The Detective Deans Mystery Collection

by James D Mortain

  TO BE CONTINUED…

  THE BONE HILL

  James D Mortain

  For my beautiful daughter, Gracie.

  Live life to the full and dream big every single day, no matter how inconceivable it may seem.

  Prologue

  Archie Rowland drove his trusted twenty-year-old Volvo estate back through the still blackness of the country lanes towards his home, seven miles from the nearest civilised settlement. He had lived with his wife at the ancient land holding for three decades. He loved the unspoilt solace of the moors, but his wife, Jen, had always favoured town life and discussions about moving back to a more vibrant way of living were never far from her lips. It was no doubt different for her; she was at home all day while he was generally at the North Devon Infirmary, or attending pathology meetings with his peers, or with the senior police staff in Exeter. That was a journey he hated and refused to drive. Instead, he would take the excruciatingly slow, but delightfully scenic route between Barnstaple and Exeter by ‘snail train’, as he called it.

  This night, Archie drove with a mechanical vacancy as his troubled thoughts fogged his mind. His gloved fingers fidgeted on the steering wheel as he took the final left hand bend and slowed on approach to his farm entrance. His wife had already illuminated the outside lamps and he quickly checked the clock on the dashboard to ensure that he was still good to his word.

  His Volvo clunked and spluttered to a stop and he fumbled with his old leather briefcase and keys. The front door to the house opened for him, and stood in a sheer black gown and glistening jewellery was his beautiful wife of forty-one-years that very day, Jen.

  ‘Thank you, Archie,’ she said checking over her shoulder at the antique Grandfather clock ticking precisely in the hallway nearby.

  ‘Yes, well,’ Archie said. ‘A promise is a promise.’

  Jen leaned towards him and gave him an air kiss near both ears. ‘Good day, love?’ she asked.

  Archie’s bushy eyebrows twitched, but he smiled for Jen’s benefit. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, placing his briefcase behind the door next to the Welsh dresser.

  ‘Is fifteen minutes long enough for you?’ Jen asked. ‘I took the liberty of ordering a taxi, not knowing whether you would make it in time, or not.’

  Archie nodded and smiled.

  ‘At least you can have a nice glass of something if somebody else is driving,’ Jen said.

  ‘Fifteen minutes. Right, okay.’ Archie made his way through the hallway towards the stairs with his wife in his wake informing him a fresh shirt and pressed suit were waiting for him on the bed.

  He reached the top of the stairs and paused outside of his youngest daughter’s bedroom. His shoulders sank and he looked down at his feet before continuing on to his room, where he quickly freshened up and dressed in the clothes Jen had prepared for him.

  The sound of crunching shingle and the flash of headlamps alerted him to the taxi arriving outside. He shook his head, they were never on time, probably due to the fact they were so far out of town.

  ‘It’s here,’ Jen shouted up the stairs.

  Tying the knot of his tie as he walked down the stairs, he saw Jen waiting in the hallway.

  ‘When are we going to do away with all these Christmas decorations?’ he commented as Jen smoothed down his lapels and ran her thumbs around the back of his collar. ‘We only did it for the kids’ benefit,’ he said.

  ‘Now shush that nonsense,’ Jen said. ‘We have this every year, and every year you get the same response; Christmas isn’t just for the children, it’s a celebration, a time for giving, a time for loving—’

  ‘Oh, God, you’re not going to sing that song again, are you?’

  Jen laughed, opened the door and waved across to the taxi driver. ‘Come on, Mr Grumpy,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and have a nice meal with our children.’

  It was almost midnight by the time they took the return lift home. Their two eldest daughters had met them at the hotel with their respective partners and gone their own way home. Archie’s youngest daughter was spending the weekend with her boyfriend, but at least the offer had been there for her to join them. She always distanced herself from the family engagements despite the fact they had done everything they could to make her feel as wanted as their biological children. Archie didn’t push, he’d learnt the hard way through her adolescence and knew she was best left well alone.

  ‘You’ve been unusually quiet tonight, darling,’ Jen said taking Archie’s hand in hers as the taxi neared their home.

  Archie looked down to her hand and twitched his brow.

  ‘Something’s bothering you, isn’t it?’ Jen said, squeezing his hand.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ Archie said.

  ‘It must be something?’ Jen pressed. ‘I haven’t seen you like this for years.’

  Archie coughed behind closed lips and shifted his bottom in the seat. He looked directly at the rear view mirror into the driver’s eyes, which focussed on the road ahead, and the muted sound of late-night radio was playing in the front. Archie dropped his head. ‘Today’s job,’ he said softly. ‘Well, it was quite… distressing. That’s all.’ He released Jen’s hand and centralised the knot of his tie.

  ‘Would you like to discuss it?’ Jen asked.

  Archie glanced at the driver’s reflection once again. ‘Yes. We need to. We have to.’ He faced his wife with watery eyes. ‘But not here.’

  Archie paid the driver and gave an extra ten-pound note as a Christmas tip. He walked with his wife to the door and assisted her with her coat.

  ‘Would you like a nightcap, darling,’ Jen asked.

  ‘We need to talk about this, Jen,’ Archie said.

  ‘Can I get myself a drink first, I am sure it can wait.’

  Archie turned Jen to face him. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I need to tell someone…’

  ‘Okay, okay. Come on, you can tell me anything.’

  Archie looked away.

  ‘Arch, what is it?’ The volume in Jen’s voice increased.

  Archie walked into the lounge and stood in the middle of the room. Jen, wide-eyed followed silently behind.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said.

  Jen did as requested and perched on the lip of the luxurious leather sofa.

  Archie blinked quickly several times and swallowed away his anxiety. ‘Jen,’ he said, ‘Do you recall when the children were younger, I taught them suturing. Do you remember?’

  ‘How could I possibly forget, I was forever finding rotting chicken breasts and banana skins lying about the place. Disgusting—’

  ‘That’s right,’ Archie said softly, ‘We practised on chicken breasts and bananas.’ He dipped his head, hesitated and then lifted his sombre eyes to meet his wife’s. ‘I saw something today on a murdered victim that I haven’t seen in a long time.’

  Jen stared back.

  ‘An unusual suturing technique, seldom, if ever, used in general surgical practice…’ He waited to see if his wife was going to say something. She didn’t.

  ‘Jen, there’s only one person who can replicate that technique – I know that to be a fact, because I invented it.’

  Jen didn’t speak.

  ‘And the last time somebody else tried it, to my knowledge,’ Archie said, ‘they were stitching chicken breasts.’

  Jen’s eyes were unblinking. ‘That was over fifteen years ago, Archie. Are you trying to tell me that no one else is capable of copying those stitches?’

  Archie nodded.

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘It was something I experimented with at Med School,’ Archie said. ‘I was forever trying new ideas, pushing the limits of my abilities, and I created a method of stitching that was strong, clean, but time consuming and expensive.’ He narrowed his eyes and moved over to the sofa sitting down next to his wife, taking her hand in his. ‘I’ve thought about this, Jen. I should inform the police.’

  Jen tugged her hand away from his. ‘You most certainly will not,’ she snapped.r />
  ‘I must,’ Archie said, his voice fractured.

  ‘Can’t you get rid of this body? Incinerate it, or something?’

  ‘No,’ Archie whispered. ‘I’m afraid this is going to be one job that simply won’t go away.’

  ‘Why not?’ Jen barked.

  ‘Because the victim was the wife of a serving police officer.’ He looked deeply into her eyes. ‘And she was beheaded…’

  Jen recoiled and sat back against the sofa.

  ‘And the sutures I talk of… sealed a surgical wound to her womb and the decapitated body of her unborn son.’

  Jen covered her mouth with a hand and dashed out of the room.

  Archie didn’t try to follow. There was nothing more he could say that would make the problem go away. He knew Jen would return when she was ready, and he didn’t have to wait long for that to happen.

  She searched his face for answers, but Archie had none. ‘What do we do?’ she uttered.

  Archie rubbed the back of his neck with slow and deliberate passes. ‘I need to complete a report,’ he said. ‘The police will expect one, especially given the nature of the deaths.’ He saw Jen squirm and withdraw. ‘There are only three people that know about that stitching,’ he said reaching out and holding Jen by the rounded tips of her shoulders. ‘And that includes you and me.’ He gently guided his wife backwards towards the sofa, his hands remaining on her shoulders directing her movement. He gently pushed down and Jen took the seat once again.

  ‘Promise me we won’t talk about this again,’ he breathed.

  Tears welled in her eyes and she shook her head. ‘Never,’ she whispered.

  ‘Very well,’ Archie said. ‘Then I will do the right thing.’

  Chapter 1

  Ingrid Andrews loved this time of year. It wasn’t for the lack of tourists, or “grockles” as they were colloquially referred to, nor was it for the fact she could park pretty much wherever she wanted. It was because the North Devon coastline in the depths of winter made her feel alive with energy. The rumble of the Atlantic Ocean, the flat expanse of the golden-brown sands, the biting nip of the onshore breeze – and it was a haven for dog lovers, like her and her faithful Springer Spaniel, Nelson.

  This day was perfect; powder blue skies, a low-slung sun, vast marbled sands and the gentle lap of an incoming tide. Ingrid sloshed through the milky fringe of water, her ruby-red Hunter wellies leaving deep patterned trenches in her wake, only to be licked away with each gradual encroach of the tide. Small beige-coloured shellfish rattled against one another as they rolled back and forth on the leading edge, and tiny waders and sanderlings scampered away as Nelson careered through the shallows as if it was the first time he’d seen the sea. It wasn’t. They came every chance Ingrid had, come rain or shine.

  ‘Go on, boy,’ Ingrid yelled, hurling another soggy tennis ball through the air with a colour-coordinated ball-launcher to match her wellington boots. Nelson needed no second invitation and sprinted off like a guided missile towards his prize.

  Ingrid breathed in the salty freshness of the day. This beat her usual Monday morning slog as a checkout assistant at the local Morrisons superstore. She had pulled all of the busiest shifts over the Christmas period and as a reward for her efforts she had been given a few unexpected days off by her unusually festive boss.

  Nelson returned – his liver and white coat matted with Demerara brown sand. He dropped the ball in front of her feet and nudged it closer with his nose.

  ‘Come on, Nelson,’ she said dotting the ball with the end of the launcher. ‘We need to head back the other way, boy.’

  Nelson planted his front feet and prepared to spring back into action. Ingrid giggled. He was like a nine-year-old pup.

  ‘Again?’

  She looked briefly at her watch.

  ‘Is nothing going to tire you out today? Okay – one last throw, but we need to head back.’ She gave Nelson a hard stare and then tossed the ball into the shallows. Nelson darted off and Ingrid turned to make tracks back to the slipway.

  She watched the foamy water lap over her toes and her mind turned to her poor mother, recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. She would have loved the serenity of this place, but she was in Birmingham, in a nursing home. She had tried time and again to convince her to move into one of the local homes, but Mum was as stubborn as they came and refused to leave.

  ‘Nelson,’ Ingrid shouted. ‘Come on, boy. Time to go home.’ She didn’t need to turn about, the stiff wind was at her face.

  She continued onwards, but strangely, Nelson didn’t come back.

  ‘Nelson. Nelson. Come on boy let’s go home.’ Ingrid stopped and looked back. ‘Nelson. Nelson.’

  She scanned the beach but Nelson was nowhere in sight. She looked up towards the pebble ridge, but due to the low tide, it was too far away to see anything clearly. Checking her watch again, she doubled back and called out Nelson’s name as she went. Then she saw him in the waters beyond the shallows, a hundred metres ahead.

  ‘Nelson, come here,’ she shouted sharply. ‘Nelson come.’ But whatever Nelson was up to, he had no intention of returning on command.

  ‘Come on Nelson, fetch your ball.’

  As she got closer, she could see Nelson was out of his depth, his nose barely above the waterline and although the waves were tame by Sandymere Bay’s standards, they were still buffeting little Nelson around.

  Ingrid stepped deeper into the water, now inches from the top of her boots. An energetic wave came rapidly towards her. She tried to retreat, but water splashed above her knees and slopped into her wellies.

  ‘Bollocks,’ she spat. ‘Come on, Nelson, that’s enough now. I don’t care if you can’t find your ball. Mummy is wet through.’

  She padded back towards the beach, her feet soaked and frozen from the eight-degree waters. Then she saw Nelson’s tennis ball washed up on the sand ahead of her.

  She bent down with a mumbled expletive and picked it up. ‘Here it is, Nelson. Here it is. Come on Nelson. Come and get your sodding ball.’

  Nelson had other ideas. The waves were pushing him closer to the shore and Ingrid could sense his determination to retrieve something from within the water. She trudged to the dry sand; her feet absolutely soaked and removed her wellies, one at a time, pouring the seawater out onto the sand. Nelson was now back on his feet, his jaws clamped around a submerged object, his head tugging with single-minded eagerness.

  Ingrid could see a much larger wave approaching that would undoubtedly engulf Nelson. She quickly returned her boots to her feet and ran back into the water, but she was too late and water crashed against Nelson and he was lost to sight. Ingrid held her breath and frantically searched the top of the water for her little dog.

  ‘Nelson,’ she shouted and started to run deeper into the sea, her legs and feet moving as fast as the thick waters would allow.

  ‘Nelson. Nelson,’ she screamed, now wading beyond knee depth. ‘Oh my God, Nelson.’ Her legs were heavy and weighed down completely by her water-filled wellington boots.

  ‘Nelson.’ Her voice was now frantic.

  She looked around anxiously for help, but she was still alone.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she wept, raking the waters aside with her hands, and then she saw him bob back to the surface.

  ‘Nelson!’

  She thrust her legs through the surf, the cold water no longer registering with her brain. Her dog was just feet away.

  Ingrid reached out – all she needed was a scruff of fur to hold. He was now tantalizingly close, but each time she lunged forwards, another wave took him away from her desperate grasp.

  She took another step, the surf splashed into her chest and face. She timed her reach and caught Nelson by his hind leg. His weight took her by surprise and pulled her off her feet, face first into the chilly waters.

  She thrashed out with her legs and felt the seabed beneath her feet. She still had her dog’s leg in her grip and heaved him back, lifting her own head ab
ove the water line. Gasping for breath, she planted her feet and got a second hand around her dog. She turned for the shore and heaved him slowly inwards with each laboured step. The briny waters stung her eyes and she struggled to see if Nelson was alive or dead. Either way, his jaws were still connected to the heavy object his jaws were clamped around.

  Finding an inner strength, Ingrid dragged Nelson back to knee depth. She reached for his head, lifting his face clear of the water, dislodging the attached object that at first disappeared and then bobbed clear of the waterline into view.

  Ingrid took a sudden intake of breath and fell backwards. Water covered her face and gushed into her open mouth. She choked as water went down her throat and she let go of Nelson, her legs kicking wildly in a desperate attempt to get out of the water as quickly as possible. She clawed at the sand and dragged herself clear.

  Her eyes fixed wide on a spot in the water. She coughed and at the same time vomited onto the sand beside her, and dragged her body clear of the unpleasant slick.

  She composed herself and lifted her body onto her elbows to gain a clearer view of the water. She felt her heart pounding through the saturated and heavy layers of clothing.

  The object inched ever closer with each surge of the waves.

  Ingrid dragged her legs up to her chest, and rolled onto her hands and knees. Her neck was frozen stiff and wouldn’t allow her to look in any direction other than directly ahead, as the object scuffed and slewed against the sandy seabed.

  She slowly rose to her feet, her eyes glued to what she could now clearly see was a human arm floating on the surface.

  She stepped hesitantly back into the water and shuffled towards it. The hand on the arm was curled, as if it had once held a honeydew melon. Her breathing accelerated, as she got closer. She bent forwards but then stopped. She inhaled a lung full of chilled air, puffed out her cheeks and grabbed the stiff hand.