DCI Warren Jones has a bad feeling when the body of a young woman turns up in Beaconsfield Woods. Shes been raped and strangled but the murderer has been careful to leave no DNA evidence. There are, of course, suspects boyfriend, father to check out but, worryingly, it looks more and more like a stranger murder.
Warrens worst fears are confirmed when another young woman is killed in the same way.
The MO fits that of Richard Cameron who served twelve years for rape. But Cameron never killed his victims and he has a cast-iron alibi.
Then personal tragedy intervenes and Warren is off the case. But the pressure is mounting and another woman goes missing. Warren is back but will the break he desperately needs come before theres another victim?
Also by Paul Gitsham
The Last Straw
No Smoke Without Fire
Blood is Thicker Than Water (A DCI Warren Jones novella)
Silent as the Grave
A Case Gone Cold (A DCI Warren Jones novella)
The Common Enemy
A Deadly Lesson (A DCI Warren Jones novella)
Forgive Me Father
At First Glance (A DCI Warren Jones novella)
No Smoke Without Fire
A DCI Warren Jones Novel
Paul Gitsham
Copyright
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014
Copyright © Paul Gitsham 2014
Paul Gitsham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781472096487
Version date: 2019-11-11
PAUL GITSHAM started his career as a biologist working in the UK and Canada. After stints as the worlds most over-qualified receptionist and a spell ensuring that international terrorists hadnt opened a Child's Savings Account at a major UK bank (a job even duller than working reception) he retrained as a science teacher.
You can find out more about Paul at his website, https://www.paulgitsham.com/ or follow him on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/DCIJones/ or Twitter @dcijoneswriter
Acknowledgements:
Phew, that difficult second novel wasnt as difficult as I feared! And again, thats in large part down to my wonderful family and friends who help and encourage me in everything. Whether they proof-read drafts, gave me their thoughts on extracts that I sent them or just said something really interesting that I shamelessly pinched
As always, there are too many to list you all, but a few stand out. Again, my father and Lawrence proof-read the complete manuscript, corrected my grammar and gave me their thoughts. My favourite lawyers Dan and Caroline gave me sound legal advice and an insight into custody procedures. I am also extremely grateful to Crime Scene Investigator Lee Robson from Essex police, whos description of the procedures and day-to-day working practise of the folks in white suits has been invaluable. I apologise sincerely for any errors or artistic liberties taken to advance the story.
And finally, a big thank you to Father David Barry who not only double-checked the authenticity of a key chapter, but also helped make my little sisters wedding such a perfect day!
As always, the support and friendship of Hertford Writers Circle has been wonderful and I appreciate the fact that nobody reported me to the authorities for turning up each month with a new description of a grisly murder
And finally, the editorial team and staff at CarinaUK and Harlequin, in particular Helen, Lucy and Victoria for their hard work on this and The Last Straw.
I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Disclaimer:
The town of Middlesbury, Middlesbury CID and all characters featured in this book are entirely fictional and not intended to represent any real-world individuals or organisations. It is also important to stress that whilst Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire Constabularies are real organisations, they are not in any way affiliated to this book and the way that they are represented in this book is entirely imaginary.
To Mum and Dad. Thanks for everything.
Contents
Cover
Blurb
Book List
Title Page
Copyright
Author Bio
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
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
Epilogue
Endpages
About the Publisher
Prologue
December 2010
The old man shuffles through the gate, blinking as if he hasnt seen the sun in years. In many ways, he hasnt. Not really. Hes dressed in a shabby grey suit thats a size too small and a once expensive shirt, open at the neck. A simple crucifix on a thin metal chain is just visible, partly hidden by curling grey hair. The leather of his shoes creaks, having stiffened over time. In his right hand he clutches a blue plastic carrier bag it contains all that he has owned for the last twelve years.
Behind him the guard stops, still inside. One more step and his authority evaporates; inside he is as a god, his jurisdiction absolute outside he is no more than an ordinary man.
Im sure well be seeing you again. Your kind never change. I just hope they catch you next time before you ruin any more lives. His voice is muted, his cruel taunt only audible to the old man.
For his part, the old man keeps on walking as if he hasnt heard a word; a few more paces as if to guarantee he is truly outside and he stops. Turning slowly to survey the place he has called home for over a decade, he looks slowly at the guard and fingers the crucifix.
No, you wont. Im never coming back. I will never spend another day in that hell-hole. His voice, quiet, raspy, damaged by too many cigarettes, is nevertheless resolute.
The guard scowls, disappointed that the prisoner former prisoner doesnt rise to the bait. Sometimes they do; sometimes they start the first day of their new life in a bad mood, as he manages to turn a joyous occasion for the prisoner and his family into a nasty confrontation. Prisoners dream of the moment they step through those gates free men. They idolise it, constructing fantasies about how perfect it will be as if they are soldiers returning from a far distant front line; conquering heroes, not the dregs of humanity finally released back into society, more often than not to pick up where they left off. The guard always does his best to spoil that moment his final gift to his former charges. If he had his way, people like the old man would never leave theyd serve time until their dying breaths, and then theyd be buried in unmarked graves in an inaccessible and overlooked part of the prison grounds.
Finally, the old man breaks his gaze and turns back towards the road, starting his shuffle again. He seems to notice the chill December wind for the first time and shivers. It was spring when he was driven through the gates that last time; the lightweight suit that he wore in his final court appearance more than adequate. Now its winter and he almost wishes hed put on his prison-issue sweater. But no, he could never do that. He only has it in his bag so that he can light a bonfire with it and start to expunge the legacy of his recent incarceration. To have put the sweater back on would have been to surrender his freedom again. Never.
He waits on the side of the kerb, not quite sure what to do, his teeth starting to chatter. How ironic, he thinks, to have survived all of these years, only to freeze to death because his lift is late. Behind him he hears the whine of an electric motor, then the heavy thunk as the huge door closes, shutting him off from the nearest source of warmth for miles around. Never mind, he long ago made a promise to himself: even if the snow was three feet deep and the temperature twenty below freezing he would never step inside a prison again, either by choice or by compulsion; hed rather die of exposure.
Finally, he hears the purr of a well-tuned engine. Looking up, he sees a dark blue Jaguar driving slowly towards him. Instinctively he knows its for him. The car, an unfamiliar model sporting the new type of licence plate that means nothing to him yet another small detail that slipped past as he languished inside eases to a halt. The driver reaches across and opens the passenger door. He remains leaning across the seat, looking up at the old man.
Hello, Dad. You survived, I see.
Twelve months later
Friday 2nd December
Chapter 1
The young woman stepped into the ice-cold December air. Six p.m. and already it had been fully dark for two hours. She operated her mobile phone with one hand, fumbling in her handbag with the other. Wrapped up tightly against the cold, with a long red woollen coat, a dark, knitted scarf and matching hat, she nevertheless had yet to put her gloves on, in deference to the touchscreen on her phone.
Activating it, she saw that it was precisely one minute past six. Selecting the text icon, she read the short message:
On my way babes. C U soon. X
She smiled as she finally located her cigarettes and lighter. Darren was on time as always. The couple had developed a well-oiled routine over the year that they had lived together. Darren would leave the tyre fitters where he worked at six on the dot and drive across town to pick her up. A devious little rat-run let him avoid Middlesburys one-way system in the rush hour and arrive in the side street behind her office building at about ten past six, giving her just enough time to enjoy a well-earned cigarette. Unfortunately, the only place he refused to allow her to smoke was in the passenger seat of his well-loved and heavily customised Vauxhall Astra.