by JANICE FROST
DIRTY
SECRETS
A brilliantly gripping crime mystery
(Neal & Merry Book 5)
JANICE FROST
First published 2018
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, 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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©Janice Frost
THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF BRITISH TERMS IN THE BACK
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Shocking family secrets come to light when a young woman is murdered
Amy Hill, a nineteen-year-old student, is strangled and her body dumped on open ground in the city. New police partners, DI Jim Neal and DS Ava Merry are called in to investigate this brutal crime. The last person to see Amy alive was Simon, the son of a family friend, but before he can be properly questioned he disappears.
Detectives Neal and Merry are led on a trail of shocking family secrets and crimes. Can this duo track down the murderer before anyone else dies? Stopping this tragic cycle of violence will put DS Merry’s life at risk in a thrilling and heart-stopping finale.
If you like Angela Marsons, Rachel Abbott, Ruth Rendell, or Mark Billingham you will be gripped by this exciting new crime fiction writer.
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
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Glossary of English Slang for US readers
CHARACTER LIST
To my mother-in-law, Elizabeth.
Prologue
At last, the spires of Stromford Cathedral appeared on the distant horizon. Valerie Marsh had seldom been so glad to see them. She’d left her daughter’s house in Cambridge at five in the morning, hoping to beat the morning rush hour, but an overturned lorry on the A14 near Huntingdon had led to a delay of several hours, along with a thumping headache.
At least she’d left Ruth and Fin in better spirits than she’d found them a week ago. Her daughter, Ruth, and her partner, Fin O’Shea, had come down with a flu-like virus and were struggling to cope with their eighteen-month-old baby, Cam. Val hadn’t had the heart to refuse to go down, even though relations between her and Ruth had been a bit strained of late because of Ruth’s quarrel with her father.
A week of caring for her daughter and her family had left Val feeling exhausted. Things had been much worse than Ruth had led her to expect. As soon as she arrived, Val took one look at the pale, strained faces of her daughter and Fin and ordered them off to bed. They were happy to comply.
It was the first time Val had set foot in the terraced house that Ruth and Fin were renting, and she wasn’t impressed. Two-up, two-down was an exaggeration. The two-down had been knocked into one to create a single kitchen and living area, but the open-plan effect failed miserably. Ruth had described it as ‘cosy.’ It was merely cramped.
Val suspected that Ruth’s washed-out appearance wasn’t wholly attributable to the virus. Was her daughter suffering from post-natal depression? She didn’t like to ask. Lizzie hadn’t mentioned it, and Ruth would have confided in her aunt. Val felt a twinge of jealousy.
Now her daughter was on the mend, Val began to worry about Russ, her husband. He hadn’t been in touch for a couple of days, even though she’d left several messages on his mobile. She’d even called the landline and left a message on the answerphone. Not that Russ would see. She was the only one who ever checked. And when he was very busy, Russ had been known to shut himself away for days. Still, it was unusual, being out of touch for so long.
Russ had seemed anxious and preoccupied before her departure for Cambridge. After much probing, he admitted that there was some problem with the business, and had finally agreed to sit down and talk it over with her when she returned.
No doubt he’d be apologetic about forgetting to phone, and claim he hadn’t noticed the time passing. She’d find him in his study with two or three days’ growth on his face, most likely dressed in his lounge pants and that awful old T-shirt, the Star Wars one with Obe Wan Kenobe brandishing a sabre. The thought made her smile.
Val was right about one thing. She did find Russ in his study. Slumped over his writing desk, with a bullet through his head.
Chapter One
“Sir?”
Inspector Jim Neal had his hand on the door of the men’s washroom. He stopped, annoyed, and glared at DC Polly Jenkins. Can’t this wait? his look said, but PJ, as she was known, was on a mission.
“I’ve just taken a call from the desk. There’s a report coming in about a possible shooting incident at Stainham.”
Neal froze, and PJ was quick to reassure him that there wasn’t a sniper or a lone gunman roaming the streets of one of Stromfordshire’s prettiest villages.
“Single victim. White male. At his home. There’s a patrol car on its way over. Probably a suicide. Just thought you’d like to know.” Neal gave a perfunctory nod. He pressed on the door handle. “Would you like me to . . . ?”
Neal grunted, and pointed at the door. PJ made apologetic noises and scurried away.
A few minutes later, he walked back into the office that PJ shared with DS Ava Merry, and now also DS Tom Knight. Tom had joined Neal’s team after the departure of his own DI in ‘unfortunate’ circumstances.
“Any news?” Neal asked.
Ava put down the phone and gave him a nod. “Uniform are there now. The victim’s name is Russell Marsh. His wife discovered him about an hour ago in his study, shot in the head. She’d been staying at their daughter’s in Cambridge and drove back early this morning. Apparently it looks messy.”
“Right. Ava, you and I will head on over there now.” He turned to the others. “Tom, PJ, inform forensics and find out if Ashley’s available.” Ashley Hunt was Neal’s pathologist of choice. “Then see what you can find out about the victim. Desk will have the contact details.”
Neal left them to get organised while he collected his things from his office. He’d driven to work in a cheerful mood. His sister, Maggie, had recently become engaged to his lifelong friend, Jock Dodds. This would bring about changes in his domestic life, because Maggie lived with Neal and his eleven-year-old son, Archie, and helped look after the boy. But Neal was delighted — for them, and for himself. Jock, who lived in Edinburgh, had hinted that he might relocate to Stromford.
The prospect of a ‘messy’ shooting brought things back into perspective. Neal joined Ava in the kitchen, where she was screwing down the li
d on a plastic travel mug. He smelled coffee.
“Want one?” Ava asked.
Neal shook his head. “I’ll drive. You drink.”
Outside, it was a bright, clear morning. Autumn loomed. The leaves on the sprawling beech outside the station were tinged with orange and yellow. Soon it would be shorter days and trick or treating and fireworks, and then Christmas. Was it just him or did time seem to be passing at an alarming rate? He could hardly believe he’d been working with Ava Merry for over a year.
They made good time. Neal looked in his rear-view mirror and marvelled, as he always did, at how quickly town ceded to countryside in this part of the world. Now they were driving along quiet lanes lined with hedgerows.
“This is it,” Ava said. Neal saw the sign for Stainham on the left, but Ava was pointing right. He looked both ways, seeing nothing.
“Indicate right now,” Ava said, gesticulating. And then he saw it, an opening in the hedge, and the gravelly outline of a private road. “It’s set within the walled grounds of an old hall that was knocked down years ago,” Ava explained. She was looking the property up on her phone. She gave a low whistle. “According to Zoopla, it sold for five hundred grand.”
That was a lot for Stromfordshire, where house prices tended to be well below the national average.
Neal turned in and followed the road for about a quarter of a mile, swerving repeatedly to avoid the potholes. Clearly there hadn’t been any money left over to spend on road maintenance. The rooftops of the house rose into view over a high red-brick wall that was obviously much older than the house.
“It’s an executive dwelling,” Ava read off her phone. “Modern build. ‘Stunning reception hall with sweeping oak staircase, five bedrooms, landscaped gardens.’” Finally they left the potholes and turned into a circular drive. “The victim’s wife’s name is Valerie Marsh.” She shrugged. “I guess grief is grief, however much money you’ve got.”
There was no arguing with that.
A patrol officer was standing in the arched porch over the front door. He showed Neal and Ava into a reception hall. The impressive oak staircase lay ahead.
A second uniformed officer met them in the hall. “Mrs Marsh is in here, sir. She’s in a bit of a state, as you’d expect. Nice woman, as it happens.”
Neal caught the subtext. Mrs Marsh lived in a big house, and that conjured up a certain image, one of arrogance born of right and privilege. It was often hard to believe that someone in that position could also be a kind or good person.
The officer showed them into a sitting room painted in calm sage. More polished wooden flooring, and tasteful furnishings. Dual-aspect windows and glazed doors guaranteed not just ample light, but also views of the landscaped garden alluded to in the estate agent’s blurb. It featured a marble statue of a naked Greek goddess, water cascading over her from an urn held high on her shoulder.
Valerie Marsh sat, hunched on a sofa, looking as white as the goddess, wrapped in a velvety purple throw. She was shivering, despite the throw and the warm room. Shock.
“Mrs Marsh?” Neal said gently. “My name is Jim Neal. I’m a detective inspector, and this is Detective Sergeant Ava Merry. Firstly, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Val Marsh looked nervously at the door. Maybe she was seeing afresh her husband, dead at his desk. What must it be like to come home to a scene like that? Neal understood all too well. Not long ago, he had held his seriously wounded sister in his arms. Maggie had survived, but even now the memory of that near-tragedy haunted his dreams. It had changed him, he realised. Empathy is easier to access when it arises from personal experience.
Val Marsh picked at the fringed border of the throw. “Russ didn’t kill himself.” Her voice was steady, despite her distress.
“That’s what Sergeant Merry and I are here to investigate,” Neal said. “No one will make assumptions.”
“Well, I can tell you now. Russ wasn’t depressed. He’s not the sort of person to run away from his problems. He wouldn’t do that to Ruth and me.” She waved, dismissively. “Go ahead. Look all you like, Inspector, but don’t come back and tell me Russ did this to himself.” Val Marsh was putting up a strong front.
Neal gave a nod. “Please excuse us.”
Val pulled the purple velvet throw around her in a gesture that seemed at once regal and defiant. But it was neither. Beneath the velvet, her body was still shaking.
Leaving her with the uniformed officer, Neal and Ava crossed the hall to the crime scene. Neal braced himself. Beside him, Ava seemed composed, but he knew that she too was psyching herself up for what awaited them behind that door.
“It’s a bit gruesome, this one,” the first PC informed them unhelpfully. He pushed open the door.
Russell Marsh, slumped across his desk with his back to them, looked like he was sneaking a quick nap. His desk faced out toward the garden, and a beautiful cedar of Lebanon tree that must once have graced the old hall.
From where Neal was standing, it looked as though Marsh was wearing pyjama trousers and one of those old-fashioned quilted dressing gowns, drawn in at the waist with a cord. The tassel dangled at the side of the chair, stirring slightly in the draught from the open door.
Any illusion that he was merely sleeping was dispelled as soon as they neared the desk and took a closer look. Now they saw the blood, spilled out in front of him. And a substance that looked like tapioca. Brain matter. Neal thought of the porridge he’d had for breakfast and his stomach heaved. He swallowed.
“Where’s the gun?” Ava asked, briskly. The PC pointed to Marsh’s lap, where a sliver of something silver nestled in the folds of the dressing gown. Neal walked around the dead man, and bent over to get a better look. It was difficult to make any judgements without moving or touching him. They’d have to wait for forensics. And for Ashley Hunt, the pathologist.
“What do you think, sir?” Ava asked. Neal was conscious of the PC, waiting, no doubt, to hear his senior officer’s assessment of the situation.
“Impossible to say. Could be suicide. I can’t tell if there’s any residue on his fingers.”
“His missus will take some convincing that it’s suicide,” the PC remarked. Neal hoped he hadn’t offered her any opinions. Speculation about cause of death wasn’t something the deceased’s loved ones needed to hear. They needed facts and certainties, not the ramblings of amateurs. Neal counted himself in that category. Ashley Hunt and the forensics team were the only ones who could offer certainties here.
“That’s an old World War Two revolver,” the PC commented. “My grandad had one just like it, God rest his soul.” Neal wondered who had inherited the weapon upon the old man’s demise.
Neal and Ava returned to the sitting room. Someone had placed a tray of mugs on the coffee table. The PC was standing looking out at the view, and Val Marsh was sitting where they had left her, still wrapped in her throw.
She must have seen Neal’s eyebrow rise at the sight of the tea tray for she said, “My sister’s here. PC Solway here was kind enough to call her when he arrived. Lizzie’s good in a crisis. She makes tea.” At the mention of her name, a woman bearing a strong resemblance to Val appeared in the doorway, holding another tray. On it was a large tea infuser and a cafetière, a milk jug and sugar bowl and a plate of biscuits.
Lizzie smiled at the assembled group. “Someone has to.” PC Solway stepped forward to take the tray but she shook her head.
“Actually, it helps to be busy at times like this,” she said. Her smile became replaced by a worried frown at her sister. “You sure you don’t want me to call your GP, Val? You look terribly pale.”
Val dismissed the suggestion with a wave of her hand. Lizzie pulled a small bottle of brandy from her pocket. “Will you at least have a drop of this in your tea?” A nod. “It was in the kitchen, by the way. I’m not in the habit of carrying alcohol around in my pocket.”
Lizzie took everyone’s orders, including PC Burns who was still on guard duty in the hall
. While she busied herself distributing the drinks, Ava passed the biscuits round. Neal knew that she was studying the sisters every bit as attentively as he was.
They were close in age, perhaps as little as a couple of years apart. Lizzie looked to be the older of the two, but not by much. She was probably around fifty, Val a year or two younger, but any similarity ended there.
Val was elegant, well-groomed. Underneath the throw, she was wearing tailored trousers and a crisp, white shirt. Neal understood that she’d driven from Cambridge at first light, but she was remarkably unrumpled.
Lizzie’s fashion sense was a world away from her sister’s. She was wearing the sort of billowy trousers Neal’s sister, Maggie, favoured — harem pants, she called them. As Lizzie moved about the room, the black-and-white zigzagging pattern caused Neal to blink. Her top was cherry red, in some sort of crinkly material — or maybe she just hadn’t bothered to iron it. Neal wondered if the sisters’ personalities were as far apart as their appearances. At a guess, he’d say Lizzie was the outgoing one, but Val’s tasteful, understated look communicated poise and quiet confidence.
How to begin, when suicide was a possibility and murder not yet ruled out? Few relatives of suicides saw it coming, more so when the victim was male. Men are more likely to conceal their state of mind from their loved ones.
Neal wondered whether Val’s sister would agree that suicide was unlikely. He was keen to talk to Lizzie out of Val’s earshot.
“Mrs Marsh. You’ve told us how unlikely you think it is that your husband would take his own life . . .”
“That’s right, Inspector,” Val said. Lizzie had come to rest on the sofa beside her sister, and now placed a hand on her shoulder. “Russ believed in confronting his demons. He wasn’t a quitter.”
“Did your husband have demons?” Ava asked.