The Yorkshire Murder Thrillers Books One to Three: Dead Cold, Cold Blood, and Cold Heart

THE YORKSHIRE MURDER THRILLERS

BOOKS ONE TO THREE

JANE HEAFIELD

CONTENTS

Dead Cold

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Part I

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

Part II

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

Part III

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

Part IV

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Acknowledgements

A note from the publisher

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Cold Blood

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Also by Jane Heafield

Part I

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

Part II

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

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

A note from the publisher

You will also enjoy:

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Cold Heart

Love best-selling fiction?

Also by Jane Heafield

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

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Epilogue

Afterword

A note from the publisher

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Copyright © 2020 Jane Heafield

The right of Jane Heafield to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in 2020 by Bloodhound Books.

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

www.bloodhoundbooks.com

Print ISBN: 978-1-913419-83-7

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ALSO BY JANE HEAFIELD

Don’t Believe Her

Her Dark Past

PART 1

CHAPTER ONE

Murder makes it so interesting. It’s like getting a wrapped present: you never know what’s inside. Sometimes it’s bad, but sometimes you get exactly what you want. Murder is the same. The bad ones are the bloated bodies pulled from lakes, or rotten, stinking corpses found in the woods, and I collect those as you might collect festive socks. But every now and then the other kind comes along. Merry Christmas to me. A fresh kill amongst the masses.

The scene was picture-perfect when she arrived, bathed in the swirling palette of twilight, like a movie shot. The residents of this bland street were at windows, in gardens, on the street, some dressed for work, others in pyjamas. Added to the mass of bodies were uniformed police officers protecting an inner cordon around the front gate and garden of the death house. Every face she saw was loaded with shock, or fear. It was beautiful. Perfect.

Murder usually happens elsewhere in the world, not on normal people’s doorsteps, and it happens to faceless nobodies they’ve never met. People don’t want murder in their faces. It terrifies them, the stark reality of it, knowing it can happen anywhere, not only on TV. When I arrive at a murder scene, they watch me with awe, because I am a superhero who tackles the terrifying reality of murder head-on. I do not hide away from killers. I hunt them down.

The street was clogged with emergency vehicles and barred at both ends by police cars. No forensics vehicles here yet, and none of her team’s cars. Good: the limelight was hers for the time being. One of the police cars slid back to give her access and police tape strung across the street slid up and over her windscreen as she rolled into the cordon. Gawkers looked away from the death house to watch her approach, aware that someone important had arrived.

She checked her appearance in the sun visor’s mirror, wiping away a tint of remaining lipstick she’d missed when removing her makeup before she drove here. Myriad eyes were on her as she stepped out of the vehicle, her exit nimble, graceful, and today the door didn’t whack her shoulder as it shut.

Typically, she would stand here a few seconds to soak up the moment, but not this morning. Memories of last night put shame and guilt in her heart. At a dinner party, one of her sister’s obnoxious friends had been drunk and had asked her: how can you deal with death all the time? Doesn’t it rot your soul? Annoyed by the assumption, and loose-tongued by alcohol, she’d launched into a spiel that had embarrassed everyone: Murder makes it so interesting…

‘Are you the with the investigating team?’ said a fifty-something uniformed officer who approached. He reminded her of Dan, although he was at least fifteen years older than her husband. She immediately didn’t like him for this childish reason. She tapped her ID, on a lanyard hanging down between her breasts.

‘Detective Inspector Lizzie Miller, MIT 2 out of Woodseats,’ she said, even though he had read her ID. It sounded good to say aloud, especially to uniforms. ‘But I go by Liz. You were the responding officer? Where’s the Review Team?’

He looked her up and down, then back at her ID. ‘No team sent, Ms Miller. Just me and my partner, Ramble. He’s inside the house still. I called it in. Definitely murder.’

When a Major Inquiry Team got the call about a body, they sent a couple of detectives – a Review Team – ahead to appraise the scene, to make sure hardcore murder investigators’ time wasn’t wasted. If the diagnosis is accident or natural causes, local CID detectives got the case. Only on a cry of foul play did MIT’s wheels kick into gear.

Here, though, the Review Team had been bypassed. On the word of a bobby. Strange.

She again looked at the cars on the street. Bates might have used a different vehicle… but hers was the only civilian one within the cordon. ‘No other detectives have arrived? You’ve not heard from a DCI Bates? The senior investigating officer?’

‘Not yet, ma’am. Nor the scene-of-crime people. You’re the first. I’m Hitchfield.’

Her chief inspector was usually the first officer on scene once they’d had confirmation they were dealing with a murder. If he was late, something was wrong. Her mobile was in the car, but she made a firm decision right then not to go fetch it.

‘What time did you arrive, Hitchfield?’

‘Six thirteen, ma’am.’

‘What time did you call it in as definitely murder?’

‘Six eighteen.’

Thirty-four minutes ago. DCI Bates had called her twenty-seven minutes ago. Bates lived a little closer to the scene, about fifteen minutes’ drive as opposed to her twenty, but perhaps he’d gone early-morning fishing again. Quite conceivable that distance and traffic meant he was still en route.

‘What happened to get you sent here, Hitchfield?’

‘There was a 999 call from someone claiming to be a neighbour, who said we should check out 88 Pond Street because the owners might be in trouble. I was told to respond here and check the occupants were okay. They’re not.’

Hitchfield gave a sly point at an old woman standing in the wooden porch of the semi attached to the death house, arms folded as if she knew she was important and was awaiting attention.

‘When we arrived, the old lady approached and told me that at about three thirty in the morning she heard a noise out back of the houses. She went to her back-bedroom window and saw a black shape in the neighbours’ garden. But that was all she’d said. Anything further she would only give to a detective. She was specific. Detective only. Maybe she thinks Inspector Morse is coming down.’

On another day, buoyed by the perfect scene, she might have laughed at his joke. But Bates’s absence was worrying her. ‘Is the old lady the one who made the 999 call, because of this intruder she saw?’

‘I asked. But she’ll only talk to detectives. I didn’t push.’

‘Just so I’m clear. The call to police came at somewhere around 6am, but the witness over there says she saw an intruder at three thirty?’

‘I know: why the gap? But she won’t talk to me.’

‘And then you went inside?’

‘Yes.’ Hitchfield and his partner, Ramble, who was still in the house, had knocked on the locked front and back doors, but gotten no answer. They’d peered in the kitchen window, but seen nothing out of place. Back at the front of the property, unable to see inside and fearing a threat to life, they’d booted in the door. And found two people dead in the kitchen, a man and a woman. Ramble was still inside, guarding the front door in case anyone got past Hitchfield.

While he relayed this tale, Liz scanned the street. Two rows of semi-detached two-storey buildings, set behind neat lawns and driveways, with bay windows and front doors shielded by tiny porches. Somewhere between middle and lower class, given the mix of commercial and trade vehicles. A fair bunch of for-sale signs about, which she always thought was a bad signal.

Hitchfield finished by declaring he’d cordoned off the house, blocked the road and called it in. All the right procedures: she decided she liked this guy now, despite the resemblance to her husband.

Liz walked over to the neighbour’s garden hedge. The old lady approached. She had the sort of face that, many years ago, would have turned heads. ‘You a detective? I only want to tell detectives. Not these woodentops.’

There was a term Liz hadn’t heard for ages. ‘I’m a detective. Inspector Liz Miller. Do not talk to anyone but me, okay? Others will come, but I want you to deal only with me, okay?’

The old lady nodded. ‘Are the Lawlers dead?’

Liz ignored the question. ‘I’ll come for your statement soon. Talk only to me, please.’ She headed back to Hitchfield.

He said, ‘I heard her say the name Lawler. Some of these gawkers shouted it. I checked the electoral register on my mobile and Mark and Vicky Lawler live here. No kids. The old lady says they were away on holiday and weren’t due back until later today. Must have come back early. Maybe a burglar thought they’d still be out.’

Unwilling to be drawn into theory with a uniform, and eager to see the crime scene, she approached the driveway gate of the death house. The gate was manned by another officer and a third stood at the front door. The crime tape across the gate and front door made her again think of this murder scene as a present to her. A brick box, with goodies inside. If they’d known what drove her, the police might well have tied the tape in a bow across the front porch.

Both officers lifted the tape to allow her through, as if she were royalty. She couldn’t help a glance back at the growing crowd, to see what they made of this. Hitchfield was right behind her. In the porch, which was barely big enough for them both, they dragged on plastic shoe covers and latex gloves and stepped inside. Liz had a full-body protective suit in her car, but something about Bates’s absence urged her to get inside the house quickly… before it was too late.

The other officer, Ramble, was standing in the hallway, reading notes and letters pinned on a corkboard behind the front door. Hitchfield shut the door behind them. Ramble promised he’d been careful where he stepped and had touched nothing. He looked her up and down, head to toe and back again, but tried to hide his inspection.

A short wooden-floored hallway led to a closed door at the end, with other doors in the walls. Beside the front door was a portrait of a man and a woman in marriage gear, standing by a white vintage car, a church in the background. She recognised the church as the one she’d passed on her way here, located at the edge of the estate. An inset showed a close-up of the happy couple’s faces. They were a handsome pair, early thirties in the photograph. Grinning, loving life. Not anymore.

The portrait hung above a small table scattered with mail. Without touching the letters, Liz leaned close and saw the addressees were Mark and Victoria Lawler. Sadly, one of the letters was from a life insurance company. It reminded her she needed to remove a beneficiary from her own policy.

The tranquil nature of the scene evaporated close to the kitchen door. Here, red smears in the rough shape of feet, heading away from the kitchen. Good old-fashioned bloody shoeprints.

CHAPTER TWO

The bloody shoeprints ended partway down the hall, as if whoever had made them had taken flight like Superman.

She also saw blood on the left wall, right where the prints ended. A smear in a sort of sideways, ragged love-heart shape, surrounded by spatter. Closer, she realised the heart shape was a pair of shoe impressions, with the heels overlapped and the front of the outsoles leaning away from each other. She was reminded of childhood white winters, smacking her footwear against a wall to clean them. Here, though, someone had tried to dislodge excess blood, not snow.

While taking close-up photographs of the smears with her camera phone, she spotted something white stuck in the blood. She used a pair of tweezers to remove it. It appeared to be a tiny fragment of paper. There was no blood on it except where it had stuck to the wall.

This enriched her hypothesis that the scrap had been caught in the tread of a shoe, only one side exposed, and had dislodged when the sole was slammed against the wall. She dropped the miniscule piece into a small evidence bag.

Neither policeman asked what she’d found, nor questioned why she hadn’t left it for the forensic scientists. She knew why: more disturbing things lay in the kitchen.

As she approached the kitchen, it was slowly revealed to her beyond the doorway. First, a long worktop with sink, cooker, microwave and a window into the back garden. Then, further left, she saw a tall fridge-freezer standing in the middle of the room, in front of the washing machine and angled towards her. Brand new, given the blue tape sealing the doors closed and an energy efficiency label on the front.

Blood spatter was across virtually the whole floor, but a trail of it thickened as it disappeared behind the freezer. Bloody footprints led towards and past her, out into the hallway.

‘No one come in.’ Avoiding the bigger spatters of blood, she stepped towards the freezer, so she could see the space in the wall units where the item would sit. And what was there instead.

Two bodies. Dressed and sitting side by side, jammed between the dishwasher and washing machine. Their smashed heads were tilted back, which emphasised great rents below their chins where their throats used to be. Their faces were more gone than not. Vented blood had soaked and crusted their clothing, painted the floor beneath them, and coated the sides of the white goods. Only a future homebuyer with no knowledge would ever again see this place as tranquil, if morbid curiosity didn’t force the council to erase the entire building from existence.

Liz stared at the bodies and tried to dampen her relief. Not a case of murder-suicide, as she’d feared. Murder-suicide meant a killer already known and already out of the game. All that remained was to learn the why, which only really helped the victims’ families. Here, though, she had a whodunnit. There was a killer to hunt. It could only have been sweeter if the bodies had been outside, allowing the crowd to watch her work.

Liz retraced her own steps back into the hallway as she heard at least two cars arrive. But none of the new vehicles had had the throaty growl of her boss’s faulty exhaust.

She knew she was about to lose this gift of a case.

CHAPTER THREE

The host of new vehicles included an ambulance. The paramedics jumped out, but Liz gave them a wave that said they could slow down. Realising they weren’t vital here, the two men got back in their vehicle to wait.

Two forensics vans. Six people already at the back, donning white plastic suits. They looked and she gave a nod in greeting.

An unmarked car. Two detectives. One, a black female about fifty years of age. The officer with her was much younger and was the sort of handsome DC the TV liked to slot next to grizzled old inspectors for eye candy. And she recognised him: Ralph Hooper, a mouthy little sod who’d worked at another station of hers several years back. Hooper did nothing as she approached, but the black lady raised her warrant card. Detective Sergeant Sienna Todd. She looked puzzled. But Liz had no confusion. DCI Bates still wasn’t here.

‘I guess I’m off the case,’ Liz said.

Todd’s puzzlement vanished. ‘Oh, you were called first? I did wonder why they gave a Sheffield case to Barnsley. It must be down to your SIO.’

Barnsley was MIT 3. South Yorkshire had four Major Investigation Teams, one for each district. MIT 2 covered Sheffield, and this was Crookes, Sheffield, so it should have been Liz’s case. But Barnsley’s MIT 3 had been sent. Why? And why so soon after Liz had gotten the call to attend from her boss, DCI Alan Bates? Something to do with Bates, as the woman had said. And not because he was bloody running late.

‘I must have missed a call. My phone is in the car.’

‘Then you’d better be on your way,’ Hooper told her. His attitude surprised his colleague. Liz wanted to warn him to watch his mouth in front of a superior officer, but instead ignored him.

‘Oh, okay. So, have you been inside?’ DS Todd asked.

‘I have. There’s two uniformed responders in there right now. The old one’s got friends in high places, I suspect. I think he called this in as murder and his word was accepted, so no Review Team was sent. But it was a good call. Two bodies. A lot of blood.’

Liz pointed at the old lady neighbour, still standing on her doorstep with folded arms, waiting for her turn. ‘The lady next door said she saw someone around the back early in the morning. She must have called it in, yet there’s a gap between when she saw an intruder in the backyard and when the call was made.’

‘Okay, thank you, we’ll get to her,’ Todd said.

Liz jabbed a thumb at the growing crowd behind the crime tape. ‘When nosey neighbours see massive police and forensics activity centred on a house, they expect the people living there to exit in handcuffs or body bags. Either the Lawlers were another Fred and Rose West, or they lie dead. What some of these people are going to do is hop on their phones to get answers and spread the gossip. You need to get liaison officers over to the parents now, before they learn the news through Facebook.’

Todd nodded. ‘We know what to do. Thank you.’

Hooper wasn’t as sweet: ‘Our SIO is usually unflappable, but he’ll get angry if you’re still here when he arrives.’

Liz wanted to laugh right in his face. ‘Where is he?’

In answer, another car arrived and was passed through the cordon. A man in a tracksuit under a leather jacket got out. DCI Liam Bennet, she knew. Head of Barnsley’s MIT 3. The four top MIT dogs often had meetings together, but, as a DI, she’d never met him. He was a tall guy with tight muscles and a flat-top. Handsome. Early forties, she guessed. He could play a TV detective for sure. The only giveaway he actually was a police officer was the ID lanyard around his neck and a portable fingerprint scanner in his hand.

The crowd was watching and their scrutiny seemed to unnerve him a little, although he turned to the eager faces and took a photo with his phone. He ignored shouted questions and approached the trio of detectives.

Liz saw the same puzzled expression the two other detectives had given her, so she didn’t wait for the question. ‘My phone was in the car.’ She saw understanding cross his face. He put out his hand to shake, which she did. And he gave the ID round her neck only a brief glance.

‘Better go call your super, DI Miller.’

She didn’t move. ‘Did this one get shifted to MIT 3 because something’s happened to DCI Bates? No one has told me anything.’

‘Your superintendent will. You should call him.’

‘Will do. I should mention that the old lady over there at number 86 said she won’t talk to anyone but me. She gave no reason why. I didn’t influence her. I’ll be around for a few minutes if you need me to chat to her.’

‘We don’t,’ Hooper said.

Liz rushed to her car, found her phone and, as predicted, it displayed a missed call from her super. Two, in fact. Unable to get an answer, he’d followed with a text.

BATES INJURED IN CAR CRASH EN ROUTE. HE’S OKAY. BARNSLEY’S GOT THIS ONE. HEAD ON BACK.

With the lead detective of Sheffield’s murder squad out through injury, the head of her station, Superintendent Roy Allenberg, would have informed his own boss, the District Commander for Sheffield. The commander would have kicked the case to his colleague in Barnsley, who had then sent his own detective team. Nothing she could do about this. They were all South Yorkshire police and no argument about jurisdiction would help.

She didn’t want to call her super back yet. Instead, she removed the plastic evidence bag from her pocket. With two pairs of tweezers, she extracted the tiny scrap of paper and spread it open. It was the size of her thumbnail.

Printed on it was a black curve of ink like a right-hand bracket and, to its right, a straight diagonal line. Like two slashes, one curved. The paper was torn, suggesting the ink was part of a bigger picture, maybe a portion of large-print text. Both were on a pink background.

She tried to give this piece of evidence her full attention, but her gaze was apprehended by the detectives and the forensics team. They were preparing to enter the death house via a tent that had been rapidly erected over the front porch.

She stamped on the footbrake, feeling like a teenager who’d been excluded from a New Year’s Eve party. It particularly burned that the crowd was engrossed by the main players. Liz was nobody’s focus. Even when Bennet and DS Todd vanished into the house, it was Hooper who became a point of fascination as he spoke with a uniformed officer.

This clue. She had to work it. It could be the key. As she studied the scrap, she wondered if the curves on ink could be numbers? The straight could be a seven, and the curve part of a nine. Ninety-seven.

Then she had it. She dialled another number. When her station’s switchboard operator answered, she gave her name and asked to be put through to a department.

‘The café?’ The operator sounded unsure, as if she must have heard wrong.

She hadn’t. Liz repeated her request and the next voice she heard was a male who introduced himself as the café manager. Liz again gave her name and rank and asked if Betty Jones was in today. She was, she was due on salad prepping, but wasn’t on shift for another half hour or so. A doctor’s appointment for her ankle. ‘Anything I can help with?’

‘I want you to get Betty to call me when she comes in. As soon as, please.’

The café man said something else, but Liz cut him off with a goodbye and hung up the phone as her rear-view showed another car being let through the cordon. Not a police car or one belonging to her team. Based on the distinguished face she saw behind the wheel, she figured this was the Home Office pathologist. Annoyingly, his vehicle got a lot of consideration as it found a clear piece of kerb near the death house. You didn’t get TV detective fiction without one of these men or women at a crime scene, bent over a corpse.

And watching it all was the old lady at her garden gate. ‘Don’t let me down,’ Liz mouthed her way. Her attention returned to the house, as she wondered what glorious clues were in there, awaiting DCI Bennet.

CHAPTER FOUR

An old boss had once set a ten-minute alarm at a crime scene. Intrigued, Bennet had watched him stroll round a dead woman’s house, getting to know her. Only upon the ding did his boss head for his first look at the body. Already somewhat acquainted with her, it had enhanced his boss’s sense of injustice and kicked him up a gear. It was a habit Bennet had adopted. He would visit the kitchen last.

First, the living room. Plain, a little untidy, too colourful. A giant bookcase spread across the whole of one wall, featuring romcom, supernatural and fantasy novels and DVDS. A single shelf, at the top, was dedicated to sports videos and publications. There was an Xbox 360 by the TV and a gaming chair nearby, an empty lager can in the cup holder. An armchair had a drawing pad and a fiction book on one arm and overlapping teacup rings on the other.

In a cupboard under the stairs, he found cleaning gear and a hook-rack with summer jackets rendered useless by the December chill. A wicker basket contained a jagged mass of coat hangers. A high shelf bore a clutter of tools. The slanted ceiling had been half painted and abandoned.

He headed upstairs. In the front room, bedside cabinets gave a clear indication of who slept on which side of the bed. The built-in wardrobe had female clothing hanging from a rail and male items folded on a shelf above. A laundry bag had overflowed. On each side of the bed, protruding from beneath the mattress, were straps ending in ankle and wrist restraints. Bennet had searched too many homes to be embarrassed or surprised.

The second bedroom seemed to be used for storage, mainly books in clear plastic boxes and clothing in refuse bags, with a space cleared for a small table and laptop. The third contained exercise equipment, although here items had also been stored, suggesting the fitness gear was rarely used.

The house spoke of a couple who had gone beyond the early phases of love and lust and could enjoy their own company together, so to speak. Bennet couldn’t recall if he’d ever reached that level of comfort with his ex.

Finally, he entered the bathroom, whose window the offender had used to gain entry. But he avoided the exact point of entry, instead focusing on toiletries placed upon the sill. They had been separated, hers on the left, his on the right, a clear gap of five inches between them. The sink was toothpaste-stained. A cheesy-looking vampire book lay beside the bath, its pages fat and fanned due to soaking.

With a minute remaining on his alarm, Bennet turned his attention to the point of entry. The casement window was shut, but the handle was turned wide. There was a cable restrictor, designed for preventing children or the elderly from hurting themselves, but here, in a house occupied by two able-minded adults, its role was crime prevention. Fat lot of good it had done. The wire bundle and plastic sheathing were designed to be tough to cut, but here it had been burned through.

His alarm dinged.

As he was walking down the stairs, the front door opened and a middle-aged man in a suit under his plastic examiner coveralls entered with a bag. Not a face Bennet recalled, but he knew this was the Home Office pathologist. The chap didn’t look happy.

Perhaps hearing the pathologist’s entry, DS Todd and DC Hooper entered from the kitchen. They introduced themselves. The older man was Home Office Forensic Pathologist Dr Jacob Huntley MB, ChB, BMSc (Hons), FRCPath, MFFLM.

‘Two bodies, I hear,’ he said in a West Country accent. ‘Twice the work.’

‘Yes. It’s a couple we think are Mark–’

‘No, no.’ The pathologist raised a hand like a traffic warden. ‘Do not tell me. Victimology is your domain, but I don’t require knowing about the dead. No hardened fact or speculative conjecture, not in the arena of scientific analysis.’

It had sounded like a telling off, but the pathologist had a smile. Bennet wasn’t sure if it was a joke. ‘Excuse me?’

‘If I hear the victim is a skateboarder, perhaps I’ll attribute a knee scrape to that pastime, which will effect a clouded overview. No details, please. Not even names.’

It was no joke. ‘A first for my ears. Most pathologists want to know as much as possible. They think it helps.’

‘It’s a cloudy sky in their world, I imagine. No details. I will do my work, present my case. This was meant to be my day off, you know?’

He was getting a fat fee, so what was the problem? He took out his phone. ‘What’s your mobile number?’

‘Ah, the interim report. Your Golden Hour. The bane of my life. Please make an early guess while the scalpel is still in your hand, eh? I recall the Jainist parable of the blind men and an elephant.’

‘Are you suggesting I hold off investigating this until you’ve finished the entire autopsy? This one is a force priority. I’d like at least one of the autopsies completed by morning end. Both today.’

The pathologist paused. Was he actually considering Bennet’s question?

‘Mr Huntley, there’s a killer loose out there and I don’t want to give him half a day’s head start. So let’s go look at Mark and Vicky Lawler and see what you can tell me. If you’re fast, you can get home and still have some of your day off.’

CHAPTER FIVE

Done with talking to police officers, the young male detective, Hooper, approached the old lady at her garden gate. Watching, Liz held her breath as they talked. The old lady shook her head and pointed at Liz’s car. And when Hooper gave Liz’s vehicle a murderous look, she thanked her lucky stars.

Hooper pulled out his phone and made a call. Soon after, Bennet exited the death house and spoke to his DC. Another finger pointed at her car, and this time the tall DCI threw a burning glare her way. When he approached, she put her phone to her ear and pretended to be on a call. Bennet’s rap on her window even got him a raised finger – wait a moment – as she continued the pantomime.

When she put the phone away, she buzzed down her window.

‘DCI Bennet, what can I do for you?’

‘Inspector Miller, I seem to have a possible witness who won’t speak to my team, as you said. But the lady claims you told her not to.’

The silly old bag. Liz considered a lie: I only meant don’t talk to the media. ‘I apologise. I’m good with witnesses and I wanted first read on her. But when I told her, this case was still mine.’

He didn’t look convinced, and soon proved it: ‘DCI Bates is a drinking pal of mine and we get loose-tongued at the pub. I’m sure he’s told you a few stories about some of my team. And I once heard about his inspector, who enjoys being centre stage in high-profile cases. I expected you to try to dig your heels in. But you really need to head on back to your station.’

Bates had been gossiping about her? She was disheartened. ‘Well, it’s a bit unfair of my boss to say. But he’s wrong. I’m not trying to infiltrate. I want to help a little before I go back. I had a look at the victims’ social media. Their Facebook pages are exploding with comments. There are friends asking if they’re okay and why all the police are outside his house. I think some might be heading over here. Could help to get officers to the family before others beat them to it.’

‘This one is already hitting the news. I know the process, DI Miller, so I really must insist now. Leave my crime scene.’

She got out of her car. He was forced to step back as her door opened. ‘DCI Bennet, I apologise. I’ll go explain to the lady. I’ll tell her my people are no longer involved. Or, since she’s willing to talk to me, I could go in there and ask her some questions. I’ll pass right on whatever she tells me. And then I’ll get lost.’

It was a major punt, barely worth the effort involved in voicing the words, and when her gall elicited a disbelieving shake of the head, she half-expected him to have her escorted away. Thus, it was a curveball when he said, ‘Interview the lady and record it if she doesn’t mind. Pass what you get on to my constable, Hooper. Then, please, get lost.’

She could have kissed him.

CHAPTER SIX

The old lady told her to call her May. ‘You seem young and sweet for a detective. Why would you do such a stressy job?’

Like May, many people were surprised that Liz was a detective inspector, probably because TV had convinced them all sleuths were grizzled old men. Liz was used to people taking a long look at her ID, as if expecting to see it stamped with ‘Trainee’. May’s question, in various forms, was one Liz had endured so often that she’d formulated a standard, vague answer. ‘Criminals took my parents away and I swore revenge.’

‘Oh my God. That’s horrible. What happened?’

‘Why don’t you tell me what you saw, May?’

They were in her cramped living room. It was homely, with far too many cushions and ornaments. But a comfortable niche, Liz understood. May was in a long skirt made of a thick grey material Liz thought should itch like mad, and a blouse that was far too see-through. She stood by the window, staring out at the activity in the street. She struck Liz as a busybody who liked to know everything that went on in her neighbourhood. She had probably agreed to answer questions more out of curiosity than a desire to help.

May paused, as if considering pushing her earlier question about Liz’s parents. But a busybody’s mind had a healthy appetite. ‘Are the Lawlers dead?’

‘I can’t talk about what’s going on, you understand?’

‘Did a robber think they’d still be out?’

‘The holiday you mentioned. They were due back today, you said?’

‘They went to the Canary Islands, didn’t they? With their National Lottery winnings.’

Intriguing. ‘How much did they win? And when did they go?’

‘Oooh, they went last week. They won a few thousand pounds two weeks ago, enough for a holiday. Mind you, Mark should have used it on his fine. They went to the Canary Islands, where they had that plane crash all those years ago. They were supposed to be back later today, but obviously they came back early and disturbed a burglar. So, they’re dead, aren’t they?’

‘I can’t talk about what’s happened, May. What fine are you talking about?’

‘Mark. He was arrested, wasn’t he?’

Liz perked up. ‘I don’t know. For what?’

‘Taxi driving. But he’s not a taxi driver. He lost his licence and got a fine, so they had to sell their car. I’m sure you’ll see this on your files somewhere.’

Liz could have groaned. If Mark Lawler had a criminal conviction for drugs or gang activity or rape or something else meaty, it could have provided motive and suspects. ‘I’m sure we will, May. But back to what happened. You called the police? Because of this intruder you saw?’

‘You wouldn’t have those forensical people in white suits if they weren’t dead. Have they been murdered?’

‘May, we got the call only about an hour ago. There is a gap of two-and-a-half hours between when you saw the intruder and when the call to the police was made.’

‘Call? It wasn’t me. I didn’t call the police.’

That was intriguing. Liz would have to find out more about this phone call to the police. She had assumed it was this old lady, because of the intruder, but her denial left a question mark. ‘Tell me about this intruder you spotted last night.’

May turned away from the window and took a seat. About half three this morning, she explained, she couldn’t sleep and heard a noise, and looked out to see a man in black at the bottom of the garden. He scaled the wall and was gone.

‘You’re sure it was a person you saw?’

‘You think I’m old and infirm?’ May said, not in anger. ‘I have it on camera, for your information. What do you say to that? Security for the back, because cars sometimes get vandalised. Mine is there. So, I have it on camera, just in case you think I saw a cat. Oh, there are nine or ten of us on this street with cameras, if you plan to look at them. There’s Mrs Ford at 41, but watch out for her dog. The Blackwells at 51 have–’

‘We’ll get to them, don’t worry. Please, May, can I see your CCTV recordings?’

The CCTV set-up was in May’s bedroom, whose double bed was half taken up with scattered paperwork that looked like it had been there some time. The half where a husband would sleep, had there been one. She didn’t want to ask.

The footage showed May’s backyard and one either side. Behind the back fence was a brick wall and beyond that a street. The image was poorly lit. The back gardens were too dark and beyond the grainy street was nothing but a wall of black, as if the earth ended and gave into the gloom of deep space.

With the bad quality of the video factored in, there was no hope of identifying any of the three parked vehicles she could see, if she later found one to be missing. Facial recognition, if a face appeared, would be impossible. How many times had Liz cursed cheap CCTV?

May used a rollerball to position a giant screen pointer over a list of recording files split into hours of the day, then fast-forwarded to the position required. It took her three minutes to do a job that should have taken thirty seconds. Liz had to bite down the urge to grab the rollerball off the old lady.

The video showed a black shape moving down the rear garden on the right, the Lawlers’, away from the house. Liz felt a little spurt of joy, but it was short-lived. The form was little more than a moving piece of the night. They’d never get an identification, even if the figure turned and peered at the camera. By the time the shape had reached the back gate, it was little more than a shimmering blob. It slipped through the gateway, then over the wall and onto the street, which would give it an exit either way. The timestamp said 0322.

‘So you saw this intruder late last night but didn’t phone the police?’

‘But there was nothing in his hands, was there? He didn’t steal anything. I thought maybe he’d tried the Lawlers’ back door and then gave up when it was locked. My God, he killed them, didn’t he? And I did nothing.’

The old lady was upset at the idea her reticence might have allowed a murderer to escape. Liz leaned forward and took her gnarly, cold hand. ‘May, nobody is saying you did anything wrong or anything is your fault. We don’t know what’s happened yet, and we don’t know if this intruder is involved. And you’re right: the intruder wasn’t stealing, and he was leaving the area. He would have been long gone by the time the police arrived. It’s okay.’

May was going to tell this tale a bunch more times, to detectives who might be less understanding. Not a priority for Liz. ‘We’ll need this tape.’

‘Oh, you mean so you can look back and see when the man in black arrived? I already checked, did it last night. He’s not on it. I went all the way back to before it got dark. I think he must have used the front door. Mark and Vicky hide a key in a plant pot on the front porch. I should have told those police who first arrived, but I neglected to. They wouldn’t have had to break the door down.’

Liz remembered seeing the plant pot. That needed checking out. ‘I need to see for myself.’ She cycled back the recording. The black shape zoomed into the house in reverse, but afterwards the only movement was the timestamp counting backwards at speed, and the darkness rapidly sluicing from the sky, until it was blue. Daytime didn’t help the video quality though: the deep space beyond the street behind the rear yards had become an impenetrable burning white desert.

Liz slammed the play button when a shape darted into May’s backyard, at a quarter past midday. But it was only May herself. She peeked over the fence separating 88 and 86 and seemed to be staring at the death house.

‘Oh, that was when the delivery chap was here,’ May explained, rather sheepishly. ‘I was… well, I was being nosey, trying to see him in their kitchen.’

Liz made a mental note: brand-new freezer, delivered sometime around midday yesterday. She had to dampen the urge to go find this delivery man right now. It was doubtful he was the culprit. But if he wasn’t, at least the freezer delivery meant the Lawlers had been killed some time after midday yesterday.

It was good info, but not a clue. Not something she could run with right now. She felt a sense of urgency. ‘I’d like to see your back garden, please.’

May nodded. ‘You’ll have to give me a hand with the door. My son installed these fat hinges and it jams in the frame. Come on.’

The door wasn’t too bad. Liz told the old lady to remain behind and walked down the weedy path to the gate. The gate was worse than the back door and Liz nearly ripped off a fingernail trying to scrape it open across the ground. The wall was ahead of her. Between wood and brick was an alleyway running away left and right, along the back gardens.

She stepped into the littered alleyway and stood on tiptoe to peek over the wall. The street beyond was pitted, unkempt, as if unused. And the reason for this became clear as she saw what she’d been unable to on Old Lady May’s video. It made her heart sink. Not quite the desolation of deep space, but just as bad from an investigative perspective.

Beyond a chain-link fence running the length of the far side of the street was a shrubbery-infested waste ground. Perhaps it had once been another housing estate, or was going to be, which might explain the presence of this forlorn street.

She clambered ungracefully over the wall and broke a heel when she dropped to the road. There was no pavement, just a border of weeds between tarmac and wall. The three cars she’d seen on video were still present, so unlikely to be a killer’s getaway vehicle. They would all face analysis, but right now she was focused only on the chain-link fence.

She crossed the road. What she’d spotted from behind the wall was confirmed with a kick: one corner of a fence panel was loose at the bottom of a post, creating a kind of flap. Wide enough for someone to crawl through. It was a clue, but it sank her heart.

If the killer had used this desolate street to make his exit, his face might have been spotted, and recognised, by someone at a back-bedroom window. Or CCTV throughout the city could track his progress right to a doorstep. But if he had crossed the road and slipped into the vast waste ground, he’d become a shadow in the night. Unseen, and – unless he’d tripped and knocked himself into a coma and still lay out there – long gone.

CHAPTER SEVEN

She returned her attention to the scrubland. Thirty metres away was a river, which vanished behind a rise to the right. Beyond, the scrubland continued to the back end of another housing estate a few hundred metres away. To the left and right it turned into rolling fields. If the killer was smart, he would have gone across the open land. The only hope was that he’d gone ahead, into the new estate, and had been captured on camera or seen by witnesses. But either way he was long gone.

Her phone rang. Allenberg. She shouldn’t put him off any longer. He would be worried about her lack of communication given that DCI Bates had had a car crash. But she wasn’t going to call him right now, out here. Back in the car would be the right time.

She walked on, ungracefully because of the broken shoe heel, and stopped at the edge of the riverbank. The dirty river was fifteen feet wide, six feet below her, no bridge in sight. However, a short way to the right a thick concrete pipe jutted out of one riverbank and burrowed into the other, like an exposed bone in a wound. She stamped a foot on the rusty pipe to test its sturdiness, but made no move to cross. She didn’t trust her balancing skills. Fleeing a murder scene in the dead of night, she might have.

Her sense of determination was faltering, the urgency dissipating, and in their place was a growing sense of… loss. She’d hardly suffered a bereavement, but the turmoil inside her felt a little like that. She had hoped to find a jackpot clue, something that would impress her super or DCI Bennet and give them reason to keep her on the Pond Street murder case. But she should have known better. Even the most straightforward murders were no slam-dunk. She had never been likely to solve this one in mere minutes, running around on her own.

So she turned around and headed back. Instead of using Old Lady May’s house, she walked along the back road and the side street, which delivered her onto Pond Street. Throughout, she swept her vision back and forth across the ground, seeking clues. A discarded bloodied knife would have been sweet, but she found nothing.

Hooper was outside the death house, reading something on his phone. In his other hand was Bennet’s portable fingerprint scanner. She approached him, trying her best to appear casual on her busted shoe.

‘Give me your phone.’

He looked annoyed and waved the fingerprint scanner. ‘I’m not dawdling around playing solitaire, you know. I’m waiting for the pathologist to finish so I can try to confirm ID. Shouldn’t you have left already?’

‘The male victim should be on file.’ She moved past him, to the porch. There was the plant pot, in a corner by the door. It was an artificial bay laurel ball, but set in real soil. She looked under it and dug her fingers into the dirt and delved into the plastic leaves.

‘What are you doing?’

She brushed dirt off her fingers as she returned to Hooper, and asked for his phone again. She even snapped her fingers. He reluctantly handed it over. She accessed the voice recorder and spoke into it.

‘The next-door neighbour, May, has video showing an intruder leaving the crime scene at close to three thirty this morning via the back door. There’s no footage of the subject entering the house, suggesting he might have used the front door. Get hold of CCTV from the street and concentrate on around midday. The new freezer was delivered at that time and the delivery man allegedly let himself into the house with a key hidden in a plant pot by the front door. The key has gone. And the neighbour claims she didn’t make the emergency call to the police.’

She handed Hooper his phone back. ‘How did you get all this information? Not that you should have, you’re not even on this case.’

‘Someone needs to seize that video.’

‘Me. I’m exhibits officer. I know what to do. Some of us know our job and its boundaries.’

The little sod. She knew what he meant. ‘Well, part of your job is to keep an entry log, and you never asked me what time I arrived at the scene. Six forty-six.’

She moved past him. The crowd watched her exit the garden and head for her car. She did her best to walk on her toes, look ahead, and ignore a volley of questions. Usually, being under fire like this bloated her ego, but now she felt like a condemned woman being led to the gallows. She quickened her pace. She wished she’d parked right outside the house.

Once beyond the cordon, she glanced back. Most of the crowd was ignoring her. After she was safely cocooned in her vehicle, not a single pair of eyes turned her way. They had seen her for the last time, she knew. Nobody was going to remember her.

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘D ouble murder in a house. Doors locked,’ Bennet said. ‘A married couple called Lawler. Mark and Vicky, both late thirties. We got an anonymous call saying they might be in trouble. Here they are.’

Amongst the forty or so photos Bennet had taken during his look around the house, there were a few of the wall-hung pictures of the dead couple. Bennet chose one of the Lawlers larking around in a passport photo booth. Mark was trying to stick his tongue in his wife’s ear, while Vicky had a finger jammed in one of his. At least they’d had smiles immortalised: he’d known of murdered victims who’d left behind no happy photos, and sometimes no photos at all.

But before he could dispatch the image via radio waves, the old man on the other end of the phone said, ‘No, no grisly photos. I’m at peace. I’m hunting only carp today. Not murder-suicide, I gather?’

‘No. Throats gone, faces smashed up. And a strange scratching on both their left hands.’

‘What kind of scratching? Defensive wounds?’

‘Doesn’t seem so. Not like any I’ve seen, and not according to the pathologist. There’s no other wounds on the arms. It’s the backs of both left hands from wrists to knuckles. Bad enough to lacerate the flesh and expose the bones. Strange.’

‘So what’s your initial thought? Home invasion kill? Quite uncommon. This will be big news. Perp?’

‘Gone. A witness says she saw a figure leaving the vicinity of the back of the house around three thirty in the morning, but I’m waiting on more on that. It fits with the pathologist’s initial estimate that they were killed about one o’clock. But I pushed him for a quick guesstimate, so it might change.’

Speaking of the pathologist, Bennet saw the man exit the house and head for his car. He ignored the crowd’s questions and made a swift getaway. With his in-situ examination complete, the bodies could be transferred to the Medico-Legal Centre for post-mortem.

‘Motive?’ the old man on the phone asked.

‘The Lawlers recently had a lottery win of a few thousand pounds. A neighbour claims they went on holiday and were not due back until later tonight. Holidaymakers can get back at all sorts of late hours, so perhaps they interrupted a burglar. But burglary doesn’t sit well in my gut. There was no damage, no drawers or cupboards had been opened.’

‘Nothing stolen at all?’

‘Their mobile phones are missing. We called the numbers, but they went to voicemail. We’ll trace their usage. But until we get family or friends in the house to tell us what’s missing, it looks as if the perp took nothing.’

The old fisherman clucked his tongue. ‘Perhaps he panicked and fled. He went there to steal, something went wrong, and now there are two bodies. He didn’t want to hang around. Maybe he took the phones off the victims as soon as they got home, so they couldn’t call for help. You think he might have known about the lottery money? He might be known to the victims.’

‘Possibly. It would mean he knew they’d be away. It would mean he had a major problem when he broke in and found them at home and got recognised.’

‘Good theory. If he’s already got form, he’ll go down for a long stretch this time. So he needs a way to keep them quiet. And he picks the worst possible way.’

‘There are a few bizarre things though.’

The old fisherman made an excited sound. ‘Go on.’

‘The bodies were sat side by side in the kitchen, in a slot where the freezer goes. The freezer was brand new, delivered yesterday and not put in place yet. The victims were crammed into that small space, shoulder to shoulder. No sign of a struggle. It doesn’t look like the scene of a man panicking upon finding owners in a house he’s robbing.’

‘He acted calmly, knew what he was doing. You’re thinking it seems more like an execution. They might have been the target, not money.’

Early into his career, Bennet had learned an important adage: Find out how a person lived and you’ll find out how they died. Knowing a victim, their personality, history, social circle and so forth, was the springboard from which an investigation launched. It was rare to find no previous association between killer and victim, so getting into their lives was vital. The old man on the phone was asking if there was any evidence the couple was involved in something that might have come back to bite them on the arse.

‘So far we know little. We found addresses for family members, so they’ll soon be informed. But the first search found no drugs or offensive weapons, no connection to dodgy individuals, no indication other people regularly stay at the house. Neighbours say they were nice people, no enemies.’

‘Neighbours don’t see behind closed doors. What else was strange?’

‘One of the weapons. A smooth blade was used to slit their throats, but the second weapon is the eyebrow-raiser. A house brick, which was used to bash in their faces. A whole brick, given how much brick dust and debris was all over the bodies and around the scene.’

‘Is the house undergoing any kind of renovation? Or another on the street?’

Bennet’s negative answer made the old man curse softly, and he knew why. A house brick, heavy and cumbersome, was nobody’s weapon of choice. Every case he’d ever known involving trauma by rock or brick, the weapon was utilised on the spur of the moment, from the scene. Impulse kill, not premeditated. Killers planning murder didn’t carry such an unwieldy weapon, yet this one had.

The old man said, ‘The brick might have been breaking-and-entering equipment. He didn’t expect to find the victims at home, and had to think on his feet. Maybe he utilised it before he had time to draw his knife.’

‘He didn’t break in with the brick. There’s a busted cable restrictor on the bathroom window. Burned through, it looks like. I’ve left a message with a robbery expert I know. Hopefully, it’s exclusive enough that someone’s got form for it. So at first glance it appears that our perp came in by climbing up a drainpipe. We know that the Lawlers hide a front door key in a plant pot outside the door. That key is gone. The back door is sturdy wood with a night latch, so no key is needed to exit. In through the front and out the back, it appears. We’re still looking for fingerprints and DNA. I’ve ordered samples from the usual important places be fast-tracked. Door handles, taps, etc. And the freezer, of course.’

The old man took time to think. As he did, Bennet saw the paramedics bring out the first of the bodies on a stretcher. It agitated the crowd.

‘It makes no sense to climb a drainpipe with a heavy house brick,’ the old man said. ‘Maybe that cable restrictor was already cut