by J. S. Spicer
J. S. Spicer grew up in the West Midlands of England, where she still lives. An avid and enthusiastic reader from childhood she now indulges her passion for writing and is the author of the Edward Gamble Mystery novels (The Art of Detection, Canvassing Crime and The Mystery Artist), and of the Blackbridge crime series (Fallout and Sweet Murder).
Also by J. S. Spicer
The Edward Gamble Mystery Series:
The Art of Detection
Canvassing Crime
The Mystery Artist
The Blackbridge Series:
Fallout
Sweet Murder (coming soon)
FALLOUT
(A Blackbridge Novel)
By
J. S. Spicer
Copyright © 2016 Julie Spicer
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
For my family
CHAPTER ONE
She was later than she’d intended.
The house looked peaceful. A single bulb poured a cone of light into the porch. Soft lamplight trailed the curtain edges. A normal suburban home; semi-detached, respectable, ordinary.
She hesitated on the pavement, breathing deeply of the darkness. Stepping through the front gate a chill wind caught her. She shuddered, pulling her coat tight. Her footsteps sounded louder than usual as they struck the narrow path.
The door opened before she could get the key in the lock.
He was waiting for her.
On the short walk from the bus stop she’d rehearsed it all in her head; the excuses. The lies.
He smiled with lips thin and blunt, pulling the door wide.
She stepped into the hallway, blinking away the sudden brightness. The door snapped shut behind her, sealing her in heavy silence.
Again she shuddered, but she had her story all ready.
With cold and trembling fingers she unbuttoned her coat and hung it on one of the pegs on the wall. Not just any peg; hers, second from the left. She slipped off her shoes and placed them neatly beneath the console table, feeling the prickle of carpet fibres against her stockinged feet.
Shoes were never worn in the house.
Straightening up she caught a glimpse of herself in the hallway mirror; the mirror they used for that final check, the straightening of his tie, the last tidy of her hair.
The reflection flung back at her was that of a scared woman; eyes too large in her narrow face. She wasn’t a good liar. She’d decided it was best to keep it casual, don’t overdo it.
“Staff meeting ran over,” she told him, avoiding eye contact, looking anywhere else, everywhere else. “And then the traffic!” She gave her head a shake, hiccupped a jerky laugh and moved quickly into the kitchen.
He was quiet. Too quiet. It was one of the danger signs.
“I’d better get on with dinner, you must be starving.”
He followed her into the kitchen. Too close and still too quiet.
She tried to ignore it, the malice emanating from him, filling every corner of the room.
She headed for the fridge.
“I think I’ll do that salmon, it won’t keep much…”
The words withered in her mouth. There, in the middle of the kitchen table, was his briefcase, lid wide open, contents exposed.
He knew.
She tried to gather herself, to maintain the ruse, but her thoughts wouldn’t form into coherent words or actions, they just fluttered hopelessly in her brain as panic set in.
Before she knew it he was right behind her, pressing against her, dry lips at her ear. “Where is it?” His voice was low, a coarse whisper that grazed her soul.
Too quiet.
She was shaking now, her voice weak and tremulous when she spoke, but she couldn’t crumble. “I don’t know what…”
“Where,” He pressed closer still, inhabiting the same space as her. “Is the key?”
“What key?”
Then his hand was at her throat. He spun her to face him. For a second she looked into the face of fury, dazzling and twisted. Suddenly she was propelled backwards, her feet scrambling against the kitchen tiles. She gasped as her spine slammed into the kitchen worktop.
She’d known the risk, had hoped he wouldn’t miss the key until it was too late.
She knew it would be bad.
It was always bad.
So close now his breath washed over her. She didn’t dare speak again. She shook her head, acutely aware of the hand still around her throat, tightening slowly.
Whatever happened she couldn’t tell him. This was her only chance, she wouldn’t get another. She must stick to the plan.
It was the only way to escape.
**
Almost midnight. He was sitting at the foot of the stairs. He’d really like to get some sleep, to climb those stairs and sink into oblivion for a few hours, but that wasn’t possible.
He’d turned the whole house upside down; emptied out her handbag, torn through her coat pockets, checked every scrap of clothing in the wardrobe. He’d looked everywhere; pulled out every drawer, combed through every cupboard, box, chest and caddie they owned.
It had to be here, somewhere.
It had to be in the house.
He felt the rage building again, snapping at the heels of his patience. Earlier that evening it had gotten the better of him. He’d lost control. But now he needed to stay calm, stay focussed, however difficult that might be.
It was all Carol’s fault. She knew the rules but had broken them. It had always been up to him to take care of the important matters, she knew that. There was a natural order, a balance of power. Her betrayal had tipped the scales.
She had no right to take it. That tiny silver key, that symbol of submission. A mark of trust; what was valuable and personal to her she had given, and given freely, into his safe keeping. To take it back was insulting.
He stood and stretched. There was still much to do before morning.
He returned to the kitchen.
There was a lot more blood than he’d expected. On his knees, wearing bright yellow rubber gloves, Hugh Bishop went to work with a stiff brush. Every now and then he dipped it into the froth-filled bowl next to him. The water had turned pink again, he noted with a sigh.
Hugh sat back on his heels. Even in death his wife was making his life a misery. He glanced to his left.
She lay sprawled across the floor, a broken doll, thin legs bent awkwardly and her face turned towards the wall. The towels he’d packed around her were fast becoming saturated; they’d have to go too. Hugh had been the one to turn her head towards the wall, so she couldn’t watch him.
Even though she was dead.
Even though he’d stabbed out her eyes.
He got to his feet and picked up the bowl. Emptying out the tainted water he re-filled, again. He’d thought killing her in the kitchen would be neater, with its tiled floor and wipe clean surfaces. But the blood didn’t like to be wiped clean. Instead it smeared, spreading into larger areas of contamination. The fine-grained floor tiles, seemingly so smooth, suddenly had a million tiny crevices which sucked up the blood and held on to it stubbornly.
As Hugh resumed scrubbing he thought, ‘This could take all night’. Then he realised he still had to get rid of the body. A few notions scurried across his mind; the river was the most tempting. Then he caught sight of the calendar hanging on the kitchen door; her calendar, the pages full of scrawled reminders; a pathetic
attempt to make her life look full and interesting. But one thing stood out, gave him an idea. He needed somewhere temporary, just to give him time to work out the best strategy.
By the time he emptied the bowl again he had a grim smile on his face.
CHAPTER TWO
Jennifer Kim swept clear an arc of mirror with the flat of her palm, swiping away condensation to release her blurry reflection from the bathroom mirror. It was early. Beyond the steamy window a pale blue dawn stirred, slowly brightening the sluggish sky. Fresh from the shower Jennifer was wide awake, ready for the day ahead. Her clothes had been carefully laid out the night before; cream blouse, dark navy skirt and jacket, and the flimsy blue and yellow cravat the bank liked their female employees to wear.
She’d been there a little over a week now; it was still shiny and new. Those long months of unemployment had been tough; constantly checking her dwindling bank account, going without to try and make the pounds and pennies stretch as far as possible. She certainly wouldn’t miss the raw panic she’d felt whenever a bill landed on the door mat. True, the job at the bank didn’t pay very much; she was on the bottom rung of that particular ladder. Even so, it was a regular income, a nice place with good people. It was a start, a new start.
That weekend she’d visited her family and for once it wasn’t a painful experience. They’d objected to her moving to Blackbridge. Why did she have to go so far away? It was barely thirty miles, hardly any great distance, but they’d fretted and worried for months. Now she could tell them she was fine, and really mean it. Her parents still weren’t entirely convinced, she could tell from their wary eyes and tight pressed lips, but at least Chrissie understood. Her sister was happy for her. Yes, Jennifer was on the up. Even her tiny flat looked less depressing as she padded out of the bathroom and picked up her hairdryer. She’d wear her hair up today.
She sat at the cramped dressing table by the window, face flushed from the heat of the shower. The thick towel wrapped around her and the heat from the hairdryer did nothing to chase the redness from her cheeks. She leaned to her left to tug the curtain aside and reach for the window latch. Instantly a blast of cold washed over her. The skin on her bare shoulders tingled as the chill air raised goosebumps along her arms; the rest of her remained toasty and warm inside the towel. She’d always enjoyed the contrast of warm and cool, hot and cold. She had a trusty old desk fan near her bed. Even at this time of year she sometimes switched it on at night, then burrowed under the covers to curl into a nest of warmth. And in the car, well, back when she still had a car, she’d loved to have the heater going full blast and at the same time open a window; warm feet, cool head, perfect! She’d had to sell the car months ago, when things were getting bad. Maybe soon she’d get another car; maybe a better one than before. But for now she’d stick to the train to get her to work and back, best not to get ahead of herself.
**
8:30am. The train was packed as usual. Joseph Myers was squashed between a skinny youth with an enormous backpack and a fat lady with sharp elbows. There were no seats of course; he and countless others were jammed into the aisles or in the spaces by the doors.
He could just see her.
She’d managed to find a seat, or perhaps some gentleman had offered it to her. Unlikely, these things were a rarity; it was every man, or woman, for themselves during the rush hour crush. But not entirely unheard of, after all, that’s how they’d met. A wave of heat surged deep in the pit of his belly as he thought about that morning. Every day since had been a gift, a waking dream he drifted through, light-headed and blissful, his heart securely anchored to the woman on the train.
She’d been so grateful when he gave up his seat that day. Her smile had lit up the carriage, lit up his life. He’d been seized by that smile. Straight, white teeth, the hint of a dimple in the swell of her cheek; he lived and breathed to see that smile again.
He felt it immediately, that connection, that understanding between them. They’d talked, just a little. She’d told him she was starting a new job. Ironically it was the very same day he lost his job, fired for being repeatedly late. He didn’t care; he hadn’t liked the job at the supermarket and was on the verge of quitting anyway.
He’d been late that day because of her. But she was worth it.
Now she wore the navy blue uniform of the bank, but that first day she’d worn tailored trousers, perhaps a suit, he couldn’t tell beneath her long, buttoned-up red overcoat.
He thanked God for that red coat.
The day they’d met there had been just those few crumbs of small talk and then she’d been quiet, her gaze finding the windows and the unappealing view beyond of terraced houses, haphazard allotments and industrial estates. He’d caught her eye a couple of times and she had smiled; again that radiant smile.
When the train had pulled into the stop where he was supposed to get off he stood perfectly still, watching for any signs of movement from the beautiful woman in his seat. She stayed on the train, and so did he.
Two stops later she rose, said ‘excuse me’ and squeezed past, heading for the doors.
Joseph had followed.
He would have lost her in the crowds had it not been for that coat; a beacon flaring amongst the drab work wear of other commuters.
He didn’t need to follow her today. He now knew where she worked. He knew where she lived. He knew that she lived alone.
He didn’t need to follow her.
But he did anyway.
CHAPTER THREE
Max Travers was aware of the hangover before he was fully awake; consciousness grudging and unpleasant. A sickly-sweetness crusted his tongue, and his head felt like someone was reaching in and squeezing his brain.
He blinked a few times before his eyes agreed to open fully. As his vision cleared the first thing he saw was the whisky bottle, almost half empty.
God, he was turning into his father.
Max forced himself into a sitting position, untangling his legs from the duvet and placing his feet on the thin blue carpet. He’d chosen the carpet for this room, when he was twelve. Over twenty years ago.
He rubbed his face and tried to ignore the bile squirming in his stomach.
He looked around the room, his old bedroom. Could he consider it his ‘old’ room now that he inhabited it again?
His father had changed nothing. The same faded wallpaper. Same carpet, dark blue except for the patches bleached by sun and time. Even the slate grey curtains keeping the morning at bay hadn’t changed.
Max pushed himself up gingerly and shuffled to the window. He pulled back those grey curtains, even though the sudden rush of light stabbed his eyes.
His room overlooked the garden. A perfect square of land. The lawn was intersected by a white path, running right down its centre. It led to a patio at the end; a quiet haven cradled by high hedges.
There sat Gus Travers, bundled up in his favourite cardigan, his chair positioned in a strip of morning sunlight, reading the paper with a cup of coffee steaming next to him.
It was a peaceful scene, but Max felt no urge to join the old man. It was a ritual of his father’s; his early morning breath of air, no matter how cold it got, before he locked himself away in his study.
He knew he was being ungrateful. It had been three weeks since he’d moved back. Gus had raised no objections, laid down no rules, nor made any judgements about Max’s predicament. At first he’d hoped it would just be for a few nights, enough time for Lorraine to calm down.
She had calmed, but she hadn’t forgiven. Her initial fury at his indiscretion had hardened into quiet hatred. Lorraine would never take him back. He had to move on, which was tricky, since they worked together.
So here he was, back at the old family home, and who knew for how long.
Twenty minutes later Max had showered and dressed. Then the call came through.
There’d been another robbery.
He grabbed his keys, wallet and warrant card and hurried out of the house. H
e didn’t speak to his father, but Gus wouldn’t notice.
Blackbridge, like many English towns, had begun life as a village, a humble backwater which over time spread curious fingers wide and far, nibbling away at the surrounding countryside until it built into an untidy urban sprawl. The town straddled the rolling waters of the river. Cottages and smithies had been replaced across the years by housing estates and business parks, criss-crossed with black tarmac roads carrying the buzz of modern life. A cast iron bridge built in the early nineteen century had given the settlement its name, breathed life into it, that simple span across the water opening up endless possibilities.
With time and development another two bridges had been built, one up river and one down of their stately forefather. The new bridges had none of the architectural romance of the black bridge, but they were straight and efficient, and now saw far more passing traffic than the first.
It was the route across the southern bridge that Detective Inspector Max Travers took that morning. As soon as he was free of the restrictions of the bridge’s traffic management system, he floored the accelerator. He sped along the dual-carriageway, lights flashing, siren screaming. The call had galvanised him, hungover or not. Another robbery.
He had a location, nothing else yet. He’d prefer to get all the details for himself. Would it be like the others?
There’d been a series of robberies in the area. First there was a corner shop in North Blackbridge, then a bookmakers in the town centre, next a Post Office. All carried out by a lone individual carrying a hand gun. The shopkeeper in the first robbery had put up a fight and been shot in his thigh. A clerk at the Post Office had become hysterical and the offender had beaten her. Whoever was carrying out these robberies was getting bolder and seemed to be scaling up.