked upright behind the wheel, the image of Milkwood vanishing from his mind as he stamped on the brake and snatched at the steering, trying to stop the slide. He gasped as the van lurched and bucked before coming to a juddering halt, the crushing pain in his brain increased until he thought his head would explode. When he tried to move forwards the front wheels spun in the deep snow. Selecting reverse, he tried to back out, but the van was having none of it.
With a heavy sigh of burgeoning anger, he thrust the door open and stepped out of the van, his booted feet vanishing ankle deep as he trudged around to the front of the vehicle, the headlights illuminating the hawthorn bushes that grew along the length of the deserted country lane, the blinding lights making him wince in pain.
'Just what I fucking need,' he snarled, heading to the rear of the van.
Pulling the doors open, he grabbed the ever-present delving spade before retracing his steps. Yanking the hood of his jacket over his head against the biting wind he started to dig, his brain rang with pain, his eyes felt ready to burst out of his head as he continued to shovel the snow to one side.
Images seeped through the pain, Milkwood bawling and shouting about being conned and fleeced, as he drove away. Then, from the recesses of his mind old bastard Marsh appeared, another farmer short-changing him after he had worked on his land for over a week clearing ditches. It had been over ten years since he had worked on the farm but right now the image of the old cunt was clear as crystal in his feverish mind.
'Take it or leave it, but you'll get fuck all else from me,' Marsh had said with a sly smile on his ancient, weather-beaten face, his rheumy eyes glittering with malice as they stood ankle deep in the mud-lathered field.
Then his father's face bloomed in his mind, his brow furrowed as he spoke to his son from his deathbed.
'Never trust any bugger, because they are all out to shaft you one way or another, especially the tight-fisted farmers.'
He remembered nodding in understanding as the man he had looked up to all his life withered away in the bed.
'If you find a woman then make sure she's the right one for you, and if you have any kids then you teach them what you know, you pass on the skills, lad, and you fight for them tooth and nail.'
''Tooth and nail,'' he had parroted as he gripped the frail hand that had once been so strong.
He continued to dig, the pain squirming through his mind, the images coming thick and fast, and all the time the familiar gut-wrenching anger inside grew. He thought about his wife and as usual the anger morphed into fury. He had promised his father he would wait for the right woman to come along and in truth that was what he thought he had done. Yet now, eight years into the marriage, he knew he had made a terrible mistake by saying those two words, ''I do'', that now bound them together and gave his wife the upper hand as his world started to crumble. He spent his days trying to bring the money in but no matter how much he made it never seemed to be enough for his wife. She always wanted more, never satisfied with the life they had. What made matters even worse was the fact that the house they shared had been left to him by his father after his death. They had no mortgage to pay so by rights they should have been content, and yet he knew that he would never be happy with the woman who had fooled him into thinking she was the love of his life.
As he continued to shift the snow, he was vaguely aware of the internal voice spitting and hissing inside his throbbing brain.
'They're all twats, all bastard fucking twats, all out to get what they can and bleed you dry!'
'Can I give you a hand?' a voice from behind suddenly asked.
The man heard the words through the pounding fusion of blinding pain and fury and he swung around, the spade lashing through the falling snow, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a young face topped with red hair and then the flat of the spade slammed into the side of the head with every ounce of strength he could muster, blood fanned onto the fallen snow and the young man fell sideways, landing silently in the cushion of white, eyes flickering as the snow fell onto his exposed, pulsating brain.
The man froze, the spade falling from his hands as the victim at his feet took a shuddering breath, his arms and legs thrashing, looking like a maniac trying to make a snow angel. Intermittent spurts of warm blood sprayed from the wound and then suddenly he lay still, his body sagging back into the snow, the only sound being the rumble of the engine as the transit ticked over. When the reality of what he had done hit home, the man took a shuddering step back, almost losing his balance in the process. Tilting his head, he looked at the night sky, the snow falling onto his feverish brow, then he blinked several times and frowned as he realised that the pain that had been swamping him had completely vanished. Closing his eyes, he waited for the agony to return, convinced that his mind and body was flooded with adrenalin that would subside and leave the true horror of his actions laid bare.
Licking his lips, he looked up and down the deserted lane, seeing a sudden beauty in the way the snow had transformed the landscape. It was like seeing everything through new eyes, eyes that were no longer locked on an internal barren landscape of pain and growing despair but instead could turn outwards and see all the possibilities his life could hold.
'Hurry!' the internal voice hissed.
The man blinked in confusion, then reached down and grabbed the legs of the dead man, dragging the body through the snow and hauling him into the back of the van before closing the doors with a thud. Leaning forwards, he rested his head against the cold metal of the door, his hot breath billowing out around him as he tried to steady his thudding heart. Half a minute later, he eased his head away and wiped a hand across his face before going back to dig himself out of the mess. His once-clogged mind firing on all cylinders as he went to work.
Suddenly feeling miraculous and buoyant as the pain faded to a distant memory.
1
Lasser's lips curled in amusement as Spenner strutted his stuff on the dancefloor, like a lanky scarecrow struck by a bolt of lightning. Gyrating his jean-clad hips, his hands waving in the air to the beat of the Bee Gees advocating, ''Staying Alive''.
Tess, his new girlfriend, looked mortified as he jittered left and right, his eyes closed in ecstasy, his flowery shirt looking even gaudier in the flashing lights.
When Jackie sat down by his side, Lasser took hold of her hand and gave it a squeeze.
The pub was crammed with people, most of them were off-duty officers making the most of the Christmas knees-up.
Turning his head slightly, he spotted Bannister – propped against the bar – waiting to be served while the barmaids were slowly being run ragged by the constant demands from the punters.
'Perhaps you should give him a hand?' Jackie suggested as she leaned her head towards his shoulder.
Lasser caught the faint hint of jasmine and kissed the tip of her nose. 'Nah, leave him to it, besides in around thirty seconds time he'll blow his stack and I don't want to be standing by his side when he does.'
'He'd do that?' she asked in surprise.
'I on
ce saw him throw a wobbly when the guy on the burger van put onions on his hot dog before the red sauce,' Lasser explained.
Jackie smiled as she looked at Bannister, even from here she could see the frustration building on his face. When a tall, thickset man with a bald head elbowed his way to the bar, she saw the DCI turn to him and say something, his aggravation morphing to outright anger.
When the bald-headed guy jabbed a finger into Bannister's chest, Lasser sighed before rising to his feet and weaving his way towards the bar.
Lifting her glass, Jackie took a sip of white wine, watching closely as Lasser clapped a hand on the man's shoulder before leaning in close and whispering something into his ear.
She saw the man turn and raise his hands in apology as he backed away, looking for a different path to the bar.
Then Lasser waved some money in the air and one of the barmaids smiled warmly as she moved forwards to serve him.
The smile on Jackie's face widened, seeing Bannister shake his head in disbelief as Lasser got the drinks in.
The Bee Gees faded, replaced by George Michael singing about ''Last Christmas'', couples on the dance floor moved together for a smooch as Lasser weaved his way back through the throng with a tray of drinks in hand, Bannister following closely behind.
Seconds later, the drinks were on the table and Lasser sat back down by Jackie's side, he slid his hand onto her jean-clad leg, smiling as she placed her hand over his, their fingers entwining.
Then Suzanne appeared through the crowd and settled by her husband's side.
'Twenty minutes I was waiting, twenty sodding minutes, and then Don Juan here comes to the bar and they're falling over themselves to serve him,' Bannister complained as he loosened his tie in aggravation.
'Yes, well, I think you'd better make this your last one for tonight, Alan.'
Bannister looked at his wife, his eyes bleary, his brow speckled with sweat. 'Hang on, Sue, I've only had a couple and…'
'Don't forget you promised to take Kelly and Belle sledging tomorrow at Rivington, and believe me, they'll want to set off early.'
Bannister groaned as he looked through the window of the pub to the snow- smothered street. 'Shit, I forgot about that.'
'Well, don't expect me to go in your place, it was your idea, you said you didn't want either of them driving in these conditions and I've got loads of baking to do, so if you want feeding over Christmas then you will have to take them.'
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