Detectives Merry & Neal Books 1-3

by JANICE FROST

  “Yeah. Can’t see it from here. Not that there’s a lot to see. Ham’s probably parked on the road at the other side of the field. I thought it might be just as easy for us to cut across the field as drive all the way round.”

  “Ham? Is he the rural and wildlife officer? The one you said was your nephew?”

  “That’s him. Hammond Bell. He was the ex’s sister’s boy. Bit of a weirdo, if you ask me. Building his own sustainable home out in the sticks, him and his wife. They’re living in a caravan in the woods until the house is finished.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “Yeah, well, each to his own, I suppose. I’m quite happy with my bachelor pad on the Oakwoods estate. Know it?”

  “Yeah,” Ava replied. She had heard PJ say that she and her boyfriend Steve were thinking about buying a starter home there. It was a large, unimaginative estate with a hotchpotch of new homes squashed in over the site of an old Victorian hospital. Some of the original buildings had been converted into flats and studios which sold as luxury accommodation at inflated prices. Ava would rather have moved into one of Ham’s eco homes than live there.

  They left the car and trudged over the field, entering a wood. Ava was surprised by the sudden stillness, the lack of light. Some lines from a poem she’d read at school popped into her head, something about the woods being, ‘lovely, dark and deep.’ She wasn’t so sure about the lovely. She’d always found woods a bit creepy. Jim Neal would probably know who the poet was. He seemed to like that sort of thing.

  The abbey ruin loomed up in front of them suddenly, as they broke through the wood and emerged into the field on the other side. Ava wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting. Fountains Abbey it was not. Only one wall and a crumbling stone tower remained of whatever structure had existed previously. She looked around. A series of information posts and earthworks marked the locations of lost buildings attached to the original monastery. A refectory, an infirmary, a dormitory. Once, long ago, this must have been a thriving community. Now it was a desolate spot, but also beautiful in a stark and lonesome sort of way. A police car was parked on the other side of a fence enclosing the site.

  “There’s Ham,” Saunders said, waving to an officer getting out of the vehicle. Ham strode over to join them. He nodded at Saunders and grinned. “I’ve been waiting in the car, it’s brass monkeys today. It’s not as if the scene’s likely to be contaminated. You only get the occasional walker or history buff out here at this time of year.” He turned to Ava.

  “This is DS Ava Merry,” Saunders said.

  Ham extended his hand. “PC Hammond Bell.” His smile was friendly, reaching his hazel eyes and making them twinkle. Ava had noticed him appraising her as he walked towards them from his car, and she’d given him the once-over too, deciding she liked what she saw. He’s married and you’re seeing someone, she reminded herself. Still, it was okay to look.

  “Where’s your body, then, Hamster?” Saunders asked, stamping his feet.

  “It’s on the other side of the monument,” Bell said, colouring at what was obviously a family nickname. Ava noted his respectful description of the ruin as a ‘monument,’ guessing that Bell had more than a passing interest in the ruined abbey’s history.

  They stepped through one of the stone arches. Bell pointed at a mound of earth about twenty feet away. The body lay beside it

  “Male. Aged around thirty, I’d guess. No ID on him.”

  “What’s your feeling?” Saunders asked Bell.

  Bell pursed his lips. “Looks well-dressed, so it’s unlikely he’s a vagrant. He’s not local, that much I can tell you. I know most of the folk in the villages around here and I’ve never seen him about. He’s a long way from anywhere if he wasn’t staying with someone local, though.”

  Instinctively, Ava scanned the ground around the body. Ham saw her looking. “The ground’s hard owing to the frost but there’s enough evidence of disturbance to the grassier areas to suggest he was dragged from the opening in the hedge near where I’m parked,” he said.

  “Why dump him out in the open?”

  “Maybe he was planning on dragging him a bit further.” Ham nodded in the direction of the woods.”

  “So why change his mind? Unless he was disturbed by someone.”

  “Or something,” Ham added. Ava caught Ham’s wink to Saunders. “This is a spooky place. They say it’s haunted.”

  “Yeah, right. Headless horseman? Casper . . . ?”

  “Satanist Premonstratensian monk, actually. Bricked up in the abbey walls. What you’re standing on is the site of a second abbey, built two hundred years after the original one was destroyed by the Vikings in 870. More than three hundred monks were slain, so this place is no stranger to murder.”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” Ava said.

  “Nor did I until I saw one,” Ham replied.

  Ava waited for him to elaborate.

  “I was scouting around this area one night last July, following a series of reports about badger-baiting in the area and I saw a figure dressed in flowing white robes flitting between those arches over there.” Bell waved an arm in the general direction of the ruin.

  “One of the murdered monks?” Ava raised a sceptical eyebrow.

  “I raced over and there was no sign of a living soul. And no way could anyone have made it across to the wood that quickly. I’m not easily spooked, Sergeant, but I legged it back to the car like my arse was on fire.”

  Ava laughed.

  “Have you searched the wood?” Saunders asked Bell.

  “Only as far as the treeline.”

  Saunders extracted a pair of gloves from his pocket and knelt down beside the body. He moved the head from side to side, while Ava stood by nervously, concerned about contaminating the scene before forensics arrived.

  She hoped that the backup team would arrive soon. She shivered. It was going to be a long, cold morning and her feet were already turning to ice.

  “I don’t suppose there’s anywhere a person could grab a coffee around here?” she asked Ham without hope.

  Saunders overheard and piped up. “There’s a bleedin’ Costa round back of that bush over there, Merry. I’ll have a cinnamon latte and a bloody croissant.”

  “No harm in asking,” Ava said unabashed.

  Bell whipped out his phone. “Rosie?” he said. “Think you could fix up a flask of coffee and some bacon butties for three? I’m up at Stainholme Abbey with Reg Saunders and his DS. Looks like we’re going to be a while . . . Yes, a body . . . Sorry, love, I can’t give you any details. Thanks, babe, you’re a star.” Bell grinned at Ava. “My wife’s day off today. I’ll stop by and collect our provisions in half an hour or so.”

  “You’ve got a good ’un there, Hamster boy,” Saunders said.

  “Yeah. She’s a keeper,” Bell agreed, beaming.

  “I hear you’re building an eco-friendly house,” said Ava. “Is it one of those cool little underground hobbit homes?”

  “Don’t get ’im started on the bleedin’ environment, Merry, unless you’ve got a spare lifetime or two.”

  Bell shook his head. “It’s above ground. Rosie and I designed it ourselves with a bit of help from a local architect. We’re using locally-sourced materials and it’s going to be very eco-friendly. Come and see it, if you like. You’d get on well with Rosie, I reckon.”

  Before Ava could say that she’d be interested, a couple of police vans arrived at the scene and from then on it was down to routine police work — securing the scene, accompanying the CSIs as they scoured the immediate area, looking for anything that might help piece together how their John Doe might have ended up here. Ava donned a coverall and combed the wood. From time to time she looked across at Saunders, who seemed more interested in chatting with one of the female SOCOs and smoking roll-ups. Ava felt a bit alone. She didn’t even recognise any of the SOCOs. Dan Cardew, a shy young CSI who was sweet on Ava wasn’t part of the team today. Working with Neal wasn’t a laugh a min
ute, not for nothing had he earned a reputation for being dour, but Neal was dedicated to the job in a way that Saunders clearly was not. Moreover, she trusted Neal and they had an attachment of sorts, though Ava preferred not to define exactly what it was.

  Unlike Saunders, Hammond Bell appeared to be one of those people who live for their jobs, although Ava thought he would be even more at home as some kind of environmental scientist. When she suggested as much, Bell shook his head. “I’ve never been very academic. Wanted to be a copper for as long as I can remember. I did a pre-uniform course at college until I was old enough to join the force. I grew up on a farm. My dad was a labourer so I knew a thing or two about animals, and this seemed a good way to combine my two passions. Besides,” he looked over at Reg Saunders, “Being a copper’s in my blood.”

  “You’re only related to DI Saunders by marriage, aren’t you?” Ava pointed out.

  Ham grinned. His phone rang. “That’s great. Thanks, babe, I’ll be about ten minutes.” He gave Ava the thumbs up. “Coffee and butties are nearly ready. I’ll swing home and collect them.” Ava gave him a look of gratitude that came right from the tips of her frozen toes.

  A search of the wood was important if it proved to be the case that the body had been abandoned because the killer had been disturbed. Even at this time of year, you could expect to find some evidence of people passing through, Ava knew. She sighed, thinking of the stiffened body. Whoever the man was, he had lain in this lonely spot overnight. Ava wondered if anyone had missed him. Was there a loved one somewhere wondering and worrying, already fearing the worst? Checking missing persons would be a first port of call. She thought of what Ham had said about him not being a local. She tried to summon up an image of his face and found that she could not.

  Something crunched under Ava’s foot. She bent down and raked her hands through the dead leaves. And picked up the cover of a salbutamol inhaler snapped in two. Not necessarily a piece of relevant evidence, but she took it and deposited it in an evidence bag anyway. It looked as though it hadn’t been outside for long. She handed the bag to one of the SOCOs. “Looks like the cover to an asthma inhaler, I think. Might be worth checking it?”

  Ava looked around for Saunders, and not seeing him, she made her way back to the body, determined to take a good look at his face. The problem was, she saw only an average-looking man with no distinguishing features. There was nothing at all to make him stand out in a crowd. He was the kind of person you passed every day on the street and didn’t notice. Ava was disappointed in herself. As a detective, she had trained herself to be observant, to notice what others would not. The man lying on the ground before her had not been killed because he was ordinary, she thought. He had provoked strong emotions in his killer, who had not looked at him and seen a bland, bearded everyman. With a sigh, she turned away, disappointed at her failure to connect with the victim.

  “Bet his mother loved him.”

  Ava started. She had not realised Reg Saunders was standing behind her. Where had he been a few moments ago when she’d been searching for him?

  “Funny how some victims give you that choking feeling and others just . . . don’t.” Saunders was only echoing more or less what Ava had been thinking. Still, she disliked his tone, his blatant lack of respect.

  She turned on him, momentarily forgetting their respective ranks. “That’s a person lying there. You could show a little respect.”

  “Come on, Blondie, you’re only getting excited because you feel the same way. Only you don’t care to admit it.” In a mocking tone, he added. “He had feelings, and somebody loved him, yada, yada, yada.”

  “My name’s Ava.”

  “So what? I like to give people nicknames. You should be flattered, not everyone gets a cute one. Lighten up, Sergeant.” He blew cigarette smoke in her face and walked away.

  Ava stared after him in disbelief. Trouble was, he hadn’t said anything all that offensive. It was his tone and the narrowing of his eyes, daring her to challenge him. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of accusing her of being priggish . . . Let it go, a warning voice inside her head cautioned, and she listened. For once.

  At that moment, Hammond Bell returned with the coffee and butties and Ava had to restrain herself from running up and hugging him. They ate in Ham’s car. Ava listened with interest as Ham related some of the history of the site. Stainholme had been only one of seven monasteries scattered across the Strom valley, all within a few miles of each other. “Because of the River Strom,” Ham explained. “The monks — all the different orders — some of them Benedictine, others Cistercian and Premonstratensian — relied on the trade links it provided with Stromford and the ports to Europe. Their livelihood came from trading — wool, mostly.”

  “What happened to them?” Ava asked.

  “Er . . . Henry VIII? Remember your history?”

  “Oh, yeah, right.” History hadn’t been her favourite subject at school. Jim Neal would be fascinated by all this. No doubt he already knew all about it. She felt herself warming to Hammond Bell. He was clearly a person with genuine passions for the environment and local history.

  Saunders finished his coffee and left them to it. Ava watched him walk across to the body and pace around it slowly. He looked more like a predator circling its prey than a police officer examining a crime scene. Ham saw her looking. “Don’t let him get to you,” he said quietly. “He was married to my mum’s sister but they’ve been divorced for years. My mum doesn’t speak to him because of the way he treated my aunt Karen. He’s my uncle but I don’t really know him well.”

  “It’s not your fault that you’re related to him.” They both smiled.

  After a flying visit from pathologist Ashley Hunt, who declared that he could tell them nothing until he got the body back to the lab, the unknown man was bagged and tagged and removed from the scene. Ava breathed a sigh of relief as she trudged back over the frozen field to Saunders’s car, glad to escape the forsaken ruin. She guessed conversation between her and Saunders would be sparse on their drive back to Stromford and was proved right when he put on a CD as soon as she belted up. Two can play at that game, Ava thought, pulling her iPod from her pocket and sticking her ear buds in under her hat. Even though she could still hear Saunders’s music above her own, she felt she had scored a point.

  Chapter 3

  James, aka Jock, Dodds, was watching him. Neal was pretending to be asleep. He didn’t want another conversation about how he was feeling. How he was feeling was still angry. At his sister Maggie’s attacker, certainly, but his anger was also turned inwards, on himself, which, as Jock kept reminding him, was not a healthy way to deal with powerful emotions.

  Jock was feeling pretty emotional himself, Neal suspected. He had always liked Maggie and the news of her attack had given him a shock. Perhaps almost losing her would make him act on his feelings at last.

  He caught Jock’s eye and scowled at him.

  Jock shook his head. “You spend half the night pacing up and down, the other half tossing and turning. You’ve hardly spoken for days and you look like hell. Oh, aye, and you’re starting to smell.

  “I know this trip was my idea, Jimmy . . .”

  “Aye, that it was.”

  “Fresh air, exercise . . .”

  “The restorative power of nature. Just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Aye, something like that.” They’d driven up from Edinburgh the previous afternoon, a long journey, and the conversation had been hard going. Neal had stared out of the window most of the time, eyes on the view, mind elsewhere. And not just anywhere, but at a particular time and place, watching the blade of a knife slicing into his sister’s throat over and over.

  Jock grunted. “I’m going into Fort William to get some supplies. Are you coming?” Jim shook his head. “Take it easy today then, Jimmy. Tomorrow we’ll have a wee walk.”

  The ‘wee walk’ Jock had in mind was a ten hour hike to the summit of Ben Nevis, reached, not from the to
urist route, but via the summit of its neighbouring Munro, the majestic, Carn Mor Dearg.

  “See you later!” Jock called as he left Neal to his gloomy thoughts.

  As soon as Jock was out the door, Jim Neal felt a pang of guilt. He was aware that his friend was concerned for him, but Jock’s constant attempts at elevating his mood were becoming annoying. He should never have agreed to the walking trip. It hadn’t been part of the plan when he, Archie and Maggie decided to see in the New Year in Scotland like they always did.

  Neal looked at the clock and wondered what his son was up to. He’d stayed behind in Edinburgh with Maggie. Both of them were excited about a trip to the zoo to see the pandas. Neal stood up, stretched and crossed to the window. Maybe tomorrow would be better, he thought, gazing out at the darkly brooding mountain range. One step at a time makes good walking, Jock had said to him on the drive up from Edinburgh. As if a long walk was all that was needed to lift Neal’s spirits. But maybe Jock was right. Perhaps his low mood would lift as he made the arduous ascent to the summit of the Ben tomorrow.

  * * *

  After three hours of steady walking, Jim Neal and Jock Dodds reached the dramatic, narrow arête connecting Carn Mor Dearg to its more famous peak, Ben Nevis. Before them, the north face of the Ben was threaded with wispy clouds. Both men stooped to attach crampons to their boots, a necessary precaution at this time of year on the snow-sprinkled ridge.

  “This is where you’re glad you avoided the tourist route,” Jock said. “Look at those views, man.

  Makes you feel proud to be Scottish.”

  Neal didn’t respond. With a referendum on Scottish independence looming large, every other person he’d met was on political high alert.

  “Better crack on. Make the most of the light,” Jock said. For a while the only sound was their laboured breathing and the crunch of their footsteps in the snow. It required concentration and focus to avoid a fall. Lachie weaved ahead of them finding his way surefootedly around the granite stones and boulders. Every now and again he stopped to check they were still behind him. On the few occasions he strayed from the ridge and slipped in the scree, Jock cautioned him with a, “Lachie! Mind how ye go, you stupid canine.”