Death and Deception
Read Death and Deception Online
Authors: B. A. Steadman
DEATH AND DECEPTION
By
B.A. Steadman
For Stuart
Acknowledgments:
Thanks to my lovely husband, who supplied me with enough biscuits, tea and gin to complete this novel. Thanks also to the bunch of dear friends who read the early drafts and made such useful comments and recommendations, I couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks to Andrew Vernon, who checked out the police procedure, and agreed that a bit of poetic licence was entirely necessary. Finally, thanks to the team at Bloodhound Books for taking me on – here’s to many more!
Copyright © 2015 B.A. Steadman
The right of B.A. Steadman to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2015 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents:
Chapter 1
Date: Sunday 23rd April
Time: 01:47
Devon
The driver flicks off the headlights, killing the puddle of light. He puts the vehicle into neutral and lets it coast to a stop at the kerb. The night is mild.
Two men get out of the vehicle, leaving their doors open, and move to the rear, pressing their hands against the cold metal of the doors as they twist the handles. A girl lies curled amongst the detritus in the back of the vehicle, her white skin reflecting the silver sliver of spring moon. The taller man picks her up, cradling her head, and follows the smaller figure through the trampled green netting into the stand of bent and beaten pine trees.
He lays the girl carefully behind a fallen log and the other man covers her with a branch he tears from a tree.
Back at the vehicle, the smaller man notices the girl’s shoe, a flat, black ballerina slipper lying in the mud on the side of the road. He retrieves it, folds it in half and thrusts it into his hoodie pocket. ‘She’ll be safe there for a little while,’ he whispers. The other does not reply, but wipes sweat from his face with the bottom of his tee shirt.
Starting the engine, they creep forward, only switching on the headlights as they turn onto the main road.
Hours later, a shaft of early sunlight like the beam of a lazy torch, searches the patch of pine trees. It passes over golden highlights in a curl of dark hair half-buried in a nest of needles and cones. A bird sings in the still of the morning. A black-eyed magpie sidles over and makes a tentative stab at the onyx and silver ring on the girl’s finger. Her face turned into the bed of pine needles, the girl lies on her side under the broken branch, as if simply asleep.
‘Gi’s a fag, then, Parker.’ Lee Bateson leapt onto his mate’s back and grappled him to the ground, pummelling his head. Joey Parker squirmed out from underneath in a tangle of skinny legs and arms;
‘Gerroff me. I haven’t got any smokes, so piss off.’ He swung an arm back and grabbed Bateson by the tie, throttling him while the other boy floundered, gasping and wriggling to get free.
‘Oi, is this a real fight, or what?’ said a voice from the other side of the barbed wire fence.
Parker dropped Bateson and scuttled over to the bigger boy.
‘Just messin’, Ryan. Got any fags?’
‘Might ‘ave. Come on.’
Ryan Carr disappeared amongst the conifers of a wood at the top of the school field. The others dumped their bags and slipped after him through the broken fence, casting furtive glances towards the school buildings.
Joey Parker checked his phone as he followed. 8.25am, just about time to cadge a smoke and get to registration before they were missed.
Carr waited by the clearing, kicking a dead crow with his boot. He fiddled about in his blazer pocket and fished out two cigarettes, passing one to Bateson and keeping one for himself. He slid a lighter from his sock and lit them.
Bateson shared a complicit smirk with Carr, who puffed in quiet contentment. He wandered off towards the fallen log dominating the small clearing.
Ryan went to sit, but stopped mid-movement, cigarette hanging from his bottom lip. He stared at a curl of hair peeking out from the side of the log.
Bateson trotted over.
‘What is it? Let me see,’ he said, words trailing a haze of smoke. He pushed past Carr and handed his cigarette to a grateful Parker. He moved closer, and flashed a look back at the other boys, eyes wide, as a magpie appeared from behind the log and began to pick at something on the ground, its black beak stabbing. Bateson’s eyes narrowed to a single focus. A ripped and shredded finger, the remains of an eye, hanging by who knew what, to a dark, empty socket.
Bateson stared, mesmerised by the whiteness of bone protruding from the bloodiness of flesh and the pinkness of the string attaching eyeball to socket and the shining silver ring the magpie was attempting to steal.
Closer now, Carr leapt backwards startling the magpie into a defiant caw as it flapped for the sky.
‘Oh, shit!’
Dread gripped Lee Bateson. It was obvious now what would be under the branch. He knew. But he couldn’t stop himself. He had to look.
Behind him, Parker threw up the Weetabix he had consumed not an hour before.
‘Shit, shit, shit!’ Lee Bateson dragged the branch away, exposing the still and silent form of Carly Braithwaite.
Detective Inspector Dan Hellier hurtled across Topsham Road, ignoring the red traffic lights, and ducked down Trew’s Weir Reach to the echo of an angry lorry’s horn. The new bike was living up to the hype. He grinned and stood into the pedals, powering the bike up to speed, hitting 25mph as he took a sharp right followed by an equally sharp left across Trew’s Weir Bridge and onto the cycle path. Morning air crisp in his nostrils, he breathed deeply, relishing the peace of this stretch of river. Trees were springing green after a long winter, and the River Exe, wide and shallow at this point, rolled along beside him. Swallows, newly returned and hungry, raced with him past the apartments and waterfront houses of Exeter’s quayside, looking for insects.
Thighs pumping, Dan pushed himself for the last few hundred metres and slewed to a halt outside his apartment building, heart working hard. He tapped his stopwatch. It read 9.32 a.m. Thirty-four minutes. Better than yesterday morning. He climbed off the bike and let it rest against a bench. Gulping air, he wiped his face with his jersey and stared into the green water, transported for a moment back to childhood summers when he and his skinny mates would play and swim in the river all day. He looked around, as if he could see them still, but that all felt like a very long time ago. Things had moved on. There were only strangers there now, staring back at him.
Dan shook off the mood and stretched out his shoulders and legs. He had a nice flat in a great part of Exeter, what on earth was he getting miserable about? The café opposite had been baking. He could smell croissants across the water and hear his stomach rumbling in appreciation. He turned away from the water and looked up at his flat, situated on the corner with its own balcony overlooking the bustle of the quayside pubs and restaurants. It was good. He’d have been lost in the countryside after so many years in London’s noise and craziness. Not the spacious Victorian flat he had owned in London, it was true, but it suited his needs. His single needs.
His phone vibrated against his back. Dan unhooked his helmet, dangled it from the handlebars, and took the phone from the back pocket of his cycling jersey. Dammit, Sally Ellis. He thumbed the slide across; ‘It’s my day off.’ He walked the bike towards the doorway, steadying his breathing.
‘Sir? Is that you?’
‘Yes, Sally, it’s me, hoping this is really important.’
‘Oh, I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. Superintendent Oliver’s looking for you. A body’s been found.’
Dan stopped mid-walk.
‘Suspicious?’
‘Oh, yes. Young girl, in the woods at the back of a school playing field. Kids found the body. Scene is being secured now. DCI Gould is on his way and you’re to head straight over there. I’ll text you the details.’
Dan flushed, bending forward to catch his breath. Gasbag Gould, of all people.
‘Is he going to be leading the case, Sal?’
‘Don’t
think
so, but you’d better talk to the boss. She’s waiting for your call.’
Dan raised his head and stared back towards the weir in the distance. Ducks and swans squabbled for bread to the delight of a screaming toddler. Runners and cyclists sped past, enjoying the spring morning. He breathed out. First case in charge, if he was in charge.
‘Are you breathing heavily down the phone at me, sir? Sort of panting?’
‘Only in your dreams, Sergeant Ellis.’
Sally laughed. ‘There was I thinking you were harbouring lustful thoughts.’
He chuckled, ‘You’re way out of my league, Sal. Tell the Superintendent I’m on my way. And now get off my phone - I need a quick shower first. I don’t think she’d be impressed if I turned up in Lycra.’
‘Now, there’s an image I’ll have to inwardly digest,’ she replied, and rang off.
Dan locked his bike in the hallway, and took the stairs to his apartment two at a time, excitement and nerves vying with the hunger in his empty stomach.
Twenty minutes later, Dan was splayed flat on his front with his left arm wedged under the bed up to the shoulder. He was sure he’d kicked his shoe under there the night before. His phone rang. He rolled onto his back, squeezed the phone out of his trouser pocket and looked at the screen, Superintendent Oliver. He scrambled to his feet.
‘Ma’am?’
‘DI Hellier, where are you?’
‘At home, Ma’am. I’m almost ready…’
‘Save it, I know it’s your day off, but I need you. Get your notebook.’ She waited.
Dan reached over to the other side of the bed and grabbed notebook and pen.
‘Got it, Ma’am.’
Two slices of toast popped up and their warm scent wafted through from the kitchen. His stomach rumbled again.
‘Right, so far we know the victim is a teenage girl. No obvious cause of death on first look, so it’s not murder until the Pathologist arrives and confirms either way. The PC first on the scene has made a preliminary ID. Seems she knew the girl.’ She hesitated and he could hear her pen tapping the paper, ‘Carly Braithwaite, age sixteen. Just bringing up her address. I’ll text it to you.’
