THE MURDERER'S SON a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by Joy Ellis

  Jackman watched her go, and as he often did, silently thanked the powers that be for a sergeant that he had managed to gel with. Marie Evans was a one off. She was almost as tall as he was, with rich chestnut hair that he was certain was natural, a sturdy frame and strong muscular arms and legs. He knew she spent a lot of time in the gym, keeping herself far fitter than a forty-five-year-old had any right to be. Her hair and her clearly defined and well-proportioned features always made Jackman think of a Pre-Raphaelite woman in racing leathers. Marie was also a highly skilled motorcyclist.

  He smiled at her retreating figure, then shivered and allowed himself a worried sigh. An oppressive feeling swept over him and he suddenly knew that they were at the beginning of something titanic. This was not just the murder of one woman, although that was bad enough. It was the closest that he’d ever come to a premonition, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience.

  As he walked down the silent corridor he thought that this case had all the hallmarks of the worst kind of investigation. One where a mind truly is tangled and dark.

  At the front desk he requested that an officer be sent round to the Kinder house, and prayed that whatever this case was about to throw at him, he would be up to it. He didn’t have the years of experience under his belt that Marie did, and although he knew that he had the full backing of his team, he still had a lot to prove. No matter how dedicated he might be, and hell, he was dedicated, he was still a thirty-two-year-old fast-tracker from a privileged background. That was fine if you were chasing gold braid and pips on your shoulder, but Jackman aspired to something quite different. He just wanted to be a bloody good copper, and if he could earn the respect of his troops along the way, that would be perfect.

  He smiled grimly as he returned to his office. He wondered what his team would think if they knew that his favourite pastime was thinking up exciting new places for top brass to stick their pips!

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘Sorry to trouble you so late, miss, but might I ask if you know Daniel Kinder?’

  The policeman was quite old, a rotund and pleasant-faced man who Skye Wynyard thought looked exactly like your archetypal 1960’s British bobby.

  Then the realisation that a policeman was standing on her doorstep after midnight and asking about Dan made her go ice cold. ‘Yes, yes.’ She stumbled over her words. ‘Do you know where he is? Is he hurt? Is he alright?’

  ‘He’s quite safe, miss. May I come in and have a word with you? I’m PC Ray Hallowes.’

  Skye stepped back. ‘Yes, of course, please, do come in.’ Words tumbled out. ‘I’m Skye Wynyard. I’m Daniel’s girlfriend. I’m staying here with him while his mother is abroad. What’s happened to him?’ The question was burning her throat. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He’s at the police station, miss. He’ll be staying with us for a while.’

  ‘Is he drunk?’ asked Skye incredulously. ‘I mean, he doesn’t drink very often, so if he’d had one too many, it may have affected him badly and . . .’

  ‘He’s not drunk, Miss Wynyard, but our inspector suspects that he is not very well.’

  Skye shut up. Well, she would have to agree with that observation. For weeks now, Daniel had been far from himself. But what on earth had he done? She frowned and looked up at the policeman. ‘Has he actually been arrested for something?’

  ‘Yes, miss. But it was decided that he should be seen by our doctor. He’s not . . . how can I put it? He’s not acting rationally at present.’

  ‘What has he been arrested for?’ The words were leaden. Although she asked the question, Skye really did not want to know the answer.

  ‘He’s made certain claims, miss. Something that we’d like to talk to you about. You might be able to clear up a few questions for us.’

  Skye pointed to a chair, then sat down on the sofa. ‘What are these . . . claims?’

  PC Hallowes lowered himself into the armchair and looked at her. ‘He says that he has killed someone.’

  Skye’s hand flew to her mouth. Her first thought was that he’d been involved in a car crash, but his car was still parked on the drive. When Daniel had disappeared earlier, he had left his mobile, his wallet, his car keys, even his jacket. ‘I don’t understand. Do you mean an accident of some kind?’

  ‘No, Miss Wynyard. He’s confessing to murder, but as I said before, our officers are not convinced that he is in his right mind, so to speak.’

  ‘Murder?’ Skye felt a buzzing in her head and a sick dizziness. ‘What on earth . . . ? Daniel?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve upset you. Can I get you a glass of water?’ asked the policeman.

  ‘No. It was just such a ridiculous thing to hear.’ She shook her head. ‘You don’t know Daniel. He’s the most caring, kind . . .’ She shook her head even harder. ‘He’d never hurt anyone.’

  ‘So you’ve never heard him claim such a thing before? It does happen, you know. We get a lot of people come forward when there has been a murder, you’d be surprised.’

  So, had there been a murder? Skye tried to think. Yes, of course there had. It had been on the news, a woman had been found dead out in a remote fen village. But what could Daniel have had to do with it? She looked at the police constable and frowned. ‘Daniel isn’t one of those people, I promise you. And I have no idea why he’s said such a thing. It makes no sense.’ She needed to talk to Daniel. ‘Can I see him?’

  ‘We’d like it if you came down to the station tomorrow to speak to the detectives in charge of the case, Miss Wynyard. I’m sure they would let you see him then.’

  ‘I want to see him tonight, not tomorrow! I have to talk to him!’

  ‘You can, but not tonight.’ PC Hallowes’ voice was soothing and he appeared completely unruffled at her outburst. ‘You can see him in the morning. He’s been given something to help him sleep. My visit is simply to allay any fears you might have about his whereabouts, and to ask for your help tomorrow.’

  He smiled at her. Skye was reminded of a chubby, benign Father Christmas with a fractious child, and she wanted to hit him.

  After the policeman had left, Skye checked the doors and windows and turned on the alarm. At least she knew now that Daniel wasn’t coming home, so it seemed wise to secure the house, especially as the place belonged to Daniel’s mother.

  She looked around at the large, beautifully decorated rooms and felt uncomfortable.

  It was a big house, and big houses were a magnet for burglars. Skye wished she could just run back to her cosy little flat, but there was Daniel’s cat to think of. He loved it to pieces and she couldn’t just leave it, and anyway that would mean having to come back in the morning to feed it, prior to going to the police station. And as her things were here, it made sense to stay.

  Plus she was tired. Correction, she was exhausted. She should have felt relieved to know he was safe, but she was doubly distraught at knowing what Daniel had done. Confessing to a murder? What was he thinking?

  Skye froze, as a realisation swept over her. For years Daniel had been unsuccessfully trying to trace his biological mother, and over a period of time his search had turned into a crusade. Now, as months passed without conclusion, he had become more and more obsessed and stressed. There had to be a connection.

  Skye let out a painful sigh and energy drained from her. She felt as though her legs were made of lead and all she wanted to do was to sleep. With a supreme effort she dragged herself up and slowly mounted the wide staircase to their room.

  As she climbed into the bed that she and Daniel shared, she wondered if the police would search the house. If they took his statement seriously, they would have to.

  She pulled the duvet around her and began to worry. There were things here that Daniel wouldn’t want to share, especially with the police. She eased the thick fluffy pillow under her neck and shut her eyes tightly. But what could she do?

  As Skye fought back tears she felt a slight pressure on the duvet. Asti, Daniel’s precious tortoiseshell cat, walked daint
ily up the bed and nestled into a tight ball against her chest. She placed an arm around the cat, and its warmth made her miss Daniel even more. Her fight against the tears was suddenly lost, and she hugged the cat until she finally fell into an exhausted sleep.

  * * *

  Daniel awoke around three in the morning, and saw himself curled up on the mattress in the cell. That was exactly how it felt, as if he were standing a little way away, observing his own sleeping body.

  The drugs, whatever they had been, had made him feel weird, disconnected. But somehow he felt oddly peaceful — until he saw the blood.

  While Daniel slept on, the silent watcher in the corner of the holding cell stared down at the blood dripping from his fingers and pooling around his feet. In one hand he held a knife, wicked and long-bladed. In the other there was a photograph, although the face depicted in it was now just an unrecognisable scarlet mess.

  As the dark stain spread across the floor, it grew deeper. It began to cover his toes and creep up towards his ankles. He could feel the sticky fluid clinging to his skin.

  He was going to drown in her blood!

  With a scream, he dropped the knife and saw it disappear beneath the surface of the almost black blood.

  Then he screamed again, and again, and again.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The morning sunlight spreading across the fenland lit the fields with a green-gold glow that Marie felt belonged entirely to the few magical moments after sunrise. It was her favourite time of the day, and when she was driving the car, she always slowed down and turned off her radio, to allow the radiant silence to surround her. There was not a lot of peace in her life, so the little that she could acquire was always welcomed.

  Today she was riding her beloved lime-green and spark-black Kawasaki Ninja, and it felt even better. You were out there, you had an added sense to complete the experience, and you needed to be a biker to understand about that enhanced sense of smell.

  She could probably have told you exactly where she was, even if she had been blindfolded. The stretch that she was on now skirted organic fields that had been left untouched for a season, and the perfume that drifted across to her was a heady mix of clover and yarrow. There was something about riding in the fresh air that allowed you to breathe in the atmosphere of the land, to be part of it.

  It would have been far quicker to ride straight through the town to get to work, but Marie always took her own personal ring road, a trip that circumnavigated Saltern-Le-Fen and brought her to the nick via the winding fen lanes. She loved the fens, loved the vast panoramic skyscapes, and the sometimes overpowering desolation of the marshland. It was a place that allowed to you to think clearly. Its sheer bleak beauty put everything into perspective. When the only thing you heard was the cry of an oyster-catcher, and the only thing that moved between the vista of clouds and the reedy water-world of the marsh was a leggy grey heron, you felt a rare peace.

  As she drew closer to the town, she wondered what the day would bring. In her game there was never any way of knowing. She’d had a rotten night, her fitful bursts of sleep disturbed by thoughts of Daniel Kinder and the haunting feeling that there was something terribly wrong with him.

  Even so, she was looking forward to seeing him again. He was so different from the usual scrotes that finished up in the interview rooms that his oddness was almost refreshing.

  As the iron gates of the police station swung open, Marie felt a little shiver of excitement. The Alison Fleet murder, now given the random operational name of Nightjar, was already wearing a sinister cloak of mystery. It wasn’t straightforward. It wasn’t clear-cut. Nothing as yet followed a pattern, and as Marie parked her bike next to Jackman’s 4x4, she wondered what they would find when they dug beneath the surface.

  Saltern police station was housed in a rambling old Victorian building, once a prestigious grammar school, and before that an academy for the arts. Although its former glory was now heavily tarnished, and totally unappreciated by the steady stream of low life that passed through, it was still an awesome structure. In some parts polished banisters remained, along with stained glass windows and heavy wooden panelled hallways and corridors. Best of all, the huge high foyer with its ornately carved minstrel gallery, boasted a marble floor that, fortuitously for the police force, had been constructed using a chequered pattern of ebony-black and white tiles. This morning they sparkled from their overnight cleaning and Marie felt the familiarity of the old building wrap itself around her. This place was far more of a home to her than her small, neat estate house on the edge of town. And, she thought ruefully, she certainly spent one hell of a lot more time here.

  Across the hall she could see Jackman hurrying towards her.

  ‘Morning, guv. How’s our self-confessed murderer this morning? Has he calmed down after his outburst in the interview room?’

  Jackman thrust his hands deep into his pockets. ‘He’s in hospital.’

  Marie’s bright start to the day began to fade. ‘Why?’ she asked with a frown.

  ‘He nearly brought the custody suite to a standstill last night. Scared the life out of the night shift. Screaming fit to . . .’ He broke off and pulled a face.

  ‘Kill?’ Marie grinned. ‘We are allowed to use that word, sir, even when referring to murderers, or alleged murderers.’ They fell into step and headed for the lifts. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘The custody sergeant thinks it was a nightmare, but Kinder was in such a state they called the medical officer back in.’ Jackman pushed the button for their floor. ‘Apparently his blood pressure had rocketed, and considering the circumstances and his flaky condition, the FMO hedged his bets and had him taken to Saltern General for assessment.’

  ‘So we can’t interview him. Damn.’

  ‘Well, the clock has stopped regarding the time that we can hold him, and his escorts have been warned not to talk to him about anything to do with the case, so I suggest in the meantime we get a bit of background on him, don’t you?’

  ‘Via the girlfriend, Skye Wynyard?’

  ‘Absolutely, whatever kind of name that is. And she’s due here, in,’ Jackman glanced at his watch as the lift doors opened, ‘twenty minutes.’ He stood back and let her enter the lift.

  ‘I’ll just go and get out of my leathers, and I’ll see you in the CID room, sir.’

  * * *

  When Jackman first set eyes on Skye, he decided that he had been wrong to assume that her parents had made a pretentious attempt to give their child an “original” name.

  Skye suited her. Simple as that.

  He watched her closely as Marie thanked her for coming in. Skye Wynyard had cornflower blue eyes and curly hair the colour of wet sand. And she was clearly worried sick over her boyfriend.

  As Marie briefly explained what had happened during the night, the girl’s curiously blue eyes widened even further. ‘Hospital? Oh no! Can I see him?’

  ‘I’m sorry, that’s not possible. He’s still under arrest.’

  ‘But . . .’ She fiddled anxiously with a thick bracelet. The dozens of tiny amethyst chips made an irritating chinking noise.

  Jackman gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘As Sergeant Evans says, you can’t see him yet, but we’ll arrange a visit as soon as we know what is going on.’

  Her face was full of concern, and Jackman knew that her nervousness had nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with finding herself in a situation that she didn’t understand. The girl was bewildered. She flopped back resignedly in her chair.

  Jackman continued to watch her. He liked to see what his professional instincts told him, then compare notes afterwards with Marie. Sometimes they agreed, but mostly he found himself backing off, cursing his purely academic surmises, and taking on board his sergeant’s far more intuitive observations.

  In Skye’s face, Jackman saw honesty, worry, and what he took to be determination. He hoped it was determination to set things straight about Kinder.

  ‘Do
you believe that Daniel is capable of murder?’ asked Marie bluntly.

  ‘Not in a million years.’ Skye’s chin was thrust forward. ‘He’s a gentle, thoughtful, clever man, certainly not a killer.’

  ‘And how long have you known him?’

  ‘Around four years. We’ve been seeing each other seriously for two.’

  ‘And where did you meet him?’ asked Jackman.

  ‘He came to the hospital where I work. I’m an occupational therapist at Saltern General,’ she frowned, ‘where he is now, I guess.’ The frown disappeared. ‘Daniel is an investigative journalist, and there had been a lot of bad press at the hospital. An MRSA outbreak and a big hoo-ha about poor staffing, you know the score with the NHS, but Daniel did an article about the unsung heroes. He took a very different slant on what goes on in general hospitals and saw it from the nurses’ and the staff’s perspective.’ She looked at them almost shyly. ‘When I read the piece in the paper, I was bowled over by his sensitivity, and yet the writing had real power. He didn’t care that he was treading on the administration’s toes and would probably get hauled over the coals. It read as if he believed every word, and when I got to know him better, I realised that he did.’ She gave them a tired smile. ‘It was funny, but on the day he first interviewed me, I knew instantly that we would become friends.’ She turned her gaze to Marie. ‘Just one of those moments, know what I mean?’

  Marie nodded, and Jackman saw understanding and intense sadness in his sergeant’s eyes. He sensed that she and her late husband Bill must have had a similar experience, and for a second he allowed his mind to ponder on where that magical point in time had taken place. Wherever it had been, Jackman was sure a motorcycle would have been involved. Bill Evans had been one of their finest motorbike cops and his love of racing had been the cause of his early demise. Jackman sniffed and brought his mind away from the past and back to the interview.

  ‘So why, in your opinion, has this “gentle” man suddenly confessed to a brutal murder?’ Marie was asking.