The Voyeur
DS Albie Edwards Series Book 1
Kimberley Shead
Copyright © 2019 by Kimberley Shead
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Editing by Josiah Davis
Book cover by Melody Simmons
For my children
Daniel, Lee, Samantha, Ben, Steven and Luke
who fill my life with happiness
We begin by coveting what we see every day. Don't you feel eyes moving over your body, Clarice? And don't your eyes move over the things you want?
Thomas Harris, Silence of the Lambs
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Kimberley Shead
1
DS Albie Edwards surveyed the scene from the edge of the woods. Chaos. At least that’s how an outsider would see it. But Albie knew better.
He stooped, knelt on his right knee in the gravel, and winced as he rubbed his left ankle. It was only a tweak, but even so it pained him. Serves me right, he thought. After all, what had he expected to gain from jumping out of a moving vehicle?
Tanya would scold him when she caught up, and she’d be right. He should have been patient, waited while she found a parking space.
Albie elbowed a pathway through the gathering crowd. He’d come to associate those who gathered at crime scenes with hyenas—excited and alert for meagre pickings after an attack. He shielded his eyes from the sun and scanned the trees. Sure enough, kids were perched in the branches. They hustled for position and the best vantage point, each desperate for a glimpse of a corpse.
“Get those kids down from the trees,” Albie ordered a fresh-faced police officer standing behind the crime scene tape which she guarded like a German Shepherd does its master.
“Straight away, Sarge.” The officer stood to attention as she eyed his ID card and spoke to his back as he trudged towards the area shaded by a canopy of branches. He picked his way through a tangle of brambles and tall swaying nettles, then stopped on the outskirts of the undergrowth and observed his colleagues scanning the area in sombre silence.
Lads sprang from the branches behind him, shouting abuse while the officer rounded them up and hurried them in the direction of the estate.
A rustle in the bushes to his right caught his attention. “Thanks for waiting.”
The dishevelled figure of his colleague moved closer. Chestnut brown curls covered her face as she felt her way through the undergrowth. She swiped prickles and stingers away from her face with balled hands stuffed in the sleeves of her jacket.
“Sort yourself out, Watts. I thought you were in tip top condition.” Albie covered his smile with his hand and strode towards the bright lights. “Follow me.”
PC Tanya Watts bent forward and grasped her knees. She waited for her short, shallow breaths to slow.
“Yes, that’s right. I’ve been mucking about,” she mumbled. “It’s funny that, because I feel like I’ve run 100 metres so as not to be left behind.” She sucked in a deep breath, forced her body upright, and followed at a distance.
The white tent stood erect and alive with shadows.
If he played the association game, tents for Albie would equate to childhood fun. Camping holidays by the sea, adventures in the back garden, secret meeting places, and long hot summers.
How easily childhood memories were shattered. He studied the area and knew once he entered that tent, another nail would be hammered into the heart of the boy he once was, the boy who’d suffered from a gradual death, a slow cruel death which begun at the site of his first murder scene.
Now a white tent meant death.
“Ah, DS Edwards and the lovely Ms Watts.” A gravel-edged voice came from the far corner of the tent, followed by an exaggerated cough. Both officers tried to identify the hunched figure as he straightened and stretched. A bright lamp contorted his appearance. “I wish I could say it’s a pleasure to have your company, but I think under these circumstances it would be a false sentiment.”
“Leo.” Albie outstretched his hand in greeting and waited for the forensic pathologist to place some fibres into an evidence bag before he responded.
“So how are you both?” Leo asked, his focus on Tanya.
Tanya nodded her head and averted her eyes. She fumbled in her jacket pocket and pulled out a notebook and pen.
“All good,” Albie answered for both of them. “So what can you tell us?”
Leo removed his gloves, placed a hand on Tanya’s shoulder, and leaned behind her to find a replacement pair. She angled away from his touch, but continued to scribble in her notebook as all three focused on the victim.
From a distance, the large object nestled in a bed of nettles and weeds could easily be overlooked, camouflaged as it was with leaves in a shamble of autumnal shades. This place was known as a local dumping ground, a place for broken, worn, and unwanted objects to go to die.
A discarded carpet was not an unusual sight. The fringe of the carpet was splayed across the soil and entwined with dank clumps of dark brown hair while at the opposite end of the bundle, limp, pale toes with party-painted nails were barely visible. The carpet was frayed, with bald patches and splashes of dirt-ridden flowers. Whatever the carpets original use, it had been transformed into distasteful packaging for a body, secured with an inch-thick olive rope.
“Cut the rope.” Albie’s attempt to control the tremor in his voice and the shaking in his forearm were a reaction to the anxiety and anticipation that battled inside him for the rights to the highest status in his body.
Leo slipped a flick knife with a mother of pearl style shell and a razor-shar
p edge between the carpet and the rope. The officers watched the precise sawing motion, small smooth movements. This was the first of four pieces they observed Leo sever. Breathing heavily, Albie knelt by the pale feet, too clean to have touched the moist soil.
“Have you got another knife in your bag of tricks?” Albie asked as he rummaged.
Leo stopped, gave Albie his own knife, and grabbed his bag from Albie’s grasp. Within seconds, he’d found a smaller knife in a hidden zip pocket and continued the slow process of freeing the body while Albie focused on slicing through another part of the rope.
He shook his head and grinned. “Some things never change, do they mate? As impatient as ever. Just take it easy. Remember she’s dead. There’s nothing we can do to help her except make sure we keep all of the evidence intact.” Leo continued sawing his piece of rope once he was happy with Albie’s slowing motion. The process was monotonous and time consuming and Albie could only watch as Leo initiated a cut in the final length of rope. Redundant, Albie had no choice but to sit and wait.
Finished with the notebook and pen, Tanya put them away as Leo drew the knife through the final tether and the rope broke free.
All three took up positions beside the body. Each took a deep breath, fingered the edge of the carpet, and moved backwards on their haunches. They peeled it back, careful not to disturb the contents. The taste of rotten flesh hit the back of their throats as they gulped shallow breaths. Albie’s eyes watered against the violent intrusion of death he knew would cling to his body for days. The trio moved in silence to the opposite side of the bundle to repeat the process.
Hands in pockets, Albie tensed against his racing pulse. He shuffled from foot to foot and made a conscious effort not to bite the raw hangnail on his thumb. He reminded himself they’d just unwrapped a corpse.
“Okay, she’s ready for you,” Leo said as he unravelled the parts of the carpet that had proved harder to remove.
Tanya stepped behind her sergeant, notebook open and pencil poised, ready to scribble notes. It took time to build trust in a working relationship. As far as Albie was concerned, he had complete trust in Tanya Watts. They were only five substantial cases into their partnership, but for some reason it just worked. Albie encouraged Tanya, a true believer in gut instinct. He knew she paid attention to her initial reactions and trusted her sixth sense. It was routine for her to record every detail. At a later date, she’d find those buried clues, the game winners.
At first glance, the bulk of the victim’s body was disguised, hidden under a throw of orange, red, and brown mulched leaves, mildew damp—crude clothing nature offered as a cover for her nakedness. Under the leaves, her skin bore a translucent sheen mottled with dark patches and open wounds where parasites had laid eggs and feasted on the flesh of their host.
Leo peeled pulp from her face and neck with patient precision and distributed samples into small plastic sealed bottles.
Albie edged forwards and knelt on the sheet beside the body. Entwined around her neck was soiled cloth. A thin piece of metal poked upwards. The end dug into her chin. “Is that a bra?”
Tanya took a step nearer and Leo picked at the lace edge with his tweezers. “Move that light, will you?”
Albie leaned on one knee and groaned at the clicks as he eased himself to his feet. He stood behind the light and struggled with the frame. Then he manoeuvred it until the intensity of the beam lit the woman’s torso. He lowered his head, unsure whether he did so out of respect or repulsion. He glanced at Tanya as she stared at the damage left by this woman’s abuser. He filled his lungs with tainted air and followed her gaze.
“Do you notice the marks carved into her chest? These were made post mortem.” Leo swept his gloved fingers between the slashes. “She needs cleaning up to know if they’re of any significance.”
“I’ve seen enough. Need fresh air.” Tanya said. Albie noted the puce tone to her skin and watched in silence as she navigated the tent flap and slipped out on his nod.
“She alright?” Leo didn’t look up, but the concern was clear in his voice.
“Sure. We’ve been here a while. Probably seen too much. Notice her arm?” Leo turned his attention to the bruised tracks on the fragile skin of the victim’s inner arm.
“Not surprising. Vulnerable addict, easy prey. Look, this is going to take time. Why don’t you check on PC Watts? I’ll be in touch when I have more to tell you,” Leo said.
The victim stared, her head angled towards him. Her eyes that had once sparkled with life showed the true terror of her ordeal. Not for the first time, Albie wished the dead could talk.
2
He leant back against the wall, and an involuntary whimper escaped his lips as he slid to the floor. Elbows resting on bare knees, his head slumped forward, and his whole body shook. He tried to ignore the drip of cool sweat on his forehead as it etched channels through congealed blood which clung to his skin like an abstract face paint. Its journey ended on the edge of a threadbare rug, although some congregated in a pale pink puddle on the concrete floor the rug was attempting to cover.
Blood oozed from a few scrapes and scratches that gashed his bare skin. He dabbed them with his hands, dipped his blooded finger tips into the pinkish puddle by his feet, then licked each finger clean with the tip of his tongue. He raised his head and squinted in the faint light that crept in under the door. He could see nothing sinister with the naked eye except the puddle. It would disappear easily enough. Just like the rest of the blood.
After all, life washed away so easily.
An incessant ache gnawed away at his shoulder blades, and his hands bled from scrubbing. He knew his breathing was erratic. Concentrating on each breath, he placed his hand on his heart until he felt it slow to a flutter.
Stupid bitch. She should have shut up. She’d pushed him to do it. Deserved it. A violent shake of his head could not erase the images projected in his mind. He shook his head once more. He needed to turn down the volume at least, eradicate the screams. Scrunching his eyes tightly, he dropped his head into his balled his fists and punched his forehead. The silent mantra ran through his mind on a loop and began to escape from his mouth. “Stupid bitch, stupid bitch, stupid bitch…”
The screaming began to fade, and blood trickled down the side of his face. Car keys wedged between his fingers pierce his skin and embedded gouges on his forehead.
Exhaustion finally claimed him. His eyelids felt heavy. Tension seeped from his body, and as the image of her broken body played in his head, he convinced himself that they were not alike. She didn’t deserve to wake up.
3
Josie Jeffries herded the boys through the front door, hooked her coat over the banister, then watched them race upstairs. She struggled through the narrow magnolia hall, weighed down by grocery-strained plastic carrier bags, into a boxed-shaped kitchen. She opened the fridge and slipped four pints of milk into the shelf in the door before dumping fish fingers, chips, and bread onto the work surface next to the cooker.
“Josh, Mitchell,” she called. Not waiting for an answer, she continued, “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes.”
Food in the oven, Josie lifted the folded flap of the kitchen table and secured it by swivelling the metal leg. “Ow!” She jumped up and down the spot, kicked the table leg and squeezed her throbbing thumb in her fingers. Every time she extended the table, she caught her thumb between the leg and metal clip. And every time it brought tears to her eyes. She blew on the pinched blood-tinged skin and watched a blood blister form. Hot coffee steamed up her glasses as she blew and sipped alternately from the mug while perched on the edge of a plastic fold-up garden chair. They’d been a present from dad, who’d bought them in a sale. He’d described them as convenient and versatile. She’d described them as cheap and tacky, in her head of course. Her dad had always supported her and Josh. Little gifts would appear on the doorstep, or the postman would deliver a parcel. It was as if he read her mind. Whatever he gifted them was needed. She sl
id back into the hard plastic and tried to ignore her discomfort.
Josie blew into the muddy liquid, and studied circles as they rippled the surface, and inhaled the strong aroma before she sipped. The bitterness hit the back of her mouth and throat, reminding her of Emily’s last violent episode. A shudder played down her spine at the memory of being sprawled across a threadbare carpet. Boney fingers dug into her throat, and as the grip tightened, Josie had flayed her arms and jolted her body, desperate to wriggle from Emily’s grasp.
With shaking hands, Josie breathed long and deep through her nose. She settled the cup on the table, her fingers flitted over her throat. Any bruising was barely visible now—the faded yellow of a dying buttercup. But the memory was as vivid as the night of the attack. Josie began to methodically lay the table. Keeping busy was the best solution she could think of to disconnect from the confusion Emily’s sudden descent into her old violent ways had caused.
A timer beeped Josie out of her thoughts. Picking up a tea towel, she folded it into quarters, opened the oven door, and leaned away from a barrage of heat. She squinted blindly through steamed-up glasses and fumbled with the oven grills until the food was safely on the side.
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