In the Light of Madness

This publication is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. This work is protected in full by all applicable copyright laws, as well as by misappropriation, trade secret, unfair competition, and other applicable laws. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any manner without written permission from Winter Goose Publishing, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. All rights reserved.

Winter Goose Publishing

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In the Light of Madness

COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Hemmie Martin

First Edition, November 2013

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9894792-9-5

Cover Art by Winter Goose Publishing

Typeset by
Odyssey Books

Published in the United States of America

Also Available By Hemmie Martin:

The Divine Pumpkin

Attic of the Mind

To DI Andy Yeats, of the Metropolitan Police Service

for his unwavering enthusiasm and patience in answering

all my police and crime related questions

I thank you deeply

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

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Chapter One

Gravestones jutted out of the ground like candles on a birthday cake. They marked an occasion in a person’s life, but were ultimately forgotten once the ceremony was over.

“What have we got, Boss?” DS Jacob Lennox asked, stepping inside the newly erected white tent to stand next to DI Eva Wednesday.

“A boy, early- to mid-teens. At first sight seems to have no visible injuries and no obvious cause of death. Edmond will tell us more just as soon as he gets here and does a preliminary assessment.”

Looking down at the boy, it occurred to Wednesday that she was old enough to be his mother. The thought sent a frisson down her spine as she tucked a loose strand of chestnut hair behind her ear.

“Who called it in?” Lennox asked, noticing his new boss had an ethereal quality about her in the white-paper forensic suit.

“An anonymous male from the payphone in the market square.”

There was no ID on the victim, but a young lad had been reported missing earlier that evening by an anxious father, and the victim appeared to match the description.

Through the gloom, Wednesday saw a bald man of stocky build, wearing a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches bend down to pass beneath the crime scene tape. There was something reassuring about the pathologist Edmond Carter; rather like a favourite uncle who always had intriguing stories to tell, and who could make a grazed knee feel better. Following him was the forensic photographer, Marcus Drake. Marcus was slim with a thin face; his jet black hair spiked up with a heavy use of wax.

Wednesday and Lennox stood back whilst Edmond snapped on some latex gloves and set to work. Marcus took a couple of scene shots, sending pin-pricks of dazzling light orbiting around their eyes.

“Was he suffocated?” she asked Edmond as he shuffled around the body.

“In the first instance I’d say that’s a strong possibility. I’ll check for fibres in the cavities back at the lab. No obvious external injuries except for bruising around the mouth and nose.” He let out an audible sigh and stood up to let Marcus document the victim
in situ
.

“Time of death?”

“I don’t think rigor mortis is going to be a reliable concept if the body’s been out for hours in this cold. I’ll have to do a battery of assessments and tests; you know, post mortem, blah de blah.” Edmond often interjected his sentences with the word
blah
. Wednesday believed it was because he could not be bothered to converse with the living; preferring the frozen silence of the dead.

“I know you people don’t like to be pushed, but an approximate time would give us a vital start,” said Lennox, his voice resonating powerful calmness.

Edmond raised his bushy eyebrows that compensated for his bald head. “My preliminary estimate on liver temperature would be between seven and eleven p.m.”

“I’ll get a family liaison officer to meet us at the parents’ house,” Wednesday said, putting a call through to the station.

“You’ll have to direct me; I’m still not used to the scenic borders of Cambridge,” Lennox said.

Wednesday glanced back to see the boy’s lifeless form being placed in a body bag, whilst Lennox remotely unlocked his black Ford Mondeo and climbed into the driver’s seat.

The interior of his car was pristine, with the faint smell of leather lingering in the air. She knew he smoked but clearly not in his car. A pity, she thought to herself, as she really wanted one before talking to the family.

Lennox pressed his fingers into the steering wheel as he drove along a narrow hedge-lined lane to the neighbouring village of Lavendly

They pulled up outside a tiny cottage, illuminated in every window, and found the family liaison officer was waiting for them.

Knocking on the front door, Wednesday inhaled deeply, letting the air drift slowly out through her nostrils. A tall man with a pallid, drawn face answered the door; his expression fell further at the sight of them. He was a mirror image of the dead boy.

“Mr James Dolby? I’m Detective Inspector Wednesday, this is Detective Sergeant Lennox, and this is the family liaison officer, DC Janice Parker. May we come in please?” she said, trying not to let her voice betray her inner emotions.

As they stepped inside, a frantic woman appeared behind James Dolby, shrieking for her son. He ushered them in quickly before catching his wife in his arms. He had anticipated the hopelessness they brought with them.

The couple were older than Wednesday had imagined, and the house had a musty smell, reminiscent of her grandmother’s house.

Inside the slightly antiquated, but nevertheless comfortable lounge, was a wood burning stove harbouring the remnants of glowing embers. Motes of dust caught the light and danced around like a parade of fairies. A row of Toby jugs hung on the chimney breast, and a large ceramic figurine of a spaniel sat on the hearth.

James Dolby guided his wife, Emily, to the sofa where she grabbed a cushion and clutched it tightly over her abdomen.

“You’ve come about Tom, haven’t you?” he asked as he looked anxiously towards his wife.

“Yes. I’m afraid we’ve found a body matching your son’s description. May we sit down?”

The man extended his arm towards the chairs, but remained standing. Wednesday noticed a photograph of a boy dressed in Markham Hall school uniform on the mantelpiece, and she was in no doubt that the dead boy was their son.

“Is he going to be okay?” asked Emily meekly, clearly not registering Wednesday’s words. Her wide eyes betrayed her.