Authors: Maureen Carter
Bad Press
Maureen Carter
Also by Maureen Carter from Crème de la Crime:
Working Girls
Dead Old
Baby Love
Hard Time*
* Also available in unabridged audio
Praise for Maureen Carter’s gritty Bev Morriss series:
Many writers would sell their first born for the ability to create such a distinctive voice in a main character.
- Sharon Wheeler, Reviewing the Evidence
Complex, chilling and absorbing... confirms Carter’s place among the new generation of crime writers.
- Julia Wallis Martin, author of
The Bird Yard
Imagine Bridget Jones meets Cracker... gritty, pacy, realistic and... televisual. When’s the TV adaptation going to hit our screens?
-Amazon
Fast moving, with a well realised character in... Bev Morriss.
- Mystery Lovers
... a cracking story that zips along...
- Sarah Rayne, author of
Tower of Silence
British hard-boiled crime at its best.
-
Deadly Pleasures
Year’s Best Mysteries 2007 (USA)
... a first-rate book... Carter did an excellent job of showing the pressures... I have ordered the first books in this series!
- Maddy Van Hertbruggen,
I Love a Mystery
Newsletter
... it is good to see a publisher investing in fresh work that, although definitely contemporary in mood and content, falls four-square within the genre’s traditions.
- Martin Edwards, author of the highly acclaimed Harry Devlin Mysteries
Crème de la Crime... so far have not put a foot wrong.
- Reviewing the Evidence
First published in 2008
by Crème de la Crime
P O Box 523, Chesterfield, S40 9AT
Copyright © 2008 Maureen Carter
The moral right of Maureen Carter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Typesetting by Yvette Warren
Cover design by Yvette Warren
Front cover image by Peter Roman
ISBN 978-0-9557078-3-4
A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library
Printed and bound in Germany by Bercker.
About the author:
Maureen Carter has worked extensively in the media. She lives in Birmingham with her husband and daughter. Visit her website:
I am again hugely indebted to Lynne Patrick and her inspirational team at Crème de la Crime. Many thanks also to Lesley Horton for her editorial skill and insight. For their help in my research I thank the
Birmingham Mail
’s women’s editor Diane Parkes and the crime correspondent Mark Cowan. Being back in a newsroom was great fun, though of course the journalists in
Bad Press
are fictional creations. Like Bev I became an ‘instant expert’ on the UK comedy circuit thanks to stand-up comedian Caimh McDonnell who shared his knowledge and expertise so generously.
As I’ve said before, writing would be a lonelier place without the support of some special people. For ‘being there’ even when they’re sometimes miles away, my love and affection go to: Sophie Shannon, Peter Shannon, Veronique Shannon, Corby and Stephen Young, Paula and Charles Morris, Suzanne Lee, Helen and Alan Mackay, Frances Lally, Jane Howell, Henrietta Lockhart, Anne Hamilton and Bridget Wood.
Finally, my thanks to readers everywhere – as always, this is for you.
For Douglas Hill
in fondest memory
1935–2007
For a man who’d be dead in five hours, Adam Graves looked remarkably good. He couldn’t see that – or anything else – right now. The bathroom was like a sauna; it was difficult to detect the aquiline nose in front of his face through a mirror wreathed in grey mist.
Adam wiped away the condensation, then stood back and took a long detached look. He was fit, and knew it. A deep tan enhanced the defined muscle tone. He was in better shape, ironically, than most men half his age. The thick black hair was definitely, defiantly, too long for his forty-four years, but women liked it. A bitter smile ghosted his lips: the thought no longer gave him pleasure. He snatched a jade silk dressing gown from the back of the door and tied the cord tightly round his waist.
Fastidious about his appearance, he took even greater pains this morning. What was that movie?
Looking Good Dead.
He scowled. Sick joke. Not funny. Momentarily overcome, Graves lunged at the basin and gagged.
Deep breaths helped regain superficial control. He flicked on the radio, ignored
Today
’s running order, willed himself through his own early morning agenda. Shave. Teeth. Hair. Shave. Teeth. Hair...
As he lathered his chin, the smell of almond cream mingled with those of the espresso and croissants Madeleine was fixing downstairs. The thought of food turned a stomach that was already churning. Not that he’d breakfast at home. Not on a Wednesday. It wasn’t part of their domestic routine.
Adam expertly ran the razor along his taut jaw-line. For a nanosecond, he imagined slicing the jugular, ending it here and now. He stilled the blade over the artery; observed, clinically almost, the pulse flicker, then closed his eyes, could almost taste blood. No. Stick to the plan. Shave. Teeth. Hair. Shave...
Carefully, he drew the blade down the plane of his cheek, chiselled features once more impassive, long sensitive fingers steady. The mauve smudges under his grey eyes talked of broken sleep, not shattered lives. These things he noted coolly, dispassionately.
A neighbour would later tell police that Doctor Graves always looked the same: like a man who didn’t have a care in the world. The observation would have pleased Adam. It was what he wanted people to think.
A shiny scarlet bead oozed as the blade nicked his skin. He winced, pressed tissue to the tiny wound, uttered a sotto voce, “Damn.” The unwitting irony provoked laughter bordering on hysteria, both immediately stifled. More deep breaths. Shave. Teeth. Hair...
He’d agonised for weeks about what to do; the thinking time was over. It was the first of August – the last day of his life. Meticulously, he cleaned and dried the razor. As he brushed his teeth, his mind replayed scenes he should have refused to take part in. Again, he closed his eyes; jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. Was it worth it? One moment of madness...
Except it wasn’t one moment. And he’d been perfectly sane.
He straightened, spat into the sink, licked toothpaste from his top lip. Though his death would devastate Madeleine and their son Lucas, learning the truth would destroy them. Adam couldn’t face that. In more rational moments, he knew the argument was specious. In reality, he knew he was a coward.
Not that he was scared of dying. He’d held patients’ hands, whispered platitudes as they took their final breath. He stared unflinching into the mirror, dragged a comb through his hair. It wasn’t death that scared Adam Graves; it was life.
Strong sunlight splashed through the casement window as Adam padded across the galleried landing. The deep ivory carpet warmed his soles. He lingered a while outside his son’s room. Lucas rarely put in an appearance before mid-morning. Adam fought the urge to enter, bandy a few exchanges. It would be a bad move: this wasn’t a day for firsts.
The grey linen suit he’d carefully selected was hanging on the outside of an ornately carved wardrobe. Adam dressed quickly and put a few items into a battered Gladstone bag. The bag had belonged to his father; Adam’s continued use of it was an affectation that spoke of clinging to the past, of family loyalty and the comfort of familiarity. The irony didn’t register with him this time as he slipped silently through the connecting double doors into his wife’s bedroom. The peaches and cream décor was not to his taste. Unnaturally neat, it could have been used as a set for
Beautiful Interiors
. His lip twitched: very Madeleine. He inhaled the scent of her vanilla perfume as he headed for the bed. And as he slipped an envelope under her satin pillow, he told himself he was doing it for her.
But then Adam told himself a lot of things these days.
The handcrafted kitchen was a vast expanse of green tiles and dark woods. Madeleine Graves perched on a high stool at the breakfast bar, like a slightly overweight fairy in a forest. The diaphanous lilac negligee didn’t do a lot for her. Neither did the pink chiffon scarf attempting to tame unruly chestnut locks. Despite her current sartorial shortcomings, she hadn’t stinted cosmetically. Madeleine was probably more sensitive about the age gap than Adam.
She offered her husband a glowing peach cheek for the familiar peck. “What time will you be home, darling?” For the doctor’s wife, it was just an ordinary day. She licked a finger, turned the page, apparently engrossed in a story about a thirteen-year-old who’d fathered triplets.
Maybe she sensed something in the pause, heard something in the silence. When no response came, she finally lifted her head, lines deepening between her amber eyes.
“About six?” Adam said.
No. He was fine. “Excellent.” Madeleine blew another kiss through a peachy pout, frowned as she spotted a mark on his shirt collar. Her wagging finger and indulgent smile, beckoned him closer.
“I’m late already, Maddie. What is it?” He was backing towards the door.
She shrugged. The perfect doctor: patients always came first. He was obviously in a hurry. He wouldn’t have time to change the shirt; and maybe no one else would notice. “No worries, darling.”
Though she couldn’t recall the last time her husband had cut himself shaving.
An elderly couple walking their teenaged Jack Russell through Hanbury Woods that evening spotted the battered Gladstone bag first. The scuffed leather case lay in a clearing to the right. It was an incongruous sight, but easier for the brain to process than the rest of the scene. The old woman wanted to believe that local youths had been throwing cans of red paint around again. Yobs had already targeted the church and parish hall. In reality neither she nor her retired police officer husband thought this was a mindless attack by vandals. But it was a more acceptable interpretation of what their eyes saw.
Scarlet grass? Leaves sprayed red? Their dog prancing round a man’s body lying in a crimson pool?
The old man patted his wife’s arm, told her not to move. He edged closer, gently coaxing the animal away. “Here, Nelson. Good boy, Nelson. Who’s a good boy then?”
Not Nelson. The dog was tearing at a dark red gash that had once been a man’s throat. And it was ruining a crime scene.
The old man turned to his wife hoping she wasn’t in shock. “We need to call the police. Got your mobile, love?”
She lifted a hand to shush him. She was already on the phone issuing directions.