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Other books by Andrea Bramhall
Norfolk Coast Investigation Story:
Collide-O-Scope
Under Parr
Stand Alone:
Just My Luck
Table of Contents
Other books by Andrea Bramhall
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
EPILOGUE
About Andrea Bramhall
Other Books from Ylva Publishing
Collide-O-Scope
Benched
Requiem for Immortals
Four Steps
Coming from Ylva Publishing
Rock and a Hard Place
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To Astrid and Daniela—it’s been a hell of a year, but here we are. Stronger, wiser, and a little more exhausted, but still writing nonetheless. Thank you.
To my wonderful beta readers, Louise and Dawn, your help with this story was invaluable.
I’d like to offer a special thank you to Simon Gorton, my newfound friend and retired Norfolk Police officer. Your advice on investigative details really helped to make this story as true to life as it could be. Should a body ever be discovered in the bunker, we know exactly what to do now!
To Ian Symington, your knowledge and time showing me around the clubhouse and the course at the Royal West Norfolk Golf Club immeasurably helped with this story. The inspiration, the setting, and the quiet stayed with me long after I left.
The North Norfolk Coast was my home for many years and it helped to shape my life and my future in ways I am still adjusting to. This series of books is just one of those. Without it, I would never have been inspired to discover Kate and Gina.
DEDICATION
Old age is a cruel punishment for a lifetime of living and loving. I can’t decide which is worse—forgetting or being forgotten. In which do we truly cease to exist?
I will remember you.
PROLOGUE
Alan shuffled down the hallway as quickly as his feet could take him. The odour of stale piss, antiseptic, and old age assaulted his nostrils. Just like it did every minute of every day. It was no different in the dark of night as the snores of his fellow inhabitants indicated they dreamed the murky dreams of senility and medication-induced relief.
The cries of pain were something he’d become accustomed to. A fact that wore heavily on his soul. When he remembered, of course. Dementia was a cruel and unforgiving mistress. And the young people supposed to care for him—for them—were just as bad.
His dentures made his gums ache. The palette didn’t sit right in his mouth, and the clothes he wore chafed. As though they were too small for him. He hobbled in shoes that didn’t fit correctly and rubbed his heels while he tried to pull his dressing gown closed. It wouldn’t reach. Since when did my dressing gown have flowers on it?
A shriek drew his attention from the ill-fitting garment and spurred him towards Annie’s room as fast as he could. It wasn’t the normal shriek of pain that he was used to hearing from that direction. This one was filled with fear, and then it had been muffled out.
He pushed open the door to her room and gasped.
A tall, thickly-muscled young man pushed a pillow tight against Annie’s face.
“Get off her. You’re hurting her!”
Her feet kicked limply at the bed covers.
“No, I’m helping her, Alan,” he said softly, tucking the covers around Annie’s body with his free hand. “See? You’re just confused again.”
Annie’s feet stopped moving.
“No, no, no. You’re hurting her.” Alan rushed forward and grabbed his arm. “Don’t hurt her. She hurts too much already.”
“I know she does, I know. That’s why I’m helping her. I’m making her more comfortable, Alan.” He shook his arm and Alan lost his grip. “Go on. Go back to bed. I’ll bring you a cup of cocoa in a few minutes.”
Alan frowned. Was he helping Annie? How was he helping Annie? Annie wasn’t crying in pain as she usually did. Wait, no, the pillow. She can’t breathe. Have to breathe.
“No, you’re hurting her. Let her go.” He balled his fist and struck the man’s back. He grabbed at his white tunic and pulled as hard as he could.
“Enough!” The big man lashed out with one powerful swipe of his arm.
Alan stumbled backwards, and his head hit the doorjamb. He lifted his hand to the back of his head and whimpered when it came away bloodied.
“I told you, I’m helping her.”
“What are you doing to her?”
“I told you to go back to bed. I told you I’m helping her.” His voice was quiet but roughened with frustration.
“But you’re not…”
“Yes, I am.”
Alan noticed the dim light of the room reflecting off the man’s bald head as he reached across the small space and grabbed Alan’s ill-fitting dressing gown. He pulled Alan close before slamming him against the wooden door frame again. Alan’s brain rattled in his skull as his teeth smashed together through his tongue. Pain, sharp and tinged with blood, filled his mouth as his head pounded. It throbbed against the onslaught of blood that flowed around his body in preparation for him to do…something. Anything. To do what?
There was a tiny moan from under the pillow, and the man let go of Alan’s clothes and turned his attention back to Annie. “Stay there.”
Alan shook his head, trying to clear the pain and confusion. He isn’t helping Annie. I have to do it. I have to get help. He stumbled out of the room, barely noticing that his hand left a bloody smear on the wall.
His legs shook as he steadied himself against the corridor. He approached the nurses station, hoping to find someone, anyone, to help him stop the man hurting Annie. But it was empty. The small room had a desk, overflowing with papers, a humming computer, and a box of paracetamol with the blister pack of pills spilling on to pages of patients’ notes.
“Must get help,” he whispered.
He ignored everything in the small room and stumbled along the wall to the door. He tugged on the handle, but the door wouldn’t budge. He tried again. And again. And again. He cried in frustration.
“Must get help.” He turned and walked down towards the back of the building. “Must get help.”
“Alan, where’ve you gone, pal?”
Alan’s heart pounded in his chest and his hands shook as he moved as quickly as he could. He ignored the pinching at his heels and the chafing between his legs. He rattled each door as he passed, looking for anything that wasn’t locked. Finally, one opened and he toppled into a kitchen. The room was lit only by the fluorescent light in the tall, glass-fronted fridge. The steel worktops glinted in its light, then fell starkly into shadow.
He could make out a door at the far end of the room, but as he rushed towards it he fell. His head throbbed. Blood ran
down his cheek and dripped off his nose as he tried to push himself up. He balanced on his knees and put his hand to the back of his head again. It hurt so much. He slumped against the wall and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, he couldn’t remember why he was sitting on the cold floor in a room he didn’t recognise. His head pounded and his vision blurred. He put his hand to his stomach in a vain attempt to quell the awful queasy feeling that burned in his gut.
“Alan? Come on, mate, let me help you.”
Help. The word reverberated in his mind and focused him on what he needed to do. “Must get help.” He crawled to the door and used the handle to pull himself to his feet. He staggered, and swayed as he rattled the handle, and chuckled to himself when he saw the key in the lock. He turned it and almost fell outside.
Wind and rain pelted his face. Gravel crunched beneath his shoes, and his dressing gown was soaked, clinging to his skin.
“Must get help,” he called into the wind.
He had no idea where he would find help. He didn’t know where he was. Not really. There was something familiar about it, but that was all. Like a vague recollection of a dream from childhood. Dim and distant, and cold. So cold. He blew on his fingers to chase away the chill, then wrapped his arms about himself.
In the distance he saw a light. A warm, orange light shining in the vast, black nothingness, and it called to him. Beckoned him towards it like a siren’s song drawing a sailor to the rocks. He didn’t care. He didn’t know. He just walked towards it.
The salt tang of the sea clung to the road as he walked. The roar of the wind stopped him hearing the splash beneath his feet until the cold water seeped over the tops of his shoes and bit at his toes. But still the light beckoned to him, and offered promises that it would be everything he needed it to be.
“Must get help.”
He waded through water that reached above his knees now, and crawled forward when he fell. He shivered and his teeth chattered as he ploughed through the water, till the tarmac felt solid beneath his feet again. But still the light called to him.
Alan’s vision blurred, and he fell as the ground shifted beneath his feet. He spat sand from his mouth and scrunched his fingers into the wet grains. Rain mixed with blood and ran down his face, and then dripped on to the sand, but he couldn’t see it. He couldn’t see anything. It was too dark. Even the light that had drawn him there had forsaken him now. Disappeared from the sky like a star behind clouds.
He groped through the sand, always moving. Slowly moving. Must keep moving. Even the sand kept moving. Shifting, drifting down and away. Into the wind and away.
He felt the coarse marram grass tucked amongst the dunes and held on to them. They offered something solid in a world where everything continued to shift and move. Including himself.
Wave after wave of dizziness and nausea washed over him as the waves continued to crash against the shore. Higher and higher they came towards him, kissing his feet no matter how high up the dune he tried to climb.
“Must get…” He tried to remember the last word. “Must get…”
A ferocious gust of wind blew him flat on to the sand and his hand brushed against a rough slab of concrete half-buried in the dunes.
“Must get…warm.” He shivered and pulled himself towards the lump of concrete. Beneath it was a tunnel. A tunnel he remembered from…a long time ago. A happier time. He smiled and crawled on his belly down the shaft, tumbling to the floor at the bottom.
It stank. Empty bottles and cans strewn across the concrete floor rolled away from him as he groped about and crawled around the pitch-black space. But he knew where this was. He knew what it was. He’d played here so many times as a child. He and his friends had played soldiers in the old bunker. They’d hollowed out the openings for the guns and pretended they were on the frontline as their fathers and uncles all had been. They’d sat for hours, playing cards and smoking their first illicit cigarettes. Drank their first stolen ale and talked about the girls with the biggest bosoms in their class.
He leaned against a wall. Rough breeze blocks leeched what little warmth was left from his body as he closed his eyes and remembered better days. Days where his head didn’t hurt and he didn’t want to throw up. Days where he could remember why he was wearing a dressing gown that didn’t fit him and shoes that rubbed his heels raw. Days where his teeth didn’t feel wrong in his mouth. He remembered days where he could…remember.
CHAPTER 1
Detective Sergeant Kate Brannon tapped her fingernails on the steering wheel in time to the music. Emilie Sande sang about being a clown while Kate waited for Detective Constable Jimmy Powers to lock his front door. He had a slice of toast stuck between his teeth, his coat drawn up one arm while his other hand fumbled with the keys.
The small, square house tucked away in the council estate of Burnham Market where Jimmy lived was probably half the size of her own house in Docking. And probably worth twice as much. Even if it did lack “character” and was in the less desirable part of town, it was still in the town. What was it the man said? It’s all about location, location, location. And Burnham Market was the location to be in if you were on the north Norfolk coast. Every inch of space was developed or being developed, car parking was a nightmare, and the prices for everything were extortionate. But that’s what you got when you added a celebrity hotspot to a coastal location. Damn you, Stephen Fry, Kiera Knightly, Natalie Portman, et al.
She wound the window down and stuck her head out. “We haven’t got all day you know, Jimmy. The DI’s waiting for us.”
Jimmy held up his hand and shouted, “One sec. Fuck.” He cursed as he dropped his toast on to the wet ground.
Kate chuckled and wound the window back up.
Jimmy tucked his keys in his pocket, finished putting his coat on, pulled the wooden gate with chipped green paint closed behind himself, and then climbed into Kate’s brand new car.
She’d gone back to her beloved Mini after losing the last one to an unfortunate incident involving a car park that flooded at high tide, and a distinct lack of local knowledge at that point. She had diverted from the lovely sky blue colour she’d picked out last time, though, and gone instead for the silver metallic grey in the hope that it would hide the road grime a little better.
She slid the stick into gear, checked her rear mirror, and pulled out on to the road.
“Can we—”
“No.” She cut him off. “We haven’t got time to stop at the cafe and pick you up some breakfast. Like I said, the DI’s waiting for us. Stella’s already called me—twice—to let me know that he’s not happy.”
“You’ve only been here ten minutes.”
“Twenty. And I was about to call the DI just because I was bored. What were you doing in there? Bathing in adder’s milk or something?”
“Very funny. It takes work to look this good, Kate.”
Kate gave him a cursory once-over and sniggered. “You keep telling yourself that.”
“Hey! That’s sexual harassment or something,” Jimmy said with a lopsided grin. He ran his fingers through his dark, floppy hair, then scratched at his goatee beard. At twenty-eight he was still fairly new to his detective’s position, but he was learning fast.
“You’re wishing, pal.” She turned left at the junction and headed north towards the sea.
“So where are we going anyway? Stella just told me to get ready because you’d be picking me up.”
“Brancaster beach.”
“Shit. I’ve been dreading this starting.”
Kate frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s just been a matter of time really, hasn’t it? Before the people smugglers started trying to get the refugees ashore. I mean we’ve got miles and miles and miles of coastline, no way can the coastguard protect it all. No way. It was only a matter of time before they started to bring boats straight over here instead of the rest of Europe.”
“And you think people smugglers h
ave chosen Brancaster beach as their new landing site?”
“Why not? It’s as good a place as any.”
“Jimmy, you’ve got an overactive imagination.”
Jimmy laughed. “Right, after the Connie Wells case, I don’t know how you can even say that.”
Kate had to concede the point. The Connie Wells murder case had surprised them all. What they thought was a simple—for want of a better word—murder had evolved into a case she had never expected to come across in a sleepy fishing village with only forty year-round residents. They’d uncovered a huge drug-smuggling operation. One that Connie had tried to warn the local police about only to have them laugh in her face. So, instead, she’d tried to do their job for them, and paid for it with her life.
The quantities of drugs that had been smuggled into the country through the tiny fishing harbour made her feel sick. Thousands of kilos of heroin. Millions and millions of pounds worth of drugs. And far too many of the locals involved. Kate was convinced that there were still members of the smuggling ring out there, hiding in plain sight, just hoping that neither Ally nor Adam Robbins was going to name them in the hope of getting a little time shaved off their own sentences.
“Fair point, Jimmy. But I don’t think the people smugglers have discovered the north Norfolk coast today.”
Jimmy seemed a little deflated as she turned up the beach road and slowed down to check for water. Jimmy snickered. “You should’ve got a Range Rover with a snorkel, then you wouldn’t have to worry about a little bit of water, sarge.”
“Salt water is the tool of the devil, Jimmy. You’d do well to remember that.” She’d been told that locally this road was referred to as “Car Killer Lane” because of the way it flooded at high tide. The height of the water was deceptive, and more than a few cars every year were written off as a result. She refused to be another statistic. Again.
“You do know that only part of the road floods, don’t you?”
“Part or all,” she said with a shrug, “it’s all the same to me.” The road was clear, fortunately, and she put her foot down to make the last half mile to the beach car park.
Under Parr Page 1