by Paul Gitsham
Praise for Paul Gitsham
‘Once again Paul Gitsham has produced an utterly gripping thriller’
‘Brilliant from start to finish. Love this series’
‘Paul never lets you down’
‘Beautifully written, well plotted and well researched’
‘Up there with the best series’
About the Author
PAUL GITSHAM started his career as a biologist working in the UK and Canada. After stints as the world’s most over-qualified receptionist and a spell ensuring that international terrorists hadn’t opened a Child’s Savings Account at a major UK bank (a job even duller than working reception) he retrained as a Science teacher.
Also by Paul Gitsham
The DCI Warren Jones series
The Last Straw
No Smoke Without Fire
Blood is Thicker Than Water (Novella)
Silent as the Grave
A Case Gone Cold (Novella)
The Common Enemy
A Deadly Lesson (Novella)
Forgive Me Father
At First Glance (Novella)
A Price to Pay
Out of Sight
PAUL GITSHAM
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
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London SE1 9GF
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HarperCollinsPublishers
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First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021
Copyright © Paul Gitsham 2021
Paul Gitsham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2021 ISBN: 9780008395292
Version: 2021-04-20
Table of Contents
Cover
Praise for Paul Gitsham
About the Author
Also by Paul Gitsham
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Thursday 24th November
Prologue
Sunday 27th November
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Monday 28th November
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Tuesday 29th November
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Wednesday 30th November
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Thursday 1st December
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Friday 2nd December
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Saturday 3rd December
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Sunday 4th December
Chapter 21
Monday 5th December
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Tuesday 6th December
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Wednesday 7th December
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Thursday 8th December
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Friday 9th December
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Saturday 10th December
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Sunday 11th December
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Monday 12th December
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Epilogue
Extract
Acknowledgements
A Letter From Paul
Dear Reader …
Keep Reading …
About the Publisher
To Cheryl xx.
For putting up with me.
Thursday 24th November
Prologue
Five days before the new moon and the country lane was close to pitch black, thick cloud obscuring what little light was available. The car headlamps, dipped to minimise unwanted attention, illuminated the shallow brook beneath the bridge.
For the next few minutes, the stillness of the night was broken only by grunts of exertion, until, with a wet thump, the wrapped bundle splashed noisily into the lazy flowing stream.
A bare arm flopped loose of its binding.
Quiet descended once more until the sound of metal on bone and teeth startled the creatures in the underbrush; an unseen bird squawked loudly, its wings fluttering.
But three miles outside of Middlesbury, in the middle of a late-November night, nobody was there to hear it.
Sunday 27th November
Chapter 1
The house was cold. Not just because of the late-November weather, or the lack of heating, but because it was empty. Warren Jones turned slowly on the spot. The kitchen was old-fashioned; the new owners would need to rip it out and replace it. The bathroom was also past its prime.
He tried not to think about the changes that were coming. The kitchen had been the same for as long as he could remember, but now he barely recognised it. He’d never noticed how the wallpaper had faded until he’d taken down the photos and the clock. The linoleum floor was shiny with wear, four small indentations the only evidence of the wooden dining table that he’d sat at for so many years. With the leaves folded down, it had been just the right size for three people to eat dinner, or for him to do his homework. Fully unfolded, the table had doubled in size. With his eyes closed he could picture it laden with food. How many Christmases and birthdays had he celebrated here? He could almost smell his grandmother’s cooking; they had never had double-glazing fitted, and he remembered the dripping condensation every time they had a roast dinner.
Reaching out, he scraped a trace of Blu Tack off the wall with his thumbnail. Christmas was less than a month away, but the ancient decorations that his grandfather hauled out of the loft each year were now gone, sent to the council tip down the A45 along with everything else the charity shops had turned their noses up at. A handful of ancient baubles that he couldn’t bear to part with were wrapped in bubble wrap in a box in the back of the hire van parked outside, along with some old books and childhood possessions that he’d never quite got around to moving to his own home.
This year it would be another family’s decorations hanging throughout the house – somebody else’s Christmas tree in the living room. A diffe
rent collection of voices would be laughing and singing and loving each other.
He hoped they would be as happy there as he had been.
He felt his wife’s arm snake around his waist, her head resting on his shoulder. ‘Do you want me to take a photo? For old times’ sake?’ she asked him quietly.
Warren shook his head and swallowed the lump in his throat. ‘No, I’ve plenty of pictures. Back from when … you know. I’d rather remember it that way.’
That’s the first thing he’d do when he and Susan arrived back at Middlesbury that evening, he decided. His computer’s hard drive was full of images that needed sorting and printing out, all of them treasured memories – newer, digital snaps of recent gatherings, older ones with Warren and his grandparents from Christmases before he even knew Susan, and scans of faded prints of Warren, his brother and his mother. There were far fewer than he’d like with his father also in shot. Even when his dad had been alive, he was usually the one behind the camera, selfies a technological impossibility with a point and click 35mm.
He pushed back his sleeve to look at his watch; it was almost eleven o’clock. Susan’s parents would be back from church soon and Warren and Susan had promised that they’d all meet for lunch, before visiting the graveyard and then driving the van the two hours back to Middlesbury.
Suddenly, he wanted to go.
Ever since Granddad Jack had had his fall, the house had ceased to be a home. The old man had never spent another night under its roof. And what was a house without its owner?
Warren took his keys out of his pocket. The key to his grandparents’ house was the oldest one on the bunch – he still remembered his grandfather handing it over to him the day he started secondary school. ‘So you can let yourself in if you pop in on the way home and we’re out.’
He’d felt so grown up.
Soon it too would be useless, the locks doubtless changed within days of the new owners taking possession. He twisted it off the keyring.
‘Let’s go. We can drop these through the estate agent’s letterbox on the way to lunch,’ he said, turning and walking briskly to the front door.
Following him, Susan said nothing as they emerged into the weak, autumnal sunlight.
A faint buzzing came from Warren’s coat pocket. Stopping on the threshold, he took out his phone, looking at the caller ID.
‘I need to take this,’ he said.
Today was booked as a rest day. His colleagues knew that he was busy this weekend. It must be important. Answering the call, he listened intently, asking only a few questions. Eventually he hung up. ‘We need to get back to Middlesbury. Can you drive? I need to make some calls on the way. I’ll text everyone and let them know we won’t be meeting them for lunch. We can post the keys when we get back.’
‘Why, what’s happened?’ asked Susan, although she could already guess.
‘They’ve found a body.’
Chapter 2
The body had been discovered a little after ten o’clock that morning. By the time Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones, the Senior Investigating Officer at Middlesbury CID, arrived at the scene shortly after lunch, the narrow country lane had already been closed at both ends with fluorescent-clad, uniformed officers diverting the traffic.
Charlie Pitt, the farmhand who’d made the grim discovery, sat on the tailgate of the ambulance, his hands clasped around a steaming mug of coffee, his feet covered in plastic forensic booties and his shoulders wrapped in a thick blanket.
‘He spotted a strange-looking bundle underneath the bridge when he was out fixing some fencing, and clambered down for a look-see,’ said Detective Constable Moray Ruskin. ‘The CSIs have taken his work boots and his coat for trace analysis. The lad that was with him stayed in the van and didn’t get out. He didn’t see anything.’
‘Is he up to speaking?’ asked Warren, grabbing the boot lid of Ruskin’s car for support as he climbed into a protective white suit. Ruskin was already clad in one of the super-sized paper overalls that he was forced to bring to crime scenes himself; the Scenes of Crime van didn’t routinely carry suits big enough for his six-foot-five-inch bulk.
‘Yeah, I think he just wants to get it over with so he can get back into the warmth.’
‘I can’t blame him for that,’ said Warren, already shivering despite the thick coat he’d kept on underneath his protective clothing. He didn’t know what time of year was worse to deal with a body outside – summer, when the smell and the flies had set in, or winter when you lost the feeling in your fingers and toes.
Pitt was a wiry man in his late thirties, with short-cropped, brown hair. ‘I wouldn’t normally come down here at this time of year, we won’t be planting anything until the spring, but some of the fencing needs replacing after the storms last month.’ He gestured to a flat-bed truck. ‘I brought young Kyle with me to give me a hand. Luckily, he didn’t get out and see the body,’ Pitt shuddered. ‘The lad’s too young to see that sort of thing.’
From what Warren had been told on the drive back from Coventry, nobody should be seeing that sort of thing, but it was his job to do so and he couldn’t put it off any longer.
Leaving Pitt to continue giving his statement to one of his uniformed colleagues, Warren picked his way carefully along the bank. The CSIs had laid down raised metal plates to prevent any footprints being disturbed, but they were already slick with wet mud. He didn’t fancy slipping over and landing in the icy stream.
The body had been dumped beneath a low, concrete bridge that crossed the water, allowing access to the field beyond. The space beneath the bridge was about five feet high; whoever had dumped the body would have been bent double as they did so.
A white tent had been erected around the site in an attempt to prevent further degradation by the elements. Inside, three white-clad technicians were busy searching for evidence, one of them wearing waders and kneeling in the stream.
‘Aah, DCI Jones, good to see you, Sir.’ The jovial Yorkshire accent and portly figure identified the speaker as Crime Scene Manager Andy Harrison; his greying ponytail was hidden from view by his hood. The face mask he wore prevented Warren from seeing the progress of the elaborate moustache he’d been cultivating during Movember.
‘Lovely day for it, Andy.’
‘Yeah, trust Meera to be on a rest day today.’
‘What have we got?’
‘One body – looks like a male adult, probably South Asian. The pathologist is due any minute, I’ll leave it to him to confirm.’ His mask twitched. ‘I’d say he’s been here a couple of days. But it’s going to take a while to identify him.’
Warren nodded, as he followed him under the bridge. The details he’d already been told suggested as much.
The naked body lay in a few inches of water, partially wrapped in a white cotton sheet. The head was barely visible, but what Warren did see looked mangled. Both of the man’s hands were free of the cloth. Again, Warren could see that they had been mutilated.
‘They removed his fingertips?’
‘Looks like it. All ten digits.’
Warren bent towards the head. The lower part of the face had been battered beyond recognition, the jaw a gaping mess.
‘Not much blood. Post-mortem?’
‘I’d say so.’
Warren straightened, careful not to hit his head on the concrete above him.
‘Well, whoever he was, the killer didn’t want us identifying him too soon.’
The expectant buzz in the briefing room quietened immediately when Warren walked in. It was now mid-afternoon, and all those assembled had heard about that morning’s discovery at Carrington Farm. Detective Superintendent John Grayson had just arrived back at the station; judging by his casual jumper and lack of tie, he’d been out for Sunday lunch when he was notified. Much of what Warren had to share with the assembled officers would be new to him as well.
Warren started by bringing everyone up to speed with what little they had so far. There were looks of disgu
st around the room as he detailed the post-mortem violation of the victim’s body.
‘As always, the most pressing priority will be identifying our victim. He’s naked with no mobile phone or wallet; fingerprints are out of the question, obviously. I’ll speak to the pathologist about using dental records but judging by the state of the mouth that’s not looking promising. That leaves DNA; maybe he’s on the system already.
‘Andy Harrison thinks that the victim was dumped within the last few days – certainly not long enough for significant decomposition to set in, despite his exposure to the elements. Moray, I’d like you to liaise with Missing Persons. See if anyone matching his description has been reported in the past week. If you don’t find anything, continue working backwards; our victim might have gone missing some time before he was killed.’
Ruskin started making notes on his pad.
‘That body had to find its way to the dumping ground somehow. Mags, I want you to secure CCTV and number plate recognition from the surrounding area.’
‘I’ll see what I can find, Sir,’ said DS Richardson, the team’s resident CCTV expert, ‘but I’ll warn you now, that far out of town, there’s not going to be much. The closest speed cameras are a couple of miles away, and there’s almost no ANPR out there.’
‘Could the killer have known that?’ asked DS David Hutchinson. ‘Are they familiar with the area? Did they know where they were going to dump the victim, or were they driving around with a dead body in the boot, looking for a convenient ditch? It looks as though the body was well-hidden.’
‘It was,’ confirmed Warren. ‘It was spotted by a farmhand from the field side of the ditch. Bushes block the view from the road, even at this time of year.’
‘They may well know the road, Hutch,’ said Richardson, ‘but I wouldn’t infer too much. It’s a busy cut-through linking the A506 with the Cambridge road. My satnav has directed me down there when the traffic is bad on the A506. Anyone living that side of town probably knows the road.’
‘But do they know about the ditch?’ mused Warren.
‘What state are the verges in?’ asked Hutchinson.