Blood Money
Authors: Maureen Carter
Also by Maureen Carter:
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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
... 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 (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
Though it’s a grim story-line, there is also plenty of humour... The authentic... setting was a bonus, there are few books set in
Birmingham
- Karen Meek, Eurocrime
... shows us another side of the hero and encourages us to connect with her on a deeper personal level than ever before.
- David Pitt, Booklist (USA)
... 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 2009
by Crème de la Crime
P O Box 523, Chesterfield, S40 9AT
Copyright © 2009 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 978-0-9557078-7-2
eBook ISBN 978-1-906790-90-5
A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library
Printed and bound in the UK by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berks
www.creativecontentdigital.com
About the author:
Maureen Carter has worked extensively in the media. A journalist and writer, she lives in Birmingham with her family.
It’s a great pleasure and privilege to work with Lynne Patrick and her inspirational and gifted team at Crème de la Crime. Huge thanks to
everyone there – as always. I’m grateful, too, for the knowledge and expertise given so generously by Detective Sergeant Chris Elliott and Lead Forensic Manager Robin Slater. Their
contribution to
Blood Money
is immense and goes far beyond answering my numerous questions. I thank both for their valuable time and expertise. Any error of interpretation is mine.
Writing – as I’ve noted before – 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 goes to: 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 Sophie and Dan
1
The woman is a bad sleeper at the best of times. Now it is the dead of night. She’s drifting off when she’s convinced she hears a faint sound on the landing. Her
scalp crawls as she shoots upright, trying to identify the noise. After thirty, forty seconds hearing only her heartbeat, she sinks back under the duvet, chides herself. Without Rod’s
reassuring presence, it’s easy to let the mind play tricks. She hates being a widow, vows to stop watching the news, reading the papers, always full of scare stories.
Then the door inches open.
Rigid with fear, she hardly dares breathe. Silhouetted in the threshold is an intruder, moonlight glinting off what she’s sure is a knife in his right hand. She feigns sleep, desperately
hopes it’s a figment of her imagination, knows the dark figure will still be there when she opens her eyes. Another sound. She strains her ears. Footsteps pad closer. A smell wafts towards
her. Lemon? Lime? Not sure.
Grab the phone. Call the police. Thoughts instantly dismissed. Reaching out would be futile. She fights an almost overwhelming urge to scream, to flee. Alone and afraid, she prays. Harder than
she’s prayed in her life. Sweet Lord, please make him go... sweet Lord...
“Turn over.” The whisper is soft in her ear, his minty breath warms her cheek. The sweat feels clammy on her spine. Paralysed with fear, her pathetic whimper escapes
involuntarily.
“On your back.” It’s an order. Barked. Spittle hits her face. “Now.”
In slow terrified motion she obeys, then gasps in shock, confusion. A grinning clown face looms over her, thick scarlet lips silvered by the full moon, shaggy ginger curls either side of a
smooth pale pate. Dark eyes glitter through slits in latex.
“Please... don’t... hurt me,” she pleads. “Take whatever...”
“Shut it.” With a gloved hand he switches on the bedside lamp, the other strokes her jaw with the knife. Their glances lock: prey and predator. It’s no contest. She has neither
will nor means to protect herself let alone counter-attack. Who is he? What does he want? The voice is muffled slightly, but the cadence suggests a young man: twenties, thirties, perhaps. The woman
swallows hard; she’s old enough to be his grandmother.
The clown’s inane grin is fixed as the intruder ogles the contours of her trembling body. Despite her long white nightdress she feels naked, acutely aware how the flimsy cotton flutters in
pace with her wildly pumping heart. Her breaths are short, shallow. She cuts a glance to the bedside table, a glass. He reaches for it. “Drink?”
“P... p... please.” She parts dry lips, forces a wary smile. Maybe if she talks to him? Makes him see her as a human being? When she struggles to sit up, he flings the water in her
face.
“I said don’t move, dumb ass. What did I say?”
The tepid liquid runs down her cheeks, drips from her chin, her hair. “Don’t m...”
“Including that.” He taps the blade against her mouth. She shrinks back. “We do things my way or my way. Get it? Faith?”
Hearing her name from those mocking lips stings like a slap. She stiffens as the implication sinks in. “How...?”
He whacks her face with the back of his hand. “What part of ‘shut it’ don’t you understand?” He hurls the duvet to the floor, hitches up her nightdress with the
knife. With the tip of the blade, he strokes her naked breasts, the spread of her belly. She crosses her legs, tries to cover her chest; hot tears cool and pool under her ears. Mind-numbing fear?
Would that it were. The woman’s only too aware she’s at the mercy of a callous thug in her own home. She knows she won’t be able to live here after this – assuming she
lives.
“Make a sound – you’re dead. Clear?” Wide-eyed, she nods. He reaches a hand over his shoulder, and for the first time she notices the rucksack. She watches as he removes
four lengths of thin cord which he places beside her, then a small velvet pouch which he slips into his jacket pocket.
Dark eyes still glittering, he flexes theatrical fingers, bounces on the balls of his feet. “Coming, dear... ready or not...” The sing-song taunt’s more menacing than the
snapped directions. When he straddles her, she loses control of her bladder.
“You should be so lucky,” he sneers, shuffles forward, pins her arms with his knees, leers for what seems a lifetime. “’Kay, listen up. This is what’s gonna
happen.” He wants cash and jewellery, keys to drawers and cabinets. If she co-operates he’ll leave her in peace. If she doesn’t... he thrusts his crotch in her face. Through
racking sobs, she tells him what he wants to know.
“Good girl.” He pats her head before snatching the rings from her fingers and the crucifix around her neck. He crams these in another pocket before reaching for the first length of
cord. She’s spread-eagled to the bed where she lies shivering on a urine-soaked sheet.
Prowling the room, he opens cupboards, rifles drawers. She watches as her favourite brooch and earrings are jammed into the rucksack followed by a silver jewellery box where she keeps
Rod’s watch and cufflinks. She likes to take them out each day; look, touch, remember. Unwittingly perhaps, her glance falls on a gilt-framed photograph on the dressing table. So does the
intruder’s.
She steels herself as he picks it up. “This the old man, love?” She imagines his sly smirk under the grinning mask. Closing her eyes, she pictures instead her good and gentle
husband. The sound of cracking glass startles her. Suspecting what will happen next makes it no easier. Her heart hurts as he tears the wedding photograph, scatters tiny pieces confetti-like across
the bed.
“Crap host, aren’t you? Where’s my drink?” She recoils as he reaches towards her but he only checks the knots. At the door, he lifts a hand. “Nah, don’t get
up.” Sniggering, he sneaks downstairs. Ears strained, she traces his movements as he further invades, infests her home: floorboards creak, door handles click, drawers are yanked open. She
imagines him fingering her possessions, thieving anything he can sell, anything he can get a good price for. What he’s already taken can’t be bought: dignity, confidence,
self-esteem.
Slowly she turns her head, gazes out of the picture window where the sallow moon’s now skulking behind the oak tree’s bare branches. Rod often teased her about not drawing the
curtains, but she used to love watching her tiny slice of world go by, the slow changes wrought by the seasons. Now she screws her eyes tight, bites her lip, tastes blood.
