Read DEAD & BURIED a gripping crime thriller full of twists Online
Authors: HELEN H. DURRANT
DEAD & BURIED a gripping crime thriller full of twists
DEAD & BURIED
A gripping crime thriller full of twists and suspense
(DI Calladine & DS Bayliss Book 5)
Helen H. Durrant
F
irst published 2016
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.
©Helen H. Durrant
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THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.
HELEN H. DURRANT’S OTHER CALLADINE AND BAYLISS MYSTERIES ARE AVAILABLE NOW:
BOOK 1 DEAD WRONG:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/WRONG-gripping-detective-thriller-suspense-ebook/dp/B010Y7641M/
http://www.amazon.com/WRONG-gripping-detective-thriller-suspense-ebook/dp/B010Y7641M/
First a shooting, then a grisly discovery on the common . . .
Police partners, D.I. Calladine and D.S. Ruth Bayliss race against time to track down a killer before the whole area erupts in violence. Their boss thinks it’s all down to drug lord Ray Fallon, but Calladine’s instincts say something far nastier is happening on the Hobfield housing estate.
Can this duo track down the murderer before anyone else dies and before the press publicize the gruesome crimes? Detectives Calladine and Bayliss are led on a trail which gets dangerously close to home. In a thrilling finale they race against time to rescue someone very close to Calladine’s heart.
BOOK 2: DEAD SILENT
http://www.amazon.co.uk/SILENT-gripping-detective-thriller-suspense-ebook/dp/B01185U8NE/
http://www.amazon.com/SILENT-gripping-detective-thriller-suspense-ebook/dp/B01185U8NE/
A body is found in a car crash, but the victim was already dead . . .
It is sometime in the late 1960s. A teenage boy is hammering on the door of a cottage. On the steps sits a girl, obviously in pain, clutching at her stomach . . .
“Help her! She’s not right! Open up now or I’ll knock the bloody door down!”
“Granny Slater said we should give her a while.” The girl’s friend held a bottle of water to her lips. “It’ll pass. I’m sure it’s just what happens.”
“Bollocks! She’s losing far too much blood.”
The friend looked down: he was right. Blood seeped down the steps and the girl was writhing in agony.
“If she doesn’t come out now and do something, I’ll blow her bloody head off.”
The friend looked up and gasped. “Vinny! Where did you get that?” She knew Vinny was a hard nut. She’d warned the girl often enough. But a gun!
“This . . .” he waved the revolver in front of her face. “It’s my faithful little friend. I never leave home without it these days. Life’s too dangerous.”
Granny Slater opened a bedroom window and shouted down. “Get her out of here! I’ve done my bit. She’ll be alright, just give her time.”
“You’ve fucking butchered her, you cow.”
The girl whimpered and then keeled over. Vinny knelt down beside her. “Her breathing’s gone funny.”
“We need to get a doctor.” The friend was frantic. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Plenty of other girls had come up here to see Granny Slater and everything had been fine. But now. Something had gone wrong. “She could die, Vinny, and this is against the law. We’ll get into trouble.”
“That’s why we can’t get no doctor up here. He’d just call the police.”
“We’ve got to do something. We can’t just leave her like this.”
“Hey! Bitch! Do you want that?” Vinny yelled up at the window. “Do you want me to call a doctor and have you put away?”
The door opened and Granny Slater looked at the girl. “She’s had a bad reaction, that’s all.”
But her friend knew the girl was done for. The lifeblood was pouring out of her and they couldn’t make it stop.
“Bring her in,” the old woman said.
Vinny carefully gathered the girl in his arms. She screamed in pain. Her friend winced. This had been a bad idea. They shouldn’t have come. She should have told her mother the truth and had the baby.
Vinny carried the girl into the kitchen. “You’re one evil witch!” he hissed at the woman. “Where do I put her?”
Granny Slater pointed to the kitchen table.
Vinny laid her down on top of a dark red stain in the open grain of the pine top. There was still a pool of blood on the stone-flagged floor. The friend was shaking. The kitchen made her think of the butcher’s shop in Leesdon.
Granny Slater went to the sideboard and took out a leather-bound notebook. A small child was standing in the shadows, watching. “Get to your room,” bawled the woman. “Sharpish, or you’ll get a clout round the ear.”
“You’re wasting time! Get on with it.” Vinny was screaming now.
“I have to get rid of the kid,” she screeched back. “She can’t see this. You said three months gone?”
The friend nodded.
Vinny was still holding the gun.
“Should have been easy.” She put the book away.
“Just sort her out!” Vinny jabbed the weapon into her ribs.
“I’ll do what I can.”
But there was a look of fear in the woman’s eyes. The friend saw it and knew. The cottage suddenly seemed deathly quiet and cold. The girl on the table wasn’t walking out of here tonight. She’d be lucky to make it through the next hour.
“If she dies, then so do you.” Vinny’s voice was icy.
The friend shrieked at them. “We have to get help!”
Vinny waved the gun. “Well?”
“She’s beyond help.” The woman looked at the body on the table, now lifeless.
“No, Vinny!” The friend made a dive for the hand holding the gun. “Don’t do this. You mustn’t.”
The two struggled in the semi-gloom. The old woman watched, rooted to the spot in fear. Then, amid the screams and raised voices, a single shot rang out.
Now — Tuesday
She lay flat on her back on the grass, her arms neatly folded over her chest. Her skin was the colour of milk. Her eyes were wide open, staring sightlessly at the sun. Half a dozen bluebottles hovered over the body. Others had already settled on the blood seeping through her clothing.
“How long?” DI Tom Calladine asked the pathologist.
“A few hours. Rigor is still present. Plus it rained last night and she isn’t wet.”
“Rocco!” shouted Calladine. “Have a look for wheel marks on that grass track down there. She got up here somehow.”
“There’s nothing!”
They were standing on a hillside above Leesdon. DI Tom Calladine, DC Simon Rockliffe, a forensic team from the Duggan and Bob Bower, the pathologist standing in for Natasha Barrington. Notably absent was Calladine’s partner, Sergeant Ruth Bayliss. Ruth was still on maternity leave after the birth of her son.
“Brought here and then killed?” Calladine asked Doctor Bower. “If not, whoever did this must have carried her.”
“Why do you say that?” the pathologist asked.
“Look at her shoes. There would be scuff marks on them if she’d had to walk up the hill.”
The pathologist removed one of the shoes. “Dirt on the soles of her feet,” he said. “Looks like she took them off.”
“And then the killer put them on again? Odd thing to do.”
“It is murder then, sir?” asked a uniformed officer.
“I doubt she shot herself in the back, Constable. Anyone recognise her?” Calladine looked round.
Rocco shook his head.
“I think she’s Ricky Blackwell’s mum,” the uniform chipped in. “They live in Leesdon, on the Hobfield.”
“Who found her?”
“A walker, sir. He’s been taken back to the station to make a statement.”
“Anyone found her belongings? Bag? Phone?”
More head shaking.
“How old would you say she was?” Calladine asked the pathologist.
“Early fifties. Difficult to tell though, she’s looked after herself.”
Unusual for someone from the Hobfield estate. The place was a sinkhole containing all of Leesdon’s troublemakers and no-hopers. It could hardly be called a beacon of clean, healthy living. But this woman was different. Her clothes for a start. They looked expensive. Not that Calladine was any expert. Her make-up was perfect. Her lipstick looked as if she’d just applied it. Her dark hair was cut short and looked freshly combed.
“Deliberately laid out like this — what do you think?” Calladine stood up.
“Well, she’s not been left as she fell, that’s for sure. Both her legs are broken. From the bruising, I’d say something had hit her in the knees, full on.” Bower felt one of them with his gloved hand. “The kneecap feels as if it’s completely smashed. Not content with that, they hit her on the back of the head.” He looked up. “Quite a significant injury. She’d have fallen forward. There are no defence injuries either.” He raised a manicured hand.
“Fallen onto her front?”
“I’d say so. There is extensive bruising to her face.”
“Disabled first, then shot?”
“Possibly. I’ll be certain when the PM’s done. But it’s probable that the head wound alone would have killed her within a short time.”
“Killed here, then,” Calladine said.
“More than likely. But like you say, not dressed for walking. Tight skirt, high heels. She looks like she was on her way out somewhere.”
Calladine turned to the PC. “What do we know about the Blackwell family?”
“Son tries to be a bit of a tearaway. Influenced by others, that’s his trouble.”
Calladine sighed. Kids. He looked around him. This was not a day you’d choose to die, nor was this the place. The scenery and the weather were glorious — rare for this part of the world. The hills were bathed in summer sunshine, and the sky was a cloudless blue. “We’ll get a positive identification. In the meantime I’ll let you get on with it.”
“Doctor Barrington said it would be quiet,” Doctor Bower complained. “She’s only been away three days and we’ve had two fatal road accidents already. Now this.”
“When’s she back?”
“A few days, apparently.”
Calladine looked at the forensic team working on the scene. No Julian. The team were now headed up by a woman — forensic scientist Doctor Roxy Atkins.
“There are a whole lot of tracks going off up that way.” Roxy pushed back the hood of her coverall. “No tyre tracks, just footprints. Where does it go?”
“Clough Bottom, a small hamlet and local beauty spot. A magnet for ramblers,” Calladine told her. “Like all the hills around here. Over there, that’s Wharmton. The one with the jagged-looking tops behind you is Indian’s Head.”
She smiled. “Strange names.”
“Strange place,” he said.
“We’ll take a look at the tracks, but being so many I can’t promise anything.”
Calladine gestured to DC Simon Rockliffe, known to his workmates as Rocco. “We’ll head back.”
* * *
The woman strode into the auction room and took a seat at the front. She was tall with long, dark hair to her shoulders and wore expensive designer clothing. Every pair of eyes bar Imogen Goode’s studied her with silent curiosity. Then the whispering started. She was quite striking and she wasn’t local. So who was she?
Imogen nudged her companion. “Wind your neck in.” She slapped Julian Batho’s arm. “She’s far too old for you, and don’t forget why we’re here. It’s next up. It should go for a song, it’s in such a bad state.”
“No one has lived in it for at least four decades. Plus it looks like the local kids have tried to demolish it. The walls for example — you saw the state they’re in. They’ve kicked the plaster off most of them.”
Imogen slapped him again. “How about a bit of enthusiasm?”
“There are plenty of nice houses in town.”
Same old argument.
“Clough Cottage is the back of beyond,” he continued. “A couple of miles out of Leesdon town. Nearest neighbour half a mile away up that hill there,” he pointed. “What happens up there when it snows?”
“You use a four-wheel drive, Julian. Stop being difficult.”
Detective Constable Imogen Goode and Professor Julian Batho from the Duggan Centre had been an item for several months now. Neither of them was in any doubt that this was the real thing, so they had decided to buy a property together. Since then they’d bickered almost nonstop. An old cottage off the Huddersfield Road above Leesdon had come up for auction. It had been empty for years. A local builder had described it as a money pit, but that hadn’t put Imogen off. She liked the idea of being away from people. Apart from that, when it was renovated the cottage would be worth real money. But Julian Batho wasn’t so sure. He was no DIY expert.
Imogen heard male voices coming from the back of the room and turned to look. “What’s he doing here?”
Julian recognised Jacob Naden. “He’s a local farmer,” he said.
“Yes I know that.” Imogen watched a middle-aged man walk to the front of the room, accompanied by a boy who was obviously his son. “He could be a serious contender,” she whispered. “He owns Clough Farm, that neighbour you were talking about, up on the tops above the cottage.”
The auctioneer called for silence. Clough Cottage was next up.
“Go on,” she urged, tucking a lock of long blonde hair behind her ear. “Get it bought.”
Julian raised his card. He went straight in on the opening bid. There was silence. Imogen waited, hardly daring to breath. If no one else was interested, it was seconds away from being theirs.
Then all hell let loose. Bids came from every corner of the room.
“Why? I don’t understand. Most of the folk here don’t look as if they’ve got two halfpennies to rub together,” said Julian.
“You shouldn’t take the people round here at face value, Julian. Folk don’t broadcast their wealth.”
Above the din of the bidding, a voice shouted out.
“I’ll double it!”
Silence fell and all eyes swung towards the unknown woman. She looked back at Imogen and Julian.
“It’s still not much. Bid again,” Imogen hissed, glaring daggers at the woman. She had an American accent. Not strong, it was the sort you’d pick up from living there for a few years.
Jacob Naden was scowling. “Not so fast, lady. That’s not how it’s done.” He upped the bid by twenty thousand.
Julian put a consoling arm around Imogen’s waist. “It’s way out of our league now. That pair will fight it out to the death.”
He was right. Imogen was disappointed but also intrigued. The cottage was only a stone’s throw from Naden’s farm, so she could understand his interest. But she had no idea who the woman was and why she wanted the cottage. The entire room was watching as she and Naden stared each other down.
“This is highly irregular,” said the auctioneer, his face florid, gavel in hand.
There was more muttering around the room. Then the woman’s mobile rang. “Give me a moment,” she mouthed to the auctioneer and hurried to the back of the room.
The auctioneer leaned forward. “Mr Batho? Do you want to make a higher offer?”
“It’s pointless,” Julian whispered to Imogen. He turned to the auctioneer. “Let them fight it out. We can’t outbid either of them.”
The auctioneer looked up to call the woman back but she had gone. Jacob Naden clapped his son on the back. The cottage was theirs.
* * *
Imogen looked up from her computer screen. “Ricky Blackwell is on the system, sir. Petty theft from local shops, nothing serious, and no dealing. His mother’s name is Emily.”
“Address?”
“Second floor, Heron House. Number twelve.”
“Well, we need to confirm if this is Ricky’s mother or not. Rocco — we’ll get round there.”
“How did it go this morning?” Rocco asked Imogen before they left.
“It didn’t. We were outbid — quite dramatically too. The place is practically derelict but folk were falling over themselves to buy it.”
“Who got it in the end?”
“The Nadens got it. But it was tough going. Some woman was fighting Jacob Naden tooth and nail.”
“You’ll find something,” Calladine assured her. “Why not speak to Zoe’s partner, Jo. She’s an estate agent. I’m sure she’ll help.”
“Actually that’s not a bad idea.”
Zoe was Calladine’s daughter. She was a solicitor and her partner, Jo Brandon, was an estate agent. Between the two of them they more or less had the Leesdon property market sewn up.
As they left, Calladine heard Imogen on the phone to Julian. She was suggesting exactly that.
“Wonder what she did to end up dead, sir,” Rocco said to Calladine.
“Crossed some scroat — easy to do when you live where she did.”
“She didn’t look the type to live on the Hobfield. She looked too classy.”
“Classy clothes — doesn’t mean she was a classy woman. She probably had some money to spare, that’s all. And money to spare can be a dangerous thing on that estate.”
“DI Calladine!” Rhona Birch called out as they passed her office door.
He rolled his eyes. “Give me a minute, Rocco. You go sort the car.”
Calladine poked his head through the half-open door. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Come in. Take a seat. I’ve had Superintendent McCabe on from Daneside.”
“What have we done to interest him?”
“We have a body, as well you know. He is heading up the new Major Incident Team, so it’s his job to be interested.”
“I thought they’d decided to leave us out. I read the memo. It said the team would only involve Oldston, Daneside and parts of East Manchester.”
“That might be the case eventually, but for now they’re still making up their minds.” She paused for a moment, a frown creasing her masculine features “I have to say their interest has aroused my curiosity. We’ve had incidents recently that they have completely ignored. So what could be different about this one?”
“Perhaps they’re short of something to do.”
Rhona Birch didn’t look amused.
“Keep your eyes and ears open, Inspector, and keep me informed.” The look she gave him could freeze the soul. “And be warned. If they do send someone, it’ll be a DCI.”
In that case he’d keep his fingers crossed that it wasn’t the newly promoted DCI Greco.