Easy Money

By Amy Peters

A Crime Thriller Set in Cornwall.

Sometimes ordinary people do evil things!

Kate Eden and her younger brother, Phil, run a guest house in a remote, coastal area of Cornwall. With Christmas approaching, and the season almost over, they go potholing with an old family friend. After finding a badly decomposed corpse and a case full of money, they decide to keep the case of cash. Planning to keep quiet about the life-changing amount, they find that their lives are slowly falling apart. And even worse, the people who know about the case are starting to home in on their quarry which culminates in a violent confrontation at a deserted tin-mine. For a quiet and lonely guest house owner, Kate is about to become every bit as vicious as the killers who are hunting them.

A dark thriller, set in Cornwall, 'Easy Money' is a story of how normally law-abiding people can turn to crime - and with brutal
consequences.

This book also contains a bonus novelette: Sudden Death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amy Peters
• Release date: Aug 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301119639

Amy Peters

About Amy Amy Peters is a pen name. I am a freelance copywriter, journalist and technical author and I come from the north west of England. I write dark crime fiction and have a passion for psychological thrillers. My first novel, IEasy Money, is available on Smashwords. I am currently working on a new novel, which will be available later in the year.

Book preview

Prologue

The killer waited on a slip road that led nowhere but to two isolated cottages on a steep hill. It was there that the road terminated. Finished. It was there that it tapered sharply into a narrow rocky footpath for ramblers, then vanished into a short stretch of forgotten woodland. And that was as far as its accessibility allowed.

The cottages had originally been built for quarry workers; men that had worked the area for years. But now the quarry was gone, and the cottages all vacated. They stood forlornly derelict, and had done so for a long time. Relics of an industry that was long dead in these parts. The bleak grey stone and slate-less roofs and shattered windows made a pitiful sight as he drove by to check out the terrain.

But it was not the cottages that he had been interested in. Just the hill: the advantage point that had given him an uninterrupted vista of the guest house and the sea beyond it. To him, that was all that mattered. That and the two people who ran the guest house.

The man stood in the shadows, sheltered in the cottage doorway, holding a pair of powerful binoculars, gently sweeping the area. He checked to see who was arriving or leaving. The car park, the out-buildings, and the guest house were all in his view, all detailed sharply and clearly magnified.

He had watched Kate and Phil leave earlier. His business partner had tailed them and reported back, stating that the woman had dropped her brother off at someone’s house, and had then driven away. The partner had stealthily watched Phil talking to another man, and had watched him get on a powerful-looking motorcycle and roar off down the lane. He had relayed the registration number and colour of the bike onto the man who now stood patiently waiting on the hill.

‘He’s on his way,’ the Killer’s partner said. ‘And he’s heading right towards you, down the country road.’

‘Shall I take him now?’ asked the man on the hill bluntly.

‘No time like the present,’ came the chilling response. ‘Let’s up the ante and get the guest-house-owning bitch to talk. So grab the little bastard.’

‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ said the Killer coldly, and then cut the call.

He placed his mobile phone into his raincoat pocket and stepped out of the doorway. He opened the rear door of the car and smiled as he looked down at the dead policeman that had once been known locally as Officer Ben.

The corpse lay on his back, partially covered by an old coat. A single bullet hole in the centre of his forehead stared back like a third eye. It was a neat hole made by a close range shot. But the smaller grain bullet hadn’t burst through the back of Officer Ben’s head. Instead, it had lodged inside his brain, suspended in whatever grey matter that lurked inside a grown man’s skull, causing a fatal haemorrhage.

Death had been instant. And the killer was more than satisfied that his victim had been dead before he even hit the ground.

The Killer smiled inwardly. He was proud of his work. But it could have been avoided had Officer Ben not grown overly inquisitive and wanted to make enquires about him and his partner. That sudden act of diligence to duty had signed his death warrant, and that had left them with no other alternative but to silence him. Had he been a simple, rustic copper just taking down speeding motorists and avoiding real trouble wouldn’t have been an issue. That would have been fine. He would have remained safe. He would have lived another fifty years and enjoyed his retirement; his family and his grand-children. But now he lay dead. Stone-cold-dead in the rear of his own patrol car.

The Killer reached into his pocket and took out a CZ, 9mm automatic. He reached inside his inner jacket pocket and pulled out an Osprey sound suppressor. He swiftly screwed the bulbous extension over the knurled barrel of the gun until it was tight. Then he got into the police car and waited for the biker to appear.

Placing the weapon on the passenger seat, he started the car and edged it forward in readiness for the pursuit. In the distance, he heard the roar of a powerful motorbike drawing nearer, its sound increasing, until the rider suddenly appeared around the curve and shot past the side road.

The Killer swung the car out of the blind spot and accelerated. It was late morning and the road was clear. As he rapidly moved closer towards the biker, he had a sudden urge to use the police siren and the flashing light. That would have been far easier. Just flick the switch and watch the rider slow and pull over and comply with the requests of the pursing law. He knew that Phil would have complied without any resistance. He knew that he was weak and frightened. He knew that Phil reeked of fear and guilt and was close to breaking point. It wouldn’t have taken much to scare Phil. It would have been too easy to push a man that was as fragile as balsa.

Instead, the Killer chose the sadistic route. He wanted to have fun.

He pressed the accelerator down hard and the car closed the gap between its prow and the bike quickly. The biker looked round as the police car loomed up and virtually kissed the rear wheel of his bike, then started to weave about. The biker started to panic as the car tore after him. His riding betrayed his nervousness and the Killer decided to milk it for all it was worth.

He swung the car out and drew level, giving the biker just enough time to acknowledge who his pursuer was. And behind the tinted visor of his crash helmet, Phil recognised who it was and felt his heart race. The Killer smiled, aware of the highly emotional cogs that he had set in motion. Phil wasn’t the bravest of men and this was about to tip him over the edge. And it was as if the Killer had written the screenplay as the inevitable started to unfold. And what the Killer had intended to happen, did happen.

Phil’s riding became erratic and he was starting to lose control as the police car began to edge the bike dangerously towards the kerb. The distance between them became mere inches. And as Phil tried to accelerate, the Killer brought his car towards a more lethal proximity. It was just before reaching the bend that the Killer jerked the wheel sharply to the left and ran the bike clean off the road.

The front wheel of the powerful bike seemed to judder and then buckle as it slammed onto the marshy verge of the roadside. It left the road and then hurtled down the banking, seeming to flip up like an exploding tin-lid before cart-wheeling out of view.

The Killer slowed and then pulled the car carefully into the side of the road. He turned off the engine, and then calmly got out of the car.

He walked carefully down the shallow banking and saw the twisted wreckage of the bike. Beyond that was Phil. He was still alive and was moving, trying to remove his helmet, but finding the action difficult to achieve.

The Killer smiled at his victim. The rider was injured and could hardly move –not as if the Killer cared for that. But at least he was alive, and that would be enough to use him for leverage.

The gun was held by the Killer’s side as he advanced casually towards the fallen rider. There was no need to use the gun. There was no need to place a bullet in Phil. He wasn’t a threat, just a pawn, a basic commodity to trade for the money that he knew Kate Eden was holding. Phil’s sister, Kate: the mouthy guest house owner who had annoyed him the other day.

He was going to make that bitch pay for annoying him, if it was the last thing he did.

Phil was on his side. His legs felt like two sticks of burning agony. He felt the excruciating pain shoot through him when he tried to drag himself up the verge, but he was aware that he was heavily bruised. His sight was limited and he opened his eyes and saw nothing but tangled weeds and pale grass and patches of snow. Then he saw two feet approaching but couldn’t see who it was. His whole body was on fire and the shock of the accident rendered him nearly helpless.

Phil battled to release the straps of the helmet. It was hard work and his fingers desperately battled with the clasps. Through the jabs of pain, it was hard work. His fingers had no grip. And then, with a slight ‘click’, it unfastened and he was able to remove his helmet. He let it fall and roll away, breathing in the cold air deeply, then flopped back against the frozen ground.

Daylight slapped him towards reality and he saw the wreckage of Alan’s bike as it lay smoking on its side. What was once a gleaming beast of a machine was now little more than twisted metal pipes, broken fibreglass and shattered bits of plastic. It was a total write-off. Nothing more than an offering to bump up a scrap dealers’ inventory.

Through his misty vision, a man appeared. He was tall and well-dressed. He wore a suit and a raincoat, and he was holding a gun.

Phil was about to speak but before the words left his mouth, the Killer beat him to it.

‘Hello, Phil,’ said the Killer as he squatted down in front of the injured man, the gun angled casually at Phil’s head. ‘You look a terrible mess, mate.’ The Killer shook his head in mock sadness and tut-tutted. ‘But don’t worry, you can come with me. I’ll fix you up. And then you and I are going to do some serious talking. You haven’t got your mouthy sister here to protect you this time. So I’m sure you’ll have a lot to say. ’

Phil squinted painfully up at the man, as if trying to find some element of humanity within his cold, hard expression. He found none. And Phil knew then that this man was linked to the corpse that they had found nearly a week ago, and that the money was obviously his.

The Killer’s eyes drifted towards Phil’s fallen rucksack and he snapped the straps and tipped it over. Various items spilled out: razor blades, aftershave, spare shirts and a bundle of money.

Well, well, said the Killer. I estimate a few grand here. And I’ll bet it’s not yours – right? Naughty, naughty, Mister Eden.

The Killer pistol whipped Phil across the face. Phil cried out, clutching his jaw as he reeled from the blow.

The Killer picked up the money. A strong hand then gripped Phil’s lapel and yanked him brutally to his feet.

‘Come on, on your feet. Now move it!’ said the Killer sharply. And Phil made it to his feet, his teeth clenched against the biting agony that reminded him that he needed to be sick. And when the gun jabbed him in the small of his back, the contents of his stomach stampeded out.

The Killer grinned as Phil puked up his breakfast.

This was going to be a lot easier then he’d thought.

‘Up the verge,’ said the Killer. ‘We have a busy day ahead of us.’

Phil complied without challenge, and the metallic object that was prodding his spine, made sure that he remained silent.

Phil started to sob in frustration. He wanted to turn suddenly and break his assailant’s jaw with a well-aimed punch, but he was too impotent and effete and that made his pain hurt more. And as he climbed the steep verge towards the waiting car he wondered if he’d ever see his sister Kate again.

As the silenced gun jabbed him up the incline, Phil had resigned himself to the fact that he was going to die. It was a harsh fact to acknowledge, but he had nowhere to run. And he was certain that the man standing behind him wouldn’t think twice of shooting him if the mood took him.

The walk back towards the car was painful and haphazard. His gait was weighed down by each agonizing step. And the hard steel of the silencer showed him no mercy when he faltered as he staggered up the banking.

Nearly there, Phil, said the Killer calmly. And later, you and I will chat about the money.

Phil felt his stomach muscles tighten with fear. He knew then that the game was finally up. And this time, Kate wasn’t here to help him.

To Whom It May Concern

My name is Kate Eden. I was born in Taunton, in Somerset, England, on April 4th 1974. I was happy there and had many friends. My father was a big man, a builder by profession. He was a man that enjoyed life and always had a song in his heart and a smile to back it up. My mother was a wonderfully attractive school teacher with her interests and passions firmly rooted in the late 1960’s. She was unashamedly a hippie, and lived that lifestyle to the full.

My brother, Phil, was a heavy metal-loving madman who played his music to the levels that would have made a Boeing 747seem silent. He was a long-haired, biker-jacket-clad darling that cared for me and was always there to talk to when I needed it. He had replaced my Dad as my rock and my strength upon our Dad’s death, as if it was something that had been passed onto him like a gentle legacy. I had loved them all. But life is never cut and dry. Nothing is ever set in stone. And I lost Mum and Dad long before their time.

My brother Phil has now gone. So has my friend, old Graham. And all because of one lousy twist of fate where we became rich one winter’s morning: rich, and yet acted so wrongly.

I was a millionaire. I truly was. I was wealthy beyond my wildest dreams but not through hard work, nor by inventing or selling a life-changing idea; nor even by winning the lottery. It was simply by fate that we were all there that day, that freezing cold morning near a long forgotten tin mine that no-one gave a shit about. Phil had been greedy and insanely high over what we had found. But life is odd. It can give happiness and grief in equal measures, and for me, it took away everything I ever loved and believed in. It was as if my very life-force had been torn away from every inch of my body. And I never recovered. I went down and stayed down. It was a loss beyond recovery, and I was down for good. And now, my days are lonely and empty and long. And in many ways, even I have died, too. Only, I was too stupid to even notice it. And now, along with the others, I too, have gone. What is existence without family, friends, and happiness, and self-belief? How could I live with such soul-destroying guilt at knowing what I had done; that ‘I’ had killed twice in cold blood. It was a devastation that I could no longer live with, nor desired to. And on that quiet afternoon, just shortly after my cook, Dilys, had left for the day, I decided to leave this world behind.

Many would say that it was inevitable. That is, the ones who knew the truth behind what we tried to cover up. But as luck would have it, no one did get to know the full truth. Of course, the gossips will have their opinions and their vague assumptions but nothing flies without concrete evidence. And village tittle-tattle isn’t evidence.

But, let’s return to me...

My demise came very swiftly and I didn’t suffer. I just drifted away as if I’d gone to sleep and I felt that it was only fair that I should go. And then, I was gone. Just like the others. Only my way out was peaceful and not violent. It was more than I deserved. You could say that we were all guilty; all to blame in various ways. And the guilty were well and truly punished.

We had set out to find the holy grail of happiness and instead found nothing more than a plastic beaker of misery. And that’s how we eventually saw it. Dear Coroner, this is my story about how it all happened.....

Chapter One – a few months earlier

I had never seen anyone die at close hand before. And it was something that I had hoped I would never have to witness again. I had personally found the process draining as if I, too, had been dying. I’d felt a terrible hurt with every visit to the hospice where my Dad had lay during his final days on this earth. The drive out to that isolated place in the Somerset countryside wasn’t so bad. It had never been a chore. It was just the painful imagery that confronted me on my arrival: the sight of a once, well built man that loved life so much and had always had a joke in his heart, now reduced to an almost skeletal wraith. It was soul destroying to see him. His face was almost grey, his hair gone, his fingers like hooked twigs. Cancer can be such a cruel finality. And for him, it was.

I would sit there for two hours, just talking to him. Just the two of us, all alone in that quiet side room away from the disturbance of the other wards. I would recall the memories of when I was a kid and we’d holidayed in Brixham, Devon. Where Mum and Dad and I and my little Brother, Phil, would spend what seemed like an endless summer on the beaches, looking out at the sea, running wild at Pontins Holiday Camp at Wall Park, exploring the amusement arcades in Paignton, and cringing at the time when I had cried when I saw a fisherman throw a cage-full of Crabs into boiling hot water at the harbour-side; their high-pitched cries haunting me enough never to eat seafood again, even though the Fisherman had told me that it was just the high pressure air escaping from their shells.

I had never believed that bearded, parchment-faced old man with his cages and shell-fish traps; his pots and his boiling hot water. To me, those creatures died a terrible death. And to my Dad – who was now drifting gradually into a coma – that’s what I would talk about: my childhood memories, family, and our friends and all the fun times we had enjoyed: times that