Bones In the River
Page 1
BONES IN THE RIVER
‘an absolutely gripping crime thriller full of twists’
book two in the Lake Thriller trilogy featuring CSI Grace McColl and Detective Nick Weston, from the award-winning author of the Charlotte ‘Charlie’ Fox series
* * *
Driving on a country road late at night,
you hit a child.
There are no witnesses.
You have everything to lose.
What do you do?
* * *
The traditional Appleby Horse Fair hosts the largest gathering of Gypsies and Travellers in Europe. The sudden influx of more than 40,000 visitors into the small Lakeland town has always caused its share of problems, with strained relations between off-comers and locals.
But it’s also known as a good time to settle old scores.
This year, the Fair brings with it with the discovery of two bodies near the River Eden—one very recent and another a long time buried.
As CSI Grace McColl and Detective Nick Weston search for answers, old secrets are revealed, old wounds are reopened, and tensions threaten to erupt into violence.
While someone much closer to home is trying to get away with murder…
Praise for Zoë Sharp
“Scarily good.”—Lee Child
“I’m used to cool, hard killers—in fiction that is—but I don’t think I’ve ever come across a cool, hard killer as vulnerable as Edith Airey… Bisley-grade crack-shot, she could drop you at half a mile…”—John Lawton, bestselling author of the Inspector Troy and the Joe Wilderness thrillers
“Dancing On The Grave is a thriller that delivers on all levels. I found it impossible to walk away until I knew the end of the story.”—Linda Wilson, Crime Review UK
“Male and female crime fiction readers alike will find Sharp’s writing style addictively readable.”—Paul Goat Allen, Chicago Tribune
“Zoë Sharp is one of the sharpest, coolest, and most intriguing writers I know. She delivers dramatic, action-packed novels with characters we really care about.”—bestselling author, Harlan Coben
“This is hard-edged fiction at its best.”—Michele Leber, Booklist starred review for FIFTH VICTIM
“I loved every word of this brilliant, mind-twisting thriller and even yelped out loud at one of the genius twists.”—bestselling author, Elizabeth Haynes, on THE BLOOD WHISPERER
“This is a dark drama but a highly compelling one, unexpected, beautifully done and intelligently plotted.”—Liz Barnsley, Liz Loves Books
“Superb.”—Ken Bruen, bestselling author of the Jack Taylor series, THE GUARDS, BLITZ
“This is a straightforward, no holds barred, thriller. No one writes this kind of book better than Zoë Sharp.”—Ted Hertel Jr, Deadly Pleasures Mystery Magazine
“Dancing On The Grave is a dark, tense read that caught me off guard. The author takes us on an exhilarating ride full of twists and turns that had me clinging on to every word. Brilliant book and highly recommend it.”—Sarah Hardy, By The Letter Book Reviews
“I highly recommend this series!”—Ian Rankin on Charlie Fox
“If you don't like Zoë Sharp there's something wrong with you. Go and live in a cave and get the hell out of my gene pool! There are few writers who go right to the top of my TBR pile—Zoë Sharp is one of them.”—Stuart MacBride, bestselling author of the Logan McRae series
“I bloody LOVED it!”—Noelle Holten, Crime Book Junkie
Bones in the River
Lakes Thriller ~ Grace McColl & Nick Weston: book 2
Zoë Sharp
Also by Zoë Sharp
the Charlie Fox series
KILLER INSTINCT: #1
RIOT ACT: #2
HARD KNOCKS: #3
CHARLIE FOX: THE EARLY YEARS eBoxset #1
FIRST DROP: #4
ROAD KILL: #5
SECOND SHOT: #6
THIRD STRIKE: #7
FOURTH DAY: #8
FIFTH VICTIM: #9
DIE EASY: #10
ABSENCE OF LIGHT: #11
FOX HUNTER: #12
BAD TURN: #13
TRIAL UNDER FIRE: prequel (Coming soon)
FOX FIVE RELOADED: short story collection (Coming soon)
the Lakes Thriller trilogy
DANCING ON THE GRAVE: #1
BONES IN THE RIVER: #2
standalones
THE BLOOD WHISPERER
AN ITALIAN JOB (with John Lawton)
www.ZoeSharp.com/newsletters
Glossary of Romani terms
boro rye – a great man
bostaris – bastard
chal – Gypsy lad
chavo – child, son
chi – child, daughter, girl, nothing
chingaripen – war, strife
chore – thief, to steal
churi – knife, blade
coco – uncle
coorapen – a beating
cooroboshno – fighting cock
cooromengro – fighter, boxer
craic – gossip, chat
dado – father
desh – ten
dieya – mother, nurse
dinnelo – fool
dook the gry – bewitch the horse
dosta – enough
dukkering – fortune-telling
familiya – extended family
gavvers – coppers
gorgie – female gentile or Englishwoman
gorgio, gorgios (pl) – Gypsy name for a non-Gypsy
grasni shan tu – a mare, an outrageous woman
gry – horse
gudlo-pishen – honey bee
hindity-mengre – the filthy people (Irish vagrant)
lel a curapen – get a beating
kampania, kampaniyi (pl) – an alliance of households of the same geographic area
kistro-mengro – horse rider
kris Romani – highest Romany court
luvvo – money
mam – mother
marimé – banishment
matto-mengro – drunkard
miro rye – my lord or gentleman
o beng te poggar his men – may the devil break his neck
pal – brother
paracrow tute – I thank you
puro dad – grandfather
racaire – chatterer or chatterbox
ran – rod or cane
ratti – blood
rawniskie dicking gueri – lady-like looking woman
rom – husband
Romani – language spoken by the Gypsies
Romany – Gypsy
Shera Rom – Head man
spinyor – carrot
tawno gry – little horse
tawnie yecks – little ones, children
t’aves baxtalo – greetings
vitsa – clan
yeckoro chavo – only son
yoro – an egg
Part I
Tuesday night/Wednesday morning
AUTHOR’S NOTE
As an author, I hugely appreciate all the feedback, reviews, and ratings my books receive from my readers. It helps others make an informed decision before they buy. If you enjoy this book, please consider leaving a brief review or a rating on goodreads or on the retailer site where you made your purchase.
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THANK YOU!
1
His eyes drifted from the road only for a second.
That was all it took.
One moment he was driving up the winding valley, the stark blaze of his headlights making the dewed grass seem frosted in the darkness. No streetlamps out here, no white lines—no taxis, either, or maybe he would have called one.
Not that he was over the limit, by any means b
ut, during the course of a leisurely evening’s dinner with friends, perhaps he’d had one more than he ought. One more than was sensible, for a man in his position.
Enough to cushion his reactions so that, when he caught the flash of movement at the side of the road, he was just a fraction slower than he might have been.
He jerked the wheel, the shock of it a jolt to the chest.
And then came another jolt, as the nearside tyres rode up and over, as some thing thudded against the underside of the car.
Later, he would be ashamed that his first instant thought was annoyance at the damage to his vehicle.
He stamped on the brakes and staggered from the driver’s seat. His breath came harsh in the still night. Using the flashlight on his phone, he edged back along the tarmac strip. During the day, the dark surface absorbed heat. Come nightfall, he knew sheep liked to lie on it. As he scanned the verges, he tried to persuade himself that what he’d hit was merely a sheep, or perhaps a badger.
Right up until he saw it, lying crushed on the deserted road.
A child’s bicycle.
2
High over Mallerstang, out of the peat bogs on Black Fell Moss, the River Eden rises. Once she was in Westmorland. Now she has one foot in the Yorkshire Dales, another in Cumbria, holding the front line and shaping the border.
Born as Red Gill Beck, she toboggans the steep valley side, rips and stumbles, blossoms into Hell Gill Beck. With a bellow, she launches over Hell Gill Force to tumble into Ais Gill Beck. Their twinned spirits trip and twine, combine, to become the Eden.
And as the Eden, she broadens, settles. Slinking alongside the cut of road and railway as if hoping for cover, she roams restless across the valley floor. Stealing from the fields at every turn, snatching at trees that dare to dangle their fingers beneath the surface of her skin. She soothes stones smooth, juggles boulders just for giggles.
At Water Yat, she skirts the Gypsy encampment widely, as if not liking to intrude. They have brought their buckets and kettles down to her but she has plenty to share. Early summer rains have left her fat and full-blooded.
Without judgement, she accepts the offered body, wraps him tight and holds on. No Charon’s hand upon the tiller to guide him. No coin under his tongue.
No matter.
Night water black, she bears him downward. Onward toward Kirkby Stephen, she is unaware of her might, delighted as she is by the company and careless in that delight. Like a kitten toying with a butterfly, she has no understanding of delicacy, the fragility of flesh and bone.
At Stenkrith Falls she whirls him through the gorge in a froth of excitement. A wild ride, snapping bites from the rock over which she roils.
Though his slack limbs flail to her rhythm, he fails to laugh. She gathers him closer, binding him, shrouding him, over and colder. Under a shot-down moon, reflected back from the rippled surface of his grave.
3
Afterwards, he couldn’t remember the rest of the drive home. On some level he registered that it passed without further incident. He steered and braked, changed gear, accelerated when the road ahead dictated. And he knew, had he been stopped, they would have taken one look and demanded he give a sample, just to find out what else was in his blood.
As his vision was hemmed in by the reach of the car’s lights, so his mind felt cornered. Tucked in tight and hiding from the horror and the shame of what he’d done. It railed against reality, denied it, and wove a different tale.
He recognised, dimly, that what he should have done was step up for it. Call it in and wait, stalwart, for the lights and uniforms to arrive, for suspicion and interrogations. But somewhere at the back of his brain, the part that coiled and slithered with all the baser instincts, a primeval will to survive kicked in.
It flooded his system with adrenaline, pushed into his bloodstream so hard it made his temples pound. He couldn’t stop his hands from shaking, no matter how hard he clenched his fingers around the steering wheel. Or how much he tried forcing himself to adopt a coolly logical approach.
He knew there were no obvious signs of collision on the car. He’d had his wits about him enough to check, back there on the road. Bit of a scuff on the bumper but nothing that would stand out—certainly not on the grainy footage of the traffic cameras before he got back home. Not that there were many between here and there.
He’d put on gloves before he touched anything—always kept disposable ones in the glove box in case they ran out at the diesel pump. The ground was too dry to take impressions of his shoes. There might have been a bit of a skid mark when he anchored on, but the gritty surface of the road, half crumbling, wouldn’t yield much by way of a tread pattern. Besides, his tyres were a common brand in an equally common size.
The steel band around his skull began to ease a little.
By the time he hit the motorway and turned north, the worst of his initial panic had subsided. As long as he didn’t examine it too closely, it would remain beneath the surface—for now, at any rate. He rehearsed what he’d say when asked how his evening had gone. Very pleasant, as it goes. Nice to catch up. Shame I couldn’t have stayed over—perhaps had something to drink…
And that set him spinning off again through weakness, disaster, guilt, despair.
Or not.
Not if they didn’t catch him. Not if they didn’t even suspect for a moment that he was involved.
And especially not if they couldn’t prove anything.
Before he knew it, he’d passed the first countdown marker for his junction. He flicked his indicator on, even though his was the lone vehicle on this side of the carriageway. Realised, as he did so, that such an action marked him out as trying just a little too hard. He cancelled it.
From there it was but a few minutes to home, rolling through empty streets without needing to pause. He was steadier now, lent a certain perspective by distance, if nothing else.
He hit the remote for the electric garage door when he was halfway along his cul-de-sac, knowing that he’d just be pulling onto the driveway as it reached the height of its travel. Straight in without the need to brake. Normally, such slick timing gave him a sense of satisfaction. Tonight, that was strangely absent.
When he’d lowered the door again behind him, he sat for a moment with the car ticking over as if he contemplated…giving in. Leave the door to the house closed and the engine running. But, he knew that a modern car with its catalytic converter—especially on a well-warmed engine—meant the build-up of carbon monoxide in the exhaust fumes would make for a slow and desperate way to go.
He twitched, and twisted the key decisively. The engine died away into silence, replaced by the occasional soft ping as components cooled and settled at their own pace.
Still, it took effort to push open the driver’s door, swing his feet out of the car and stand. Maybe he was just putting off what came next.
On a hook by the door were his coveralls. He slipped them on over his clothes, lifted down an inspection lamp and plugged it in, donned fresh gloves. An old yoga mat provided a little cushioning against the bare concrete floor but still he grunted as he got to his knees. Playing the light underneath the front wheel arch revealed an area dark and sticky, peppered with insects, gravel, and dirt.
He hunted through the bucket of car cleaning products Susanne was always buying, found one that claimed to shift splattered bugs and spots of tar. He sprayed liberally under the bodywork, left it to soak in while he checked further back under the floor-pan, inch by inch.
At the jacking point just forward of the rear wheel, he found a tuft of what might have been bloodied hair. He’d never been a squeamish man but that made him jerk back with a muttered curse.
And, when he reached to disentangle and remove it, he noticed his hands were shaking again.
It was another hour before he cleared away and went inside. He washed in the downstairs loo, told himself it was to avoid waking Susanne rather than because there was no mirror over the sink. He recognised the sel
f-deception for what it was—a form of self-protection.
Recognised it, accepted it, and tried to move on.
Upstairs, he undressed in the dark and slid into bed beside Susanne. She stirred briefly, made a snuffle of sound and went quiet again. He willed himself to relax but sleep was impossible.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the flash of movement, heard the thump and clatter. He even imagined a startled cry and couldn’t recollect if it was real or simply his imagination.
Morning was a long time coming.
Normally, he slept through Susanne’s first alarm but he was already staring at the ceiling when her phone began its irritating bleat, buzzing across the bedside table like a wasp in a Coke tin. She reached out groggily and swiped the snooze option, as she always did.
He contemplated getting up then but stayed rigid alongside her, careful not to break his usual pattern. Only when her alarm sounded again and she slouched into the en suite shower did he get out of bed. He timed his movements so they didn’t meet face-to-face until he walked into the kitchen, showered and dressed. She was perched on a stool at the breakfast bar.
“Morning, love.”
Susanne spoke without looking up from the homework she was marking, pen in one hand, coffee mug in the other.
“Thought you were planning to get all that done last night, eh?”
“I was. Then I realised just how little effort Year Ten had put into this assignment, thought ‘sod it,’ opened a bottle of cheap red and fell asleep in front of the telly.” Her smile was wry. “How was your evening?”
He helped himself to coffee, glad of the excuse to have his back to her. “Oh, you know, very pleasant, as it happens. Nice to catch up. It was a shame I couldn’t have—”