BURIED CRIMES: a gripping detective thriller full of twists and turns
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Authors: MICHAEL HAMBLING
A gripping detective thriller full of twists and turns
DCI SOPHIE ALLEN BOOK 4
MICHAEL HAMBLING
Fi
rst published 2016
Joffe Books, London
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, 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. The Dorchester High School, mentioned in this novel, does not exist. Nor do its staff or pupils.
The right of Michael Hambling to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
©Michael Hambling
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THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH VOCABULARY IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.
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A young woman’s body is discovered on a deserted footpath in a Dorset seaside town late on a cold November night. She has been stabbed through the heart.
It seems like a simple crime for DCI Sophie Allen and her team to solve. But not when the victim’s mother is found strangled the next morning. The case grows more complex as DCI Sophie Allen discovers that the victims had secret histories, involving violence and intimidation. There’s an obvious suspect but Detective Allen isn't convinced. Could someone else be lurking in the shadows, someone savagely violent, looking for a warped revenge?
Chapter 11: Smoking in the Shadows
Chapter 13: Walkies, Cuddles and Muesli
Chapter 17: A Happy Little Girl
Chapter 19: Infrequently Washed Knickers
Chapter 20: Camberwell Beauties
Chapter 21: Meticulously Pressed Trousers
Chapter 32: Scones and Clotted Cream
Chapter 34: Whatever Makes You Happy
Chapter 35: Welcome to the Club
THE FIRST THREE SOPHIE ALLEN BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE NOW:
Dedications
To my parents, Nora and Bob. Always supportive and always remembered.
To the memory of the late William S Bennet (died spring 1980, Girvan, Ayrshire). Bill was an intelligent and supportive friend and colleague who made a major contribution to my early adult life. He died tragically young.
Midnight.
Leaves, damp bark, stone, dew-covered petals, all reflected the silvery sheen of moonlight. Even the soil in the garden seemed to shimmer with a metallic glow, except for a patch of newly turned earth. Its blackness swallowed any light that fell upon its surface, like a dark star. In the centre stood a newly planted butterfly bush, a figure in miniature, protruding from the shadowy earth. It was less than fifteen inches tall. Its erstwhile home, a plastic pot, was lying to one side of the patch, upturned next to a garden fork spiked into the ground.
The late-night gardener stood back from the freshly turned bed and looked at the results of the past hour’s efforts. Droplets of perspiration, shining in the moonlight, ran down a pale face and onto the chin, spattering the dark blue jacket. A cat wandered by and paused nervously for a while, tail twitching, hearing the sound of laboured breathing. The gardener leant heavily on a spade and looked around. Nothing disturbed the silence of the cool night. The figure stood looking down at the newly planted bush for several minutes before slowly gathering the tools together and walking back towards the house. The terrible task was completed.
Friday night and Saturday morning
Midnight.
A creak. Possibly an old timber contracting in the cool night air.
Jill Freeman lay awake watching the fuzzy outline of the moon through thin curtains. She could hear and feel Philip, her husband, gently breathing beside her, in a deep slumber. In the moments before he fell asleep, he’d told her how contented and happy he felt. She and Phil had moved to the house in Dorchester ten months previously, in early summer, along with their two children, Karen and Paul. It was the kind of house that families such as theirs could usually only dream about. An old, detached dwelling in one of the town’s leafier areas, a throwback to an earlier century. It sat among a hotchpotch of Victorian, Edwardian and Georgian buildings.
Finch Cottage had seemed like heaven for the family of four, after their cramped and noisy terraced house in Bristol. Some of the neighbours were undoubted snobs, but it was a benign kind of snobbery, harmless. And anyway, the area was close enough to permit the Freemans to maintain regular social contact with their Bristolian friends. They were a cheerful and gregarious family who, given time, would fit in to their new social environment. A benevolent great-aunt of Jill’s had recently died and left them a substantial inheritance. She would have approved of their use of the money. They had bought property in an upmarket area, and invested the remainder of the cash wisely.
Jill and Philip were good parents, ambitious for their children. They had married rather later than average, in their late twenties. Now they were fairly fit forty-year-olds, active and careful of their health. Philip was tall and slim. Despite his fair hair, he tanned easily. His freckles multiplied now that he was spending more time outside in the open air. Jill was rather more fit than her husband, but she was shorter, darker and of a heavier build. Karen, the twelve-year-old daughter, was tall, fair and slim whereas the ten-year-old son, Paul, was dark, heavier and shorter like his mother.
The cluster of houses in their immediate neighbourhood, close to St Paul’s church, were all attractive detached properties with sizable gardens. Their new home had been somewhat neglected by its previous owners in recent years, so the Freemans had planned to renovate. This was why Philip had fallen asleep so easily. He had completed the redecoration and fitting of the lounge (sitting room, as the neighbours called it), and they had celebrated by inviting some old friends who were on holiday in Dorset, for dinner that evening. It had been unusually mild for early spring and the four of them had been able to sit with the French windows open, showing a view of the sunset. The Freemans were pleased with their redecoration. Phil’s new job was based in the local town planning office, and his contact with developers and builders had helped him in his DIY work. Their dinner guests ran a small building firm, and Philip had tapped into their knowledge. Bob Walker had helped Phil refit the kitchen before they moved in. He had complimented the Freemans on their choice of decor.
In bed, Philip had talked of his plans for the following day. He would start work on the garden. Many of the trees and shrubs required pruning after several years of unrestricted growth. He was planning to move a buddleia to a more open, sunny position where it might attract a greater number of insects. Then he had turned over and closed his eyes, falling asleep almost instantly.
Jill continued to lie awake, uneasy thoughts swirling around in her head. It wasn’t until well into the silent, early hours that she finally fell into a fitful sleep.
* * *
The next morning Philip was in the garden with Karen. He had decided to go ahead with his plans to move the aged, gnarled buddleia, despite the light rain that had started falling during the night. The ground was now sticky and wet, and both were dressed in old clothes and boots.
‘Why’s it called a butterfly bush, Dad?’ asked Karen.
She had finished clearing away some weeds and other debris from the area around the shrub. She stood, leaning on a fork. Her father had begun to dig a trench around the roots, preparing to lever out the plant.
‘The flowers must be attractive to them. Not just butterflies. Lots of other insects too.’
‘How much longer will it take?’ the girl continued. ‘I thought we’d be finished by now. I’m getting tired.’
‘Not too much longer. The preparation always takes longer than you expect, and we’ve done all that now.’ He looked up at the grey sky. The drizzle was starting to turn into a definite downpour. ‘You start at the other side,’ he added. ‘Let’s try to get it out before we get completely soaked.’ He wondered about postponing the final stage of the work, but looked at their mud-caked clothes. It would be easier just to work on, and then clean up with a bath or shower.
‘There’s an old bit of rug or something under this end, Dad,’ Karen said. ‘The fork keeps getting stuck in it.’
‘Take the spade and chop it downwards to clear whatever’s there. It should come out then.’
Philip kept digging, his damp shirt beginning to stick to his back. He heard his daughter suddenly gasp, and looked up. Karen stood with her mouth open, her eyes riveted on the object she held out. Decayed and rotten fabric had partly fallen away from the lump she had freed and picked up. It revealed the bones of a small, human hand severed at the wrist.
Philip looked at his daughter in horror. She had turned deathly white. She stood, mouth agape, staring at what she was holding, as if unable to let it go.
‘Drop it!’ he hissed urgently.
She looked at him uncomprehendingly, then dropped the hand. She moaned once and began to topple over. He caught her limp body before it fell to the ground, hugging her to him as he carried her back to the house.
* * *
The streets around Finch Cottage had rarely seen such activity. Within a few minutes of Philip Freeman’s emergency phone call a squad car had arrived, followed shortly after by a doctor called out to treat the shocked young girl. Karen was pale, and shivered in uncontrollable spasms, still gasping with occasional sobs. She sat, hunched forward, wrapped in several layers of blankets in the warmest room in the house. White knuckles showed the tightness of her grip on the covers. Her thin, white face looked pinched and tearful.
The doctor was present for just five minutes. He talked to Karen, administered a mild sedative and suggested a warm bath followed by a spell in bed. Her father declined a sedative for himself, opting instead for a hot shower and a cup of tea.
‘She’s a lovely girl,’ said the policewoman as Jill led Karen upstairs to the bathroom. Two constables had made a quick inspection of the excavation spot before the older one had returned to the house. Her younger colleague remained outside watching the site, sheltering from the pouring rain in the garden shed. She had spoken to her headquarters by radio, and then talked to Karen and the doctor before he left.
‘What do you think?’ Philip asked, once his daughter was out of the room.
The policewoman shrugged. ‘Can’t say. There is still some old rug or carpet visible, but it’s impossible to say how much. We’ll just wait until the forensic team and the officer in charge arrives.’
‘It could be entirely innocent, I suppose. There are meant to be remains from an old battle all around here.’
‘But they wouldn’t have wrapped the body in a carpet, sir,’ she answered. ‘It’s likely to be quite recent. But as I’ve said, it’s not worth speculating at present.’ She took a cup of tea out to her colleague. The rain was falling more heavily now.
* * *
It was falling in torrents as Detective Chief Inspector Sophie Allen stood gazing out from her office window. Her hands were thrust deep into the pockets of her fashionable cardigan. The weather matched her current mood, which was somewhat dark and brooding. She stared at the view stretched out below her second floor window: deserted pathways awash with water. After all, it was a Saturday morning. Who would want to come to work on a morning like this, unless they had to? Well, she’d only called in to collect some paperwork to take home. There was no point in planning any outdoor activities on a morning like this. The door opened and an administrative assistant walked confidently into the room, only to stop suddenly when he realised that the small office was not empty. Sophie looked round.
‘Sorry, ma’am. The light wasn’t on, so I didn’t think anyone was here.’ The young man hesitated, apparently unsure what to do next. He waved the single sheet of paper that he held in his hand. ‘The chief’s office asked me to put a copy on your desk ready for Monday. Last month’s provisional figures.’
Sophie merely nodded, so the young man dropped the paper on the desk, then backed towards the door. ‘Do you want me to put the light on, ma’am?’ he asked.
Sophie sighed. ‘You might as well. I’d better have some light so I don’t take home the wrong report.’ Before she could return her gaze to the damp scene outside, her telephone rang. She picked it up and listened to the message. As she listened, she stood taller, her green eyes opened wider and the frown vanished. She played with an earring and pushed a few loose strands of pale hair back behind her ear.
‘No, I’ll go myself,’ she said. ‘Who’s there at the moment?’ She listened. ‘Get back to them. I shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes. And arrange for a forensic team, will you? Make sure there’s an outdoor specialist included. They can move in as soon as the pathologist has finished. Until I decide what we’re dealing with, we treat it as suspicious and do it properly.’
She replaced the receiver, swung her waterproof jacket from the back of her chair and hurried out of the room.
* * *
Water dripped from trees and bushes, and poured from the gutters. It ran in rivulets down the windowpanes at the rear of the house, obscuring the view to the garden so that everything looked distorted and out of focus. The traditional “April showers” had arrived with a vengeance. The wind was gaining strength, plucking some twigs and a few early leaves from some of the garden trees. A couple of these blew onto the windowpanes, where they stuck as if glued on by some mischievous child.
The family, and the neighbours, watched from their various windows as the police team arrived by degrees. First, another pair of uniformed constables, then several groups of plainclothes officers, followed by the forensic squad who erected a tent-like structure over the area where Karen had made her macabre discovery. It was clear who was in charge: the middle-aged woman wearing pink wellington boots, which clashed somewhat with her olive-green waterproof jacket and trousers.
The find was devastating for Philip and Jill Freeman. They weren’t horrified in the same way as their daughter. Instead they felt a deep and sad unease that their new home, their dream paradise, had been so swiftly and utterly changed. It had become tainted by what their garden had revealed.
The gloom and despondency in the house and garden seemed to establish itself as each hour passed. In a brief flashback, Philip had realised that the skeletal hand was only half the size of Karen’s. The thought haunted and appalled him.
* * *
‘It’s a curious sort of job this, isn’t it, Sophie?’ The speaker stood under the awning looking at the severed hand, now wrapped in plastic, lying on a shallow tray. He turned again to the woman who stood beside him.
‘What do you mean by job? This particular crime? Or this line of work?’ Sophie Allen had often worked with Benny Goodall, but their friendship stretched back much further to a time when they’d been housemates while at university. Sophie had been studying law and Benny medicine. He was Dorset’s senior pathologist, and Sophie had sometimes wondered whether he did nothing in his life but wait to be called to another murder scene. But she couldn’t judge him harshly, considering how her mood had lifted on receiving her own call an hour earlier. We’re both just a little too macabre, she thought.
‘My job. Routine medical work most of the time. Often utterly tedious, working by the book, and following procedures set in stone. But this type of nasty deed . . .’ he waved his hand, ‘it’s grimly interesting. I know it’s a bit nightmarish, but it’s fascinating at the same time.’
Sophie looked at Goodall as he stood in the liquid ooze, his wellington boots caked in mud. He had a lively gleam in his eye.
‘I hope you didn’t say anything like that within earshot of the family, Benny. They’ll be shocked enough as it is. I wouldn’t want them going over the edge.’
‘No, no, no. Only the proper official manner to members of the public. Now, do you want to take a closer look? I can’t do any more until we free the rest of the skeleton and get it back to my place.’
Sophie nodded to the SOCO unit who started to clear the soil from the stump of the buddleia and dig around the damp and malodorous rug. The butterfly bush was cut off at ground level, and soil was carefully removed from its roots and deposited in bins for later examination. There were frequent pauses while photographs were taken.
Soon the disintegrating remains of the rug were exposed, revealing a skeleton, complete apart from a missing hand. Roots from the shrub grew down through the ribcage. The skeleton was small.
‘Young boy. Probably about six or seven years old,’ Benny said, watching the progress of the forensic unit with interest.
Sophie merely nodded. She was concentrating, trying to fix the image so that she could recall it later. There was little smell, none of the putrefying odours associated with a more recently decayed corpse.
