Criminal Intent

By Alannah Foley

Scott Chevalier - part campervan-surfer, part Crocodile Dundee - is thrust into a few amateur-sleuthing adventures in this light mystery series...

CRIMINAL INTENT - Book 3 in the Campervan Bushman Mystery Series

From the moment Scott and his film crew arrive at a camp for young ex-offenders in Wales, they're bumping into quarrelsome hot-heads and bullies.

But as Scott spends time teaching the students bush skills like trapping, foraging and fire-making, they seem captivated by his mysterious Aussie allure.

When a student is found unconscious in possession of stolen jewellery and a visitor to the Camp dies seemingly by accident, the mood heightens. And as more strange goings-on ensue, it's clear to Scott and his sidekick crewmates that something deeper and more sinister is afoot. But what exactly is going on and who is involved?

Find out in Criminal Intent.

Each book in the series has an edge of humour, a sense of adventure, and a hint of romance.

Join Scott and the crew for more mystery & adventure on the glorious Welsh coast!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pyjama Writer Publishing
• Release date: Oct 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370247240

Alannah Foley

Alannah Foley... aka The Pyjama WriterAuthor of mysteries, travel tales, fiction, and other maverick titles that won't fall in line...Raised in the UK, Alannah lived in her Aussie birthplace for five years in her twenties, where mozzies regularly used her for target practice. She managed to return to Old Blighty devoid of shark or snake bite, however, and currently lives in picturesque Cornwall with her cycling-obsessed partner.Alannah is a multi-genre author who has published mysteries & other works of fiction as well as travel tales about her capers in a campervan and adventures Down Under. She also enjoys writing humorous portraits of life (some still in the pot!).When she's not writing, Alannah likes to hit the trails on her bike, take walks in nature, and go kayaking – basically, anything that will get her butt out of the chair for a while that doesn't involve going to a sweaty old gym.Get the author's pester-free newsletter and be the first to hear about upcoming titles, early discounts on new releases, and a few other goodies exclusive to her VIP Readers Group. Simply visit bit.ly/PJW-Newsletter to sign up.To find out more about the author & her work, visit her website at www.thePyjamaWriter.com.

Book preview

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Where it all Began…

What stormy events drove Scott Chevalier to become the Campervan Bushman?

Find out in your free copy of WIPEOUT, the series prequel – available exclusively to members of the author's VIP Readers Group!

CLICK HERE to get started.

CONTENTS

FREE SERIES PREQUEL

NOTE on Lingo

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

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

EPILOGUE

FREE SERIES PREQUEL

PREVIEW – No Bed of Roses

Faux Reviews

Author's Note

Acknowledgements

ABOUT the Author

CONNECT with the Author

OTHER TITLES by Alannah Foley

COPYRIGHT Information

NOTE on Lingo

British terminology and spelling are used predominantly through this series along with some light Australian slang.

I trust non-Brits will be savvy enough to look up the odd word they may be unfamiliar with. But here are some popular ones you'll encounter:

mobile phone = cellphone

torch = flashlight

motorway = freeway/highway

PROLOGUE

In the dead of night, the small wooden boat hugged the coast, its chugging lonely but for the sound of the waves slapping against the hull on its way to the cove. Moonlight was just beginning to spill over the horizon when the shadowy forms on board cut the engine, drifted to shore and jumped out.

The boat was dragged up the beach and they heaved out two clunky black sacks before hauling a tarpaulin over and securing it in place.

I reckon we've done well tonight, said one of the dark figures.

Not half! replied the taller of the two. "Just think what our lives'll be like once this stuff we've been nicking gets turned into cash! Before long, we'll be able to go where we want and do what we want. And we'll never have to answer to anyone ever again."

Yeah, too right, said the first one. But come on, we'd better hurry up and stash this little lot. It's getting late.

CHAPTER 1

Look out! Red cried at Scott as a pheasant suddenly appeared in their path along the country lane. Scott slammed on the campervan brakes, but he was still hurtling forward. He yanked the steering wheel to the left to avoid the bird but it skittered in the same direction. Scott swerved to the right, but the pheasant just darted back the same way, as if mimicking him.

What the…? Red had a look of panic. Almost upon the bird now, Scott pumped hard on the brakes, wrenching the wheel back to the left. His face turned to relief when he saw the bird continue on its course, away from the van. But at the very last moment, it turned its head back and was under the wheels.

The van screeched to a halt. Scott and Red exchanged incredulous glances, then unbuckled and jumped out. They met up behind the van, where the bird was lying. Red cringed at the squashed head of the bird as Scott put his hands on his hips. "What the hell was goin' on there? Do pheasants have a death-wish in this country or somethin'?"

I dunno, Red said, his eyes riveted to the aftermath, despite his revulsion. But you did everything you possibly could to avoid it. Maybe pheasants are just a bit thick in the head.

Scott went to the side of the camper and slid back the door. What you doin'? Red frowned as he brought out a newspaper.

"Well, I'm not gonna waste this little beauty, am I?"

Red looked aghast. "Eh? You're not thinking of eating it, are you?"

When we're out in the bush, my grandfather always reckons you should receive whatever nature puts your way.

"What, even roadkill?" Red countered.

"Well, what's wrong with that? Scott pointed down at the bird. Look, it's pretty much only the head that's damaged." He crouched down and spread the newspaper onto the ground next to the pheasant, moving the sheets about to make a larger size to wrap it in.

Red cringed in disgust as Scott peeled the bird off the road and transferred it onto the newspaper. I knew I'd find a use for these old newspapers Dorian's always chuckin' away, Scott said as he wrapped the paper round the carcass and lifted up the bundle. He stood to see Red's pained expression. Well, at least we know it's fresh, mate, he said, patting him on the shoulder before walking to the open door and dumping the package inside the van.

Red followed behind, wishing Scott would just leave the revolting old bird behind, but finally let out a resigned sigh. Oh, come here! I'll get you a plastic bag to put it in. Some blood's bound to go through the paper, and it'll end up going all over the place… Probably stink the van out as well.

Thanks, mate, Scott said, letting Red get past. He jumped inside the van and fished about in his holdall. Scott always thought Red's holdall was like some kind of survival bag. No matter what eventuality, he seemed to have something inside that would cater for it.

Red pulled out a supermarket carrier bag and handed it to Scott then looked inside his holdall again while he bagged the bird. This'll make a nice meal later, he said with a satisfied smile.

I dunno, Red muttered, shaking his head. If I ever need a reminder why I don't eat meat – you're it.

Scott's head turned abruptly at the sound of a rustle in the grass verge to his right. His eyes widened. Another pheasant. He looked back round at his own large navy holdall in the back of the van, only inches away – and his homemade catapult was sticking out from the side pocket. Just what I need!

As the bird moseyed about, Scott carefully reached across and pulled out the catapult, then felt round inside the pocket for the stone he'd left in the bottom. He turned back to the bird, who seemed oblivious to his presence as it dawdled about on the grass. Scott loaded the catapult with the stone and pulled back on the band, taking aim.

At that moment, Red pulled what he'd been searching for out of his bag and looked up in horror. Noooo! he cried, lurching towards the catapult. But it was too late. Scott had already let fly with the band.

God! Red slapped a hand to his forehead. "Do you always have to kill everything in sight?"

Hey, I only ever kill what I'm gonna eat, mate, Scott replied. And it looks like we'll be feastin' tonight. He tucked the catapult into his back pocket.

"You'll be feasting! I'll stick to vegetables – thanks all the same, Red said as Scott fetched the bird. He pulled a week-old national newspaper from the top of Scott's open holdall. Here, he added, handing it to him when he returned. Better wrap that one up, too – even if there isn't any blood this time."

Thanks, mate, Scott said, taking the paper from him. When he'd wrapped and bagged the bird, Red handed him a small packet. What's this?

"Anti-bacterial handwipes… There'll be germs all over your hands, messing round with those birds." Red glanced at the plump bag of wrapped pheasants, his face still reflecting his aversion to having them lying around in the van.

Right. Thanks, mate. Scott pulled out a thick, pre-moistened tissue. So, he said, wiping his hands, this place where we're supposed to be filmin' the next episode of our Campervan Bushman show… What's the story there?

Camp YEO? It's down on the coast at a place called Abergavon. Red shrugged. Don't know much else – only that it's a summer camp for young ex-offenders. A sort of rehabilitation and training camp, by all accounts. The guy who owns the place, Lord Bassett, knows our boss Frank… You know all those paintings on the walls back at our studio building in London? Scott nodded. Well, Lord Bassett's been supplying Frank with expensive artwork for years… 'An investment' Frank calls them. Red rolled his eyes, unconvinced. As far as he was concerned, they were just a status symbol to impress top-notch visitors to the place. Frank reckons if our production company ever folded, he'd at least be able to sell the paintings and recoup some of his losses.

So, basically, this Lord Bassett is another one of Frank's connections – and he's got a nice piece o' land where we can shoot some footage – right?

That's about it, Red said.

So are these young ex-offenders gonna be in the show, or are we just usin' the land to film on?

I don't know all the details, but from what I gather from Penny, I think they were hoping you could show the kids some of your bush skills.

Scott shrugged. Don't see why not… No big deal to show 'em how to set up a campfire and cook up a bit o' tucker, eh? Might be a bit o' fun.

Red frowned. I'm not too sure it's a good idea to let ex-offenders loose with a lit match – do you?

You're startin' to sound older than our 'beloved director' Dorian now, mate. I doubt they're all would-be arsonists, just waitin' for a chance to set the place alight, are they?

"Hmm… Suppose you're right. Actually, I think I'm just a bit nervous about getting in amongst a bunch of reprobates, that's all… You do think we'll be safe there, don't you? I mean, they could've been in prison for slitting someone's throat… Or pouring gasoline onto innocent animals and lighting it." Red's expression was pinched with anxiety now.

Scott cocked an eyebrow as he put his hands on his hips. "Jeez, mate! You are nervous!"

Look, I've never mentioned it before, but well… Red said, looking torn, …my step-dad was in prison once. He used to say some pretty scary things to me when I was young… He was always a bit of a bully, so maybe he was just making things up to try and terrify me, but… I dunno… The thought of being surrounded by people like him and his ex-con mates just puts the wind up me.

Look, I get where you're comin' from. But I doubt Frank woulda hooked us up with the place if we were likely to get murdered in our beds… Just take a load off, will ya? Scott said, placing a firm friendly hand on Red's shoulder. "It'll be right, mate… Besides… We'll be on the coast – and that's always a good sign… I can't wait to check out the surf."

Red's shoulders dropped a little and he nodded. Suppose you're right… But don't tell anyone – about what I said, I mean – will you?

Look, everyone's got a skeleton in their closet… So don't worry – your secret's safe with me. Red looked relieved and took a deep breath.

Right, Scott said, I guess we'd better get back to practicalities. How much longer till we reach this Camp YEO place?

Shouldn't be too long, Red said. I'll check my GPS. He jumped in the front cab and looked at the screen attached to the dashboard, frowning. Strange, he thought. The GPS looks dead. He pressed the 'on' button – nothing. Oh, great, he tutted as Scott came to the door and peered in. Looks like the batteries are dead… I'll have to change them over.

"Look, forget yer shmancy GPS. Technology's over-rated if you ask me. We'll do this the old-fashioned way… Come on, there's a road map in the back. Red followed Scott as he went to the open side door and pulled out a large thin atlas. He sat on the footplate and Red followed suit. He opened the atlas out to a map of the British Isles, perching it on his lap so they could both take a look. Right then, mate, Scott said. You'll have to orientate me."

Red absently ran a hand through his ginger curls as he studied the map, then pointed to the slender neck of the landmass up north. That's where we've come from… We took the motorway south, turned off there… He followed the road lines with a finger. Then we came down through here – the Snowdonia National Park.

After all those hills, I'm surprised the van's still in one piece… Geraldine's made of pretty stern stuff, though – aren't ya, girl? Scott smiled proudly, patting the side of the cornflower-blue camper. Red raised an eyebrow. The van was one that their boss, Frank, had acquired for the show, but Scott refused point blank to call it by its given name: Gerald. Vans are just like boats – they're female, not male, was Scott's philosophy. And instead of Gerald, he would always call it Geraldine.

Red looked back at the map and tapped a finger. "Well, by now, we should be somewhere around here."

And we're in Wales now, right? Scott asked, remembering he'd seen the welcome sign a long way back. "So how big's this state?"

Red shook his head. "No, you've got it all wrong, mate. For a start off, we don't have states, we have counties. And Wales isn't a county in England – it's a country all its own. Look – it's the whole of this area sticking out on the left."

Yeah? Scott said, peering closer at the map. He had no idea Wales was actually a country.

"See – this is England, Red added, indicating the main body of the country. Scotland's this part way up north. And Ireland's over here – a totally separate landmass."

"Hmm… So what? They're all different countries? Red nodded. So am I right in thinkin' that together they make up Britain – or the UK?"

Err… Well, that's where it gets a bit complicated. Red creased his brow. "Great Britain is made up of England, Scotland and Wales. But the United Kingdom is basically Great Britain and Northern Ireland."

"Just Northern Ireland? Why doesn't the south get a look-in? Scott raised an eyebrow when he saw Red's pained expression, and realised this was turning into the geography lesson from hell. Don't tell me – it gets complicated, right?… I'm beginnin' to wish I hadn't asked now."

"Don't worry. Even I don't know the half of it. It's all politics and history, Red replied. I expect you could ask Dorian if you were interested – he could probably rattle off all the gruesome facts, no trouble."

Yeah, well, if I ever have trouble sleepin' at night, I might just ask the old fossil to explain it all to me… Anyway, let's get back to findin' our way to Camp YEO, shall we? By now, Scott had opened the atlas out onto the page where he could get a more detailed map of where they were in Wales and was following the road lines with a finger, recognising places they'd journeyed through. "Jeez! How're you meant to pronounce that place name?" He pointed to Pwllheli on the map.

Look, I'd better warn you now… the Welsh have a language all their own – in terms of pronunciation, it's like French – only worse! All that throat-rasping should be classed as a public health hazard for non-natives, if you ask me. So, unless you want to risk me having a choking disaster, don't go asking me to try saying anything in Welsh!

"I see what ya mean. Look at this place name – that's even worse! Scott pointed at Llanystumdwy. It's like alphabet soup. Hey, you don't reckon someone made the language up by throwin' a ball at a typewriter keyboard and seein' what words came out, do ya?"

"Well, if they actually had typewriters when they first spoke Welsh, I'd have to agree," Red said.

Y'know, I reckon your mate, the GPS, has sent us on some kinda wild goose-chase. Didn't you say Camp YEO was at Abergavon? Red nodded. Well, look – that's down here. Scott indicated a place on the coast. But if we were headed in the right direction, we woulda passed through these here funny-lookin' places already, wouldn't we?

Red leaned in closer and studied the map. Oh, great! he sighed. Somehow, it looks like we've managed to turn off here – see? We must be on one of these country lanes.

Hmm… Sounds like it's just as well your batteries stuffed up, then. We'd probably end up goin' round in circles for hours… I reckon we'd better chuck a Uey and back-track to the main road so we can head on down towards Abergavon.

Chuck a Uey? Red frowned, then the light dawned. Oh, you mean make a U-turn.

Now you're learnin' the lingo, mate! Scott replied. His brow creased as he continued to study the map. Then he tapped the page with a thoughtful finger.

What you thinkin'? Red asked.

We're on the Lleyn Peninsula… Scott said almost to himself. Hmm… Where have I seen that name before? He rubbed his chin, then put a finger in the air. I know! he said, reaching behind for the plastic bag that contained the pheasant he'd catapulted.

What the hell's he doing now? thought Red.

Scott pulled the plastic bag off the wrapped pheasant, casting it aside and turning the bundle this way and that. I thought so. Look here! He tapped the crinkly newspaper. Red peered closer, noticing the Lleyn Peninsula mentioned in the subheading of an article about a jewellery theft. They scanned the text which described how there'd been a high-profile theft along the south coast of the peninsula – the most recent in a spate that had spanned the last few months. Police had now taken two suspects into custody.

The Lleyn Peninsula, Scott tapped the paper again enthusiastically. "That's where we are now. Sounds like a bit of a hotspot to me."

Well, looks like they've caught the culprits. So it won't be a hotspot any more… Oh, put that stinky bird away, will yer? Scott smiled at Red's wincing expression, then rebagged the bird and stuck it back inside the van.

Right then! If you're not feelin' too queasy, let's get goin', Scott said, standing up now and handing the atlas to Red. "Here, you can be my navigator from now on – not that talkin' hunk o' metal on the dashboard."

Yeah, sorry about the wrong turn… I expect I must've entered the wrong place into the GPS or something, Red said, trying to defend his beloved technology as he stood up.

"Yeah, whatever! But I'd take a human over some battery-powered machine any day, mate."

Red raised a smile now. "Now who's sounding older than Dorian?... I reckon you two have got more in common than you realise." Scott gave Red an enigmatic look.

I'd better give Penny a ring before we head off – just to let her and Dorian know where we are, Red said, pulling his mobile phone out of his back pocket. Oh, great! Now there's no network either! he tutted, looking angrily at the screen on his phone. Oh, why on earth did I ever agree to film this Campervan-bloody-Bushman show? Everywhere we go, we seem to be in the back of beyond without a signal!

All right! Keep your shirt on, mate, Scott said calmly. He studied Red's expression and wondered if that was all that was bothering him, or whether the prospect of being thrown in with a bunch of ex-offenders was still playing on his mind. Look, we've not long passed through a village – so it's hardly like we're stuck in the outback with a flat tyre and no water, eh?

Yeah, but Penny and Dorian will have arrived at Camp YEO by now – and you know what Dorian's like – if we're not tight on their tail, he'll probably blow a circuit.

"Well, the old fossil will just have to stew in his juices till we get there… In the meantime, you just keep your eyes glued to that map. We don't wanna take any more wrong turns."

Scott was about to pull the side door shut when he spotted something catching the light in the verge over Red's shoulder. Hmm… What's that? He wandered over and crouched down to see a cheap cigarette lighter made of red plastic glass nestled in the grass. He picked it up and noticed it was almost full of lighter fuel, then drew down on the small metal wheel with his thumb to spark a flame. He stood back up and turned to Red. Amazin' what people throw away, eh? He held it out for him to see. Look, it's a perfectly good lighter.

Urgh! A dog might've peed on that… Here, Red sighed, pulling his pack of anti-bacterial wipes from the van, have another one of these.

Scott flashed his bright blue eyes at him. Thanks, Mum! he joked, pulling out a moist tissue.

Red shook his head as he put the wipes back inside and closed the side door. I don't know. Sometimes I feel like I'm working with Stig of the Dump.

CHAPTER 2

Scott turned into a driveway with black metal fencing with fleur de lys spikes on top, and a large sign indicating they were entering Camp YEO, a non-profit organisation.

'Fortune Favours the Prepared', eh? Scott said, reading