by Joy Ellis
THE MURDERER’S SON
A gripping crime thriller full of twists
JOY ELLIS
First published 2016
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, 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.
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©Joy Ellis
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THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.
ALSO BY JOY ELLIS
DI Nikki Galena Book 1
CRIME ON THE FENS
https://www.amazon.co.uk/CRIME-gripping-detective-thriller-suspense-ebook/dp/B01H98SG5G/
https://www.amazon.com/CRIME-gripping-detective-thriller-suspense-ebook/dp/B01H98SG5G/
A NEW CRIME THRILLER WITH A COMPELLING DETECTIVE WHO WILL STOP AT NOTHING TO AVENGE HER DAUGHTER
DI Nikki Galena Book 2
SHADOW OVER THE FENS
https://www.amazon.co.uk/SHADOW-gripping-crime-thriller-suspense-ebook/dp/B01HHA49SY/
https://www.amazon.com/SHADOW-gripping-crime-thriller-suspense-ebook/dp/B01HHA49SY/
TWO BRUTAL KILLERS ARE LOOSE ON THE FENS BUT WHO CAN DI NIKKI GALENA TRUST?
Detective Nikki Galena’s friend and neighbour meets a tragic end but there’s more to his death than meets the eye . . .
And someone terrible from DS Joseph Easter’s past is back . . .
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
ALSO BY JOY ELLIS: The DI Nikki Galena Series
Glossary of English Slang for US readers
Character List for The Murderer’s Son
Dedicated to my dear friends Margaret and Alan Hughes, with love.
PROLOGUE
September 1993, Lincolnshire Fens.
The jogger ran steadily along the shadowy fen lanes, heading home. Across the darkening fields he could see the lights of his cottage. Just a few hundred yards and he would be passing the gates of Haines Farm, and then he was within striking distance of a hot shower and a long cool drink.
As he rounded a bend in the lane and came level with the farm gates, he slipped. A curse escaped his lips and he fought to keep from crashing down on the worn and pitted asphalt. Somehow he managed to regain his balance, and looking down to see what had caused him to break his stride, he saw a puddle of oil spreading out from the farm entrance.
Again he swore. His expensive running shoes were stained and splashed, probably ruined, he thought angrily. He looked across to the old farmhouse, and saw that a light burned in the kitchen. Still cursing, he decided to go home and change, then walk back and have a strong word with George Haines. Not only was he pissed off about his trainers, he knew that a few of the villagers took their dogs for a late walk down that lane, and most of them were wrinklies. A slip on tractor oil could mean a broken hip or wrist, or worse.
As he approached his cottage door, the security light blazed out with a blast of white halogen light. He glanced down ruefully at his feet, and froze.
He had expected to see black oil stains, but his trainers were stained with dark red smears. He tentatively touched the wet discolouration, and sniffed at his finger. His stomach roiled and a wave of nausea passed over him, then he turned tail and ran as fast as his tired legs would carry him, back to Haines Farm.
As the gates came into sight, he slowed his pace. Fear of what he might find flooded through him. He was a true “yellowbelly,” a Lincolnshire-born country boy, and he’d seen some horrific accidents involving farm machinery. His mind played through a dozen scenarios of what may have happened. None of them were pleasant and they all involved copious quantities of blood.
To one side of the high double gates was a small access door. George Haines rarely locked it, and through it the young man found his way into the wide concrete area in front of the old farmhouse.
His presence activated the sensors on the security lights, and he instantly recognised the farmer by his fiery red hair and distinctive fluorescent jacket with the words Haines Farm stencilled across the back.
George lay on his stomach, his arms stretched forward in front of him and his fingers bent into claws. He was only a few feet from the gates and he looked as if he had been frozen in time as he desperately tried to crawl to the road.
The runner gasped. He looked up and saw the stationary tractor. Jesus! The man had run himself over! He’d seen that happen once before when a brake had failed and the colossus of a machine had lurched into its unsuspecting driver.
Yes! His legs, oh God, his legs! He clasped a hand to his mouth and fought back vomit. From the waist down, the farmer’s clothing was black with blood.
‘George?’ The young man was no first-aider, but somehow he overcame his revulsion and felt the man’s neck for a pulse. As he did, his fingers touched something slick and cold, and he snatched his hand away, falling back in disgust.
The lower part of George Haines’ face had been tightly bound with wide clear adhesive tape. It was then that the runner realised that his neighbour had not met with an accident, but something far nastier.
He scrambled back through the gate and out onto the road, where crouching in the gutter, he pulled his mobile from his pocket and called the police.
* * *
The farmhouse was ablaze with lights. House lights, powerful police mobile lights, and blue flashing ones. Their shimmering rays danced across the darkened fenland and made the rural setting look uncanny.
‘That’s the chap who found him?’ The older policeman pointed to the sweaty young man leaning against the side of a squad car. He was draped in a blanket and still wore the disbelieving, slack-mouthed expression that accompanies severe shock.
‘Poor sod,’ murmured his colleague, ‘but at least he didn’t go inside. One day he’ll be very thankful for that.’
‘Unlike us.’ The detective inspector raised his eyebrows and gave his sergeant a resigned half-smile. He had hoped to reach the end of his service without seeing something like this again. He kn
ew from experience that it would stay with him long into his dotage, and part of him felt cheated that he was to finish his career with such a harrowing investigation. ‘Before we go in, tell me what the doctor said about this victim here.’ He nodded towards the body that lay close to the inside of the gates.
The sergeant drew in a breath and repeated word for word what he had been told. His voice was a monotone, as if he were reading the information off, and the inspector knew that the officer was simply trying to keep his emotions at a distance. It didn’t do to allow your feelings to interfere when you were dealing with a case like this.
A case like this. The inspector was pretty sure that other than him, no one in attendance had ever seen anything like this before. They were country coppers. They had their fair share of most kinds of crime, and maybe a little more than their fair share of fatal traffic collisions on the fast, straight roads, but deliberate, cold-blooded murder was not a common occurrence in the misty fens.
‘The doc reckons that George Haines drove his tractor into the yard and switched off the engine. He climbed down from the cab, with his back to whoever attacked him. His assailant hit him across the back of the legs, just above the heel, with a heavy, bladed weapon, possibly an axe, but from the angle of the wounds, more likely a machete-style knife.’
The inspector had an immediate picture of the harvesters in the fields, wielding those wicked knives, slicing easily through the thick hard stems of cauliflowers and cabbages and placing them in the cups on the conveyor.
‘Doc says it would have totally disabled him. The two blows severed both his Achilles tendons. They would have contracted up his legs like snapped roller blinds. He would have been in excruciating agony and unable do anything.’
They looked together at a long double-tracked bloody stain that led from the tractor to the gate. ‘Except to drag himself away and bleed to death,’ added the sergeant. He swallowed hard. ‘And he couldn’t cry for help, because our killer had wrapped packing tape around his mouth.’
‘One thing was for sure, he crawled away from the house, so it’s most likely that our victim knew his attacker had gone inside.’
The sergeant looked towards the farmhouse, then back to his boss. ‘Time to check it out, I guess?’
The inspector nodded and they moved together towards the open front door.
They found Lydia Haines in the kitchen. It was warm, friendly and smelled of herbs, homemade bread, ground coffee and fresh blood.
When control had rung them, they had been warned that it had been a frenzied attack and to prepare themselves. The fact that they had been reminded about the counselling services available to them had spoken volumes. That was something that generally came after the event, not before it.
‘Sweet Jesus! That gives “frenzied” a whole new meaning,’ said the sergeant. The hollowness in his voice was not lost on his boss.
‘Just try to take in the whole scene, son. Not just the victim. We need to know who and why, and we need to know quickly. We can’t allow whoever did this to stay free for long.’ He looked around and saw a white-faced uniformed officer standing in the doorway. ‘You the local bobby, Constable?’
‘Yes, sir, I took the call. First on the scene,’ he paused, then added, ‘For my sins.’
‘You know these people?’
‘Fairly well. George Haines’ family have farmed this strip of the fens for donkey’s years. And Lydia, his wife . . .’ He glanced down at the bloodied body sprawled across the quarry-tiled floor and swallowed hard. ‘She was a real community-spirited woman, into all the local stuff — WI, Guiding, church flowers. You know the type, sir, salt of the earth.’
‘And not the kind of woman to get murdered,’ whispered the sergeant.
‘Is there a “kind?”’ said the inspector slowly.
‘I just meant some people are more likely to be victims than others, sir. And I don’t put this lady into the “victim” bracket.’
‘Because she’s not a whore? Or a junkie?’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Right now, she’s as much the perfect victim as I’ve ever seen. And someone out there would agree with me. Because someone saw fit to take considerable time to hack her to pieces. Someone really hated her.’ He turned back to the local officer. ‘Did they live alone?’
‘No, sir, but thank God, their two children were being taken to the pictures by their aunt and uncle tonight. A birthday party outing for their cousin. Around ten kids went, including the two Haines boys.’
‘By design, or just fortuitous?’ murmured the inspector. ‘Anyone else live here?’
‘Two others, sir. The farm manager has a small cottage across the yard, and there’s a woman who helps out with the children and the housework, like an au pair, I guess. She has a self-contained flatlet in a converted barn next to the garage. Neither is at home at present, but we’ve put out a call for them.’
‘Names?’
‘Ian Farrow is the manager. He’s a divorcee, and the labourers on the farm reckon he keeps himself to himself. The au pair is a French woman called Françoise Thayer. Been here for two months, and again, she doesn’t associate with the workers much.’
‘Could they be having a relationship?’
‘We did ask the men, but if they are, it’s not common knowledge.’
‘Well, one of them is the killer, or maybe both,’ stated the inspector categorically.
The sergeant looked dubiously at his boss, but knew him well enough not to argue.
The inspector didn’t speak immediately but looked around the room with narrowed eyes. The kitchen was of typical farmhouse design, modernised tastefully, keeping all the old features like the butler sink and the coal-fired range, but adding all the necessary labour-saving devices. ‘Nothing has been stolen, so it’s not a bungled burglary. And both of them knew their attacker. George was happy to turn his back and clamber down from his tractor cab, and Lydia had been pouring coffee.’ He pointed first to the broken cafetière that lay close to her decimated body, then to two small coffee mugs that still sat on the pine table. ‘According to the doctor, Lydia died first, so George was not yet home. As everyone else was out, she had to be making coffee for her killer. Everything says that she was completely relaxed, as relaxed as her husband had been when he returned.’ He paused. ‘But animals and humans have uncanny intuition about these things. They sense when something is wrong, but neither George nor Lydia sensed a threat. It was one of the two lodgers. I will stake my pension on it.’
With one last look at Lydia Haines, the inspector turned away. ‘Let’s allow the SOCOs to do their job, son. We have a killer to catch, and I’ll guarantee that when we do, they will be the nastiest piece of work you’ll ever meet.’
CHAPTER ONE
September 2015, Fenland Constabulary Headquarters, Saltern-Le-Fen, Lincolnshire.
DS Marie Evans knew that she should go home but the adrenalin still coursed through her body and kept her firmly anchored to her desk. Not that it was easy to concentrate, as her brain had decided to replay the crime scene on a continuous loop. If she closed her eyes for even a moment, Marie saw the dark blood pooling in the deep gaping wounds to the woman’s ravaged body. It was as if the image had been seared into the skin inside her eyelids and a single blink was enough to bring it back.
Marie had been in the force long enough to have seen a lot of really bad stuff, but what she had seen that morning, in the remote house called Berrylands, out on the edge of the marshes, had been brutal in the extreme.
Her boss, DI Rowan Jackman, was still out at the scene. Marie smiled. He would be, wouldn’t he? Jackman never left a crime scene until he knew that there was nothing left to uncover. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust forensics. He was like a human sponge, and he wouldn’t walk away until he’d soaked up every last drop of information from the place.
Marie imagined him now, tall and straight-backed, in the midst of chaos but still managing to look as if he’d stepped off one of the pages of Country Life magazine. She s
aw his blue eyes narrowed, squinting in concentration as he tried to wring another piece of invisible information from the carnage in the kitchen of Berrylands. She wished she was still out there with him, but someone had to set up the action programme for the team and she had reluctantly volunteered for the job.
Marie glanced at the clock. Almost eleven. She yawned and logged out of her computer. She’d done all she could tonight. Her dilemma now was whether to go home, or drive back over the moonlit fen and join Jackman in the house of horrors.
One thing was for sure, she knew he’d still be there.
This vicious killing had hit him harder than usual, mainly because he’d known the victim. Not well, certainly not well enough to make his heading up the investigation a problem, but it still made it personal. It was never good to see a face you recognised when attending a sudden or suspicious death. It was as if the killer had touched you by proxy. Jackman hadn’t said anything, but Marie had read it in his eyes.
Marie sat back in her chair and stared at the bulky stack of paper that she had produced in the last few hours. It was mainly background on the murdered woman, Alison Fleet, and her businessman husband, Bruce. She had been a well-known charity campaigner and he owned and managed the local Saltern brewery. They seemed to be the perfect couple, living a perfect life, without an enemy in the world. But Marie had discovered a long while ago that what you saw from the outside was rarely the truth. And even at this early stage in the investigation, she was uncovering a plethora of tiny anomalies in their “perfect” existence.
Marie looked across at the only other occupant left in the office and shook her head. ‘Go home, Max. You look like shit.’
‘Thanks, Sarge, I love you too.’ DC Max Cohen grinned and ran a hand through his thick thatch of curly dark hair. He stretched and yawned. ‘One more check to run, and I’ll be off, okay?’