Beneath the Ashes

by Jane Isaac

  Within seconds she was enveloped in hugs from both of them. It was a while before they pulled away.

  “I’m so sorry about the fire,” Nancy said. “Is there much damage to the shop?”

  “Shops can be mended,” Karen said dismissively. “You’re both still here. That’s what matters.”

  “It’s your business.”

  “It’s not your fault that some mad woman has gone on a rampage, Nancy,” Becca said. “The insurance will sort it out.”

  “Needed a bit of a makeover anyway,” Karen said, smiling. “Hasn’t been redecorated in years.”

  Nancy was overwhelmed by their kindness. And at that moment she realised she’d never really know the truth about Evan. She could only make judgements based on what she knew – he was acquitted at trial, he rented out the barn; he was nice to her. Maybe she was wrong and he had brought all of this on himself and risked her life and others along the way. But he was gone now and she would never know. It wouldn’t do any good to torture herself. Right now she needed to concentrate on what was important. The people around her. Ryan. He was there when she really needed him and had ended up in this state because of his loyalty to their friendship. She had to find a way to repay that somehow, make sure that she was a part of his recuperation. Because she knew it would be long and difficult.

  “You look exhausted,” Becca said. “We’re taking you home.”

  Nancy thought about the beautiful town centre shop with the mock-Tudor frontage. The flat above that had been their home for almost three years. She felt a stab of sadness. “We haven’t got a home.”

  “You’ve always got a home with me,” Karen said.

  Nancy followed them towards the exit. As she passed through the door, a figure was waiting on the other side, pushing to come through. They collided. Nancy smelled the nicotine before she pulled back.

  “Hello,” Cheryl said. “I heard about the fire. Came to see how you were.”

  “We’ll meet you downstairs,” Karen said. She patted Cheryl’s arm, trotted down the stairs. Becca looked back twice as she followed.

  Nancy stared into the eyes of her mother. It was time to make amends. She knew they would never have a conventional mother/daughter relationship. There were far too many absent memories for that. But if the events of the past few days had taught Nancy anything it was to accept people for what you know about them and move forward.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Jackman was awoken by the sound of knocking, followed by a gruff bark. He jerked forward, momentarily disorientated, and scanned the room. He was on the sofa in his front room. Erik was sitting by the door. He pushed his hair off his forehead, blinked a few times and glanced at the clock. 4.10pm. He could vaguely remember a taxi drive home from the hospital, a brief exchange with his neighbour as he collected Erik. He must have crashed out right here, slept through.

  He swallowed, flinched. His throat felt as though he’d swallowed a mouthful of sand as he slid off the sofa and stood. Ignoring the door he wandered through into the kitchen, filled a glass of water and glugged it down, followed by another.

  Knocking again. This time fist on glass. He wandered back into the lounge to find Davies’ face at the window.

  A pain shot through his right arm as he moved into the hallway and pulled open the door.

  “Evening,” Davies said, walking past him and into the house, before he’d had a chance to open his mouth. She was greeted by an enthusiastic Erik who burst through from the lounge, bouncing around the small area. “Evening to you too!” Davies said, chuckling as she bent down to pat his back. She looked back at Jackman. “How are you feeling today?”

  “All right,” he said, although his movements felt heavy and laboured as he pushed past her and guided Erik out of the hallway.

  “You look bloody awful,” she said, following him into the kitchen.

  “Thanks.”

  She grimaced at the bandage on his arm. A mixture of blood and water were seeping through the wadding. “That needs re-dressing.”

  “I’ll sort it out. What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come for a coffee,” she said. “Then I’m taking you back up to A&E, to get your dressing changed.”

  He gave a raspy cough. “God, you’re bossy.”

  “Well, if you will discharge yourself from hospital, what do you expect?”

  “I’m fine. Aren’t you meant to be at work?”

  “They can cope.” She busied herself with filling the kettle, crashing through the cupboards, one at a time.

  Every knock and bang reverberated around his head. “The mugs are in that cupboard,” Jackman said eventually, pointing at the other side of the kitchen. He watched her move around. “How are things?”

  At that moment his phone buzzed on the table. “Looks like you’re needed,” Davies said.

  Jackman grabbed his mobile. It was a text from Carmela:

  How’d it go today? Was thinking of you.

  He stared at it a moment, trying to think of something to say when it buzzed again:

  Shall I put the champagne on ice?

  A smiley face sat next to it. Jackman let out a long sigh and placed it face down on the table.

  The phone danced on the surface of the table as another message came through. Davies passed him his coffee. “They’re persistent,” she said.

  “It’s Celia,” he lied.

  “Ah. Does she know about the fire, your injury?”

  He shook his head. “No, and she isn’t going to. I don’t want anything messing up her trip. Now are you going to tell me what’s happening back at the station?”

  “All right, but you are signed off sick. Janus’ll do her nut if she finds out I’m here.”

  “She’ll be tied up with her new campaign against drugs. Go on.”

  “Okay, well, the CPS have agreed for us to charge both the Bucktons with murder. We’re still awaiting the full forensic report from the barn. We’ve reopened Angie Fraser’s file too and are looking at her associations with Sheila Buckton. It seems unlikely that there were suspicious circumstances to her death, but the techies have found a wealth of emails exchanges between the two, right up to the moment Angie disappeared.”

  “And Anderson?”

  “That’s an interesting one. We’ve had more intelligence through that suggests Anderson was keeping guns at his garage that was torched, and dirty cash too.”

  “They wouldn’t be covered on his insurance.”

  “Quite. There’s also been a suggestion that the victim was short-changing him on supply, claiming the plants weren’t doing so well.”

  “That would explain how he managed to send some of it to Northampton.”

  “Exactly. It also explains why he broke into the farmhouse too. The texts suggest Evan and him were arguing. He wanted the guns away from Evan and into his possession, for protection from him and the Northampton dealers. Anyway, they’ve downgraded his charge to possession of firearms, conspiracy to burgle and handling stolen goods. We’ve shared the details with the drugs squad, to look into his role in the supply, but they’ve gone bananas, accusing us of wasting two weeks of surveillance for meagre charges. Even threatened to send Janus the bill.”

  Jackman scoffed. “I bet that received short shrift.”

  Davies laughed. “So it’s case building now. Making sure everything sticks. We’re winding down the incident room, moving everything back to Leamington.”

  “Any news from the hospital?”

  “Nancy’s been discharged. She has some minor superficial burns. They’re talking about bringing Ryan out of the induced coma in the morning.”

  “Poor kids. Has anyone been out to see Nancy and told her about the cannabis cultivation at the barn? It’s bound to come out with all this fanfare. Be much better if she heard it from us first.”

  Davies nodded. “Russell had that pleasure.”

  Jackman rubbed his forehead. Slowly the dust motes in his head started to settle. “How’s the lit
tle one?”

  “Looking at another nursery tomorrow.” She sucked an audible breath. “We’ll see how that goes.”

  They sat in comfortable silence, drinking their coffees. Jackman felt the caffeine seeping into his system, awakening his senses. The pain in his arm intensified.

  “Oh, almost forgot,” Davies said. “Did you know that Thames Valley are looking for DCIs?”

  Jackman looked up at her. “What?”

  “They’re running a board and advertising. Desperate apparently.” Davies shot him a lot. “Must be because they’re taking DCI Reilly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Apparently it’s closer to his home, less travelling. He leaves in a month. So, he’ll ride the wave of the new drive against drugs campaign as his passing shot to Warwickshire.”

  “Sounds about right.” Jackman allowed himself a relieved smile. If he’d have passed the board, he would have not only lost his team, but he would have taken DCI Reilly to Thames Valley with him. He wouldn’t have wished the fire on anyone, but right now he couldn’t be more thankful for the distraction. He grabbed his phone, worked through the messages from Carmela. Part of him longed to respond. But he just couldn’t find the words right now.

  Davies stood and placed her mug on the side. “Right, come on. Let’s go and get that dressing changed,” she said. Jackman gave one more glance at his phone, stood and followed her out of the door.

  Acknowledgements

  Warwickshire readers will quickly spot that Cherwell Hamlet is a fictional place invented for the purposes of this novel. However, Ardens Grafton and Exhall village are very real and if you find yourself in this vicinity do call in at The Fish pub at Wixford and have a drink beside the river; I’m sure you’ll receive a warm welcome. My thanks go to the people of Warwickshire for allowing me to take liberties with their beautiful countryside, with a special mention to Joyce Dooley whose local knowledge and assistance with finding different locations in and around Stratford-upon-Avon was indispensable.

  I’m grateful to Northamptonshire firefighters, Mike Rodden and Dave Billing, who were extremely generous with sharing their knowledge on the effects of fire. Any deviations from reality or errors in the book are purely my own.

  I’d also like to thank all the detectives and retired detectives who’ve helped with procedural research in this novel, most notably Ian Patrick and Glyn Timmins.

  Gratitude goes to Lauren Parsons, Lucy Chamberlain and Tom Chalmers at Legend Press for continuing to have faith in my work and believing in the DI Jackman series. I really enjoy working with you!

  Thanks also go to Mary Knight who gave me great insight into working farms.

  Since I started my writing journey I have received wonderful support from some lovely book clubs including Book Connectors, Shell Baker and Llainy Swanson at Crime Book Club, Tracy Fenton and The Book Club (TBC) on Facebook, David Gilchrist and UK Crime Book Club, Fran Osborne and all at Broughton Book Club, Lizzie Hayes and Mystery People, and the lovely Clare at Marvellous Readers, which was the first book club I was ever invited to as an author – an evening that will always be a special memory for me.

  So many friends have helped and supported me along the way with Beneath the Ashes: Rebecca Bradley, Ian Patrick and Louise Voss were wonderful early readers and gave valuable feedback. Colin Williams very kindly carried out the first proof read. Also, Derek Archer, Emma Thompson, Stephanie Daniels, Philip Bouch and far too many more to mention – you know who you are. Finally, Dad and Lynne – I’ve dedicated this one to you both to thank you for your unrelenting support through all the ups and downs with my writing and there have been plenty!

  And of course, David and Ella, my nearest and dearest who make it possible for me to write. I really appreciate you guys.

  We hope you enjoyed Beneath the Ashes, the third Legend Press novel from Jane Isaac, and the second in the DI Will Jackman series.

  Jane’s Legend debut, The Truth Will Out, was described by best-selling crime author, Phil Rickman, as ‘tense and cop-savvy’. Following this gripping police procedural was Before It’s Too Late, described as ‘a dark, tense and pacy thriller’ by SJI Holliday.

  The Lies Within is Jane’s forthcoming novel, and tells the story of Grace Bannister, whose daughter’s body is discovered in a Leicestershire country lane. With her family falling apart and the investigation going nowhere, Grace’s only solace is the re-emergence of an old friend who seems to understand her loss. But when the police discover another victim, the spotlight falls on Grace. Can DI Will Jackman find the killer, before she is convicted of a crime she didn’t commit?

  If you can’t wait to read more, here’s a sample of Before It’s

  Too Late, available online and from all good bookshops:

  Chapter One

  A rumble in the background woke me. I could feel something rolling, somewhere nearby. Gently, side to side, like a baby rocking in a crib.

  I swallowed, slowly opened my eyes. The images were unclear; bleary dark shadows flickered about in the distance.

  The rocking continued, and I suddenly became aware that it was my own body moving. A wave of panic caught me. As much as I tried, I couldn’t keep it still. I had no control over my limbs.

  Rivulets of sweat trickled down my neck. More blurred images. The sound of an engine.

  Darkness. I was travelling in a vehicle with no windows.

  I tried to recall earlier: the thump of music, the babble of conversation punctuated by bouts of laughter. Hanging my head over a toilet pan. Pressing my cheek to the cold tiles in the cubicle. Worming my way through sweaty bodies jammed together, moving to the beat, drinks sloshing everywhere. I needed air, and quick. Tom’s face contorted in anger, the muscle in his jaw flexing as he spoke through tight teeth. The slam of the pub door behind me. The relief at emerging into the silvery darkness. Alone. The throb of an engine as it revved behind me.

  My thoughts fragmented and faded. Little pieces of the jigsaw were missing. I reached for them in the semi-darkness, but they danced about on the periphery.

  My head grew heavy, a thick smog began to descend on my brain.

  The van stopped abruptly, snapping me back to the present. I was shunted forward. A pain speared through my foot and up into my calf. I couldn’t move, yet I still felt the sharp ache.

  The engine cut. The grate of a door as it swung open. A soft breeze reached in and tickled my hair.

  Footsteps shuffled around me. Hands reached beneath my armpits. Warm breaths on my neck. Dragging.

  I mustered every ounce of energy to turn my head and let out a gentle moan.

  The breathing instantly halted. The grip released.

  A cloth was pressed down on my nose and mouth. A sickly-sweet smell. I desperately wanted to struggle, I tried to, but my limbs felt like they were immersed in a puddle of glue. The world spun around me. Slower and slower. Gradually fading. Until my brain became an empty well of darkness.

  Chapter Two

  Detective Inspector Will Jackman lowered the window and sucked in a wave of crisp air. Stars peeped down at him through the dark blanket of sky above. A moth flew into the car and fluttered about on the dashboard but he ignored it, relishing the breeze that rushed through his hair as he pressed on.

  The sweet scent of grass mingled with wild honeysuckle wafted into the car. The smells were always stronger in the dark hours, especially that gap between 2 and 5am when the roads were quiet and the people of Stratford rested in their slumber. It reminded Jackman of his early years in the police, working instant response on a rolling shift pattern around the clock. The whole atmosphere changed at night. Jobs were more sporadic but intense. Colleagues rallied around in support. Emotions were heightened. Back at the station things took on a much lighter feel, practical jokes came to the fore in an effort to lighten the load and stave off the fog of fatigue.

  Jackman cast the memories aside and pushed on, leaving the town behind him, through a tunnel of trees that cast hazy shadow
s on the road ahead. By day, Warwick Road Lands was a haven for riverside wildlife, walkers, families sharing their picnics with the ducks in the balmy sunshine. As the sun subsided and the birds roosted it grew peaceful once more, haunted only by the occasional footfall of a passing fisherman, the call of an owl or the swoop of bats, hunting their prey.

  He grew closer, turned into the empty car park and stopped the car. Gravel scratched beneath his feet, the sound elevated in the darkness, as he crossed the tarmac and made for the river bank.

  He glanced at his watch. It was 2am. Right here. This was where Ellen’s body had floated just over a week ago, huddled amongst the bulrushes on the water’s edge.

  On Saturday 3rd May, Ellen Readman had packed her suitcase into the boot of her black Ford Ka and climbed into the driver’s seat. Her face had stretched into a wide grin as she had lifted her hand to wave at her housemate, revved the engine and disappeared down the road. She was off to visit her Aunt in Corfu for a week’s break. A missing persons’ enquiry later revealed that she’d never even reached the airport.

  Media appeals followed, asking for witnesses to come forward, desperately trying to trace Ellen’s movements. Her car was last spotted by police cameras leaving Stratford on the A46. But, apart from the usual crank calls and the odd sighting earlier in the week, nothing to reveal what happened next. Until her body surfaced in the River Avon.

  If Jackman closed his eyes he could still see her lying there, tossed aside like a rag doll. Her face was concealed beneath a mop of long dark hair, thickly matted with Japanese knotweed. The t-shirt she wore was pulled tight across her bloated body, a short denim skirt clung to her thighs, her feet bare. Jackman let out a ragged sigh. Her parents came across from nearby Nottinghamshire to identify her body. Tissues pressed to tear-stained faces, distraught over the death of their youngest daughter. Twenty-two years old. Barely a couple of years older than his own daughter, Celia.

  Jackman sunk his hands into his pockets and glanced across the water. It was calm and still. The pathologist’s report indicated her body had been immersed in water for some time. Grazing on the backs of her thighs suggested she may have been lodged somewhere, freed up by the increased flow of the river due to the barrage of heavy rainfall the weekend before.