The Pink Herring: Shaun Young, #1

By Tom Grove

‘Secrecy is a slow-acting poison; it catches up with us all, eventually…’

The evidence pointed to an overdose, but criminal psychologist, Shaun Young, refused to accept that his colleague DI Angela McDowd had committed suicide. A respected and well-liked detective with Norfolk CID, news of her death shocked everyone. Working with an enquiry team of DS Helena Crowthorne and DC Tony Mullins, Young gradually uncovers aspects of Angie’s world that few could have expected.

The lack of a suicide note was counter-balanced by the discovery of a highly personal journal and some tantalising case notes. Seizing on these, Young digs up old relationships and closed cases, which blur the lines between Angie’s personal and professional life.

In the space of just four weeks, Young exposes lie after lie, revealing corruption with far reaching consequences. When the pillars of power, money and reputation are at stake, history has proven that some will take enormous risks to attain or retain them. As the net tightens on the truth, casualties start to rack up on all sides.

The question is, can Young get to the truth before the truth gets to him?


This is the first in a series of Shaun Young novels. The second is due out in the fourth quarter of 2017

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Whole Gamut Publishing
• Release date: Mar 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781540134806

Book preview

Chapter 1 - Discovery

Friday 13th March 2015

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In hindsight, if she had been even the slightest bit superstitious, the date might have given her a hint as to the day that was about to unfold. Detective Sergeant Helena Crowthorne sat behind the wheel of her Honda CRV, one hand on her new black jeans, the other flipping through car radio stations, in search of something she liked. DS Crowthorne had parked her car alongside a single row of two-up, two-down Victorian terraced houses, a stone’s throw from Norwich City centre. Her friend and colleague, Detective Inspector Angela McDowd, had yet to emerge into this chilly spring day. Crowthorne had arrived slightly early; the rush-hour traffic had been kind to her this morning.

Looking to her left, Angie’s house, with its bay windows and solid period style, looked dead to the world. Since Angie had moved in, nearly a year and a half ago, Crowthorne had only stayed over a few times, usually after a boozy night out in town. She liked being able to walk, or stagger, back rather than taking a taxi to her flat in the sticks. Also, Angie tended to slip out of her shell a little after a few drinks, so different from the steady professional DS Crowthorne had a healthy respect for during the working day.

Leaning forward, she extracted one of the two coffees from the cardboard holder she had wedged between the dashboard and the windscreen. A small steam patch had developed on the chilly glass surface. She took a sip, cradling the warm cup in her hands. Her senses swam in the combined heat and aroma, as she gently rubbed the lip of the paper cup under her nose, unaware that this had become a soothing ritual for her wandering mind.

Crowthorne had been single for over a year before meeting her new boyfriend, Danny. She’d been concentrating on a developing career, she’d assured herself, but just over a month ago, all that had changed. Now she was recalling how wonderful it was just to wake up next to someone every morning. Sharing her days and nights, thinking about joint futures, planning and dreaming. It may well be the soon-to-pass, romantic phase of a new relationship, but right now she just didn’t care. Smiling, she immersed herself in the aromatic coffee fumes, drifting away on the daydream.

Her attention was stolen by some movement in the car park across the road to her right. She watched as someone repeatedly tried to manoeuvre into a tight parking space close to the exit. Give it up, lazybones she thought; there were plenty of empty spaces a little further back.

Crowthorne adjusted the rear-view mirror to check once again on the results of her rushed attempt at make-up this morning. The reflection confirmed that she had not used enough eye shadow. Just one year off the terrifying thirty mark, she retained the looks of someone in her early twenties. She had short brown hair, chocolate brown eyes, average height and weight. Her preferred smart-casual attire did not necessarily advertise a career in policing.

Pushing back the mirror, she glanced at the clock on the dashboard: 8:35 am. She turned her head once more to the terraced house on her left, looking for signs of stirring within. The curtains both up and downstairs remained closed. She’s overslept, Crowthorne deduced, which was unusual. Helena had often picked up Angie on her way into work. It was rare that she had to stop the engine, such was Angie’s punctuality. Perhaps she’d had a late one last night Crowthorne thought. Deciding that it was time for action, she picked up the two coffees and headed for the house.

The doorbell rang; a harsh jangling sound, reverberating with a hollow refrain. She hadn’t noticed before, but the button brandished the obvious word Bell on its round and shiny face, making her smile. After a short pause, there was no obvious stirring from within, so she stepped forward and rang the bell again, this time leaving her finger on the button a little longer. Remaining close to the door, she listened to the sound of silence from within. Putting the coffees down in favour of her phone, she swept through her list of recent calls, selecting and calling Angie’s mobile. It tripped straight to voicemail. Trying again she had the same result.

Having seen Angie do it, Crowthorne tilted back a terracotta pot, home to an overgrown Rosemary bush, and removed a spare key from beneath it. She let herself in and called out for Angie. There was no reply. She walked down the hall and into the lounge-diner, but there was no sign of any recent activity.

‘Angie?’ she called again, as she made her way slowly up the stairs to the bedrooms. Her stomach started to tighten; something was not right.

‘It’s getting late, Angie. Are you up?’ she said, moving carefully forward to the closed bedroom door. The tension had caused a slight tinnitus in her ears and she wondered if she had done the right thing by letting herself in.

‘It’s Helena. Can I come in?’

She pressed her ear close to the door, but couldn’t hear a thing. She placed her hand on the handle, letting herself into the bedroom.  The room was dark, but she could just make out Angie’s shape in bed. It looked as though she was on her side, her back to Crowthorne. She allowed herself to relax slightly as a sense of relief took hold. Moving closer, she gently shook the shoulder snuggled beneath the duvet.

‘Angie?’ she said, shaking her a little harder.

Slowly, the figure rolled backwards, bringing the head around to face Crowthorne. In the diminished light, she couldn’t make out if Angie had woken up, there was still no sound. Crowthorne leant over and switched on the bedside lamp. Purple? She struggled to process what she was seeing. Angie’s face was a gruesome purple colour, her lips looked black.

‘Oh, Christ!’

Crowthorne recoiled in horror as shock kicked in. Her stomach convulsed as she fought off the impulse to retch with a series of rasping deep breaths. After a few moments, her training clicked in. She yanked back the covers to reveal her friend’s lifeless naked body, grey and cold. She had to force herself to lean in closer, checking for signs of life. Instinctively, even though she knew it was already too late, she checked Angie’s airway and prepared her for CPR. Crowthorne tried to clear away some partially dried vomit from around Angie’s mouth, checking that her tongue was visible. Pinching Angie’s nose, she administered two full rescue breaths; this was nothing like working on the plastic doll in training, this was beyond revulsion. She paused for a moment before pushing herself to start chest compressions. The first touch was cold and clammy, Angie’s skin seemed to be sticking to her fingers as she pumped on her ribcage.

‘Please, please start breathing,’ she panted, thrusting her flattened palms on Angie’s chest, trying to keep the nausea at bay.

Breathing heavily, she stopped the procedure to check for signs of recovery, but there was nothing, no pulse. Her mind was screaming that it was hopeless, but she shook those thoughts away and started the process again. Tears dripped from her chin, spotting Angie’s face; shock transforming into grief, as the awful truth sank in. Coming to the end of another thirty-count, she pressed her ear to Angie’s mouth, closed her eyes and sighed. It was over, she knew at heart, but tried the procedure once more regardless. More futile minutes passed, the pace of the compressions slowing in line with the inevitability of diminished returns. Finally, exhausted, she collapsed to the floor, her back to the bed, panting hard, hands clutching the carpet, chin pressed to her chest, beaten. Time to call it in.

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Staring at the phone in her hand, having made the necessary calls, she felt the oppressive weight of sorrow returning. Her chest was tight and her breathing had yet to return to normal. She was in shock, she knew it. She had witnessed it frequently enough in the line of duty to recognise it now in herself. Her mind was spinning, part of it still unable to accept the scene around her. She tried to speculate how it could have come to this, but could make no sense of it. Her mind presented her with a flashback back to yesterday morning; Angie’s face grinning, holding up a packet of Danish pastries to the car’s passenger window before she got in. The cheeky look of guilty pleasure on her face. Alive; so very alive, but now gone.

She had to get her head together. What did they say in training, she thought? Try to focus on the everyday habitual motions of life. Distract the mind with order, invoke brain muscle memory, avoid over-thinking. All very sensible, but how to invoke it? Forcing herself to rise, she literally shook herself back into character. Slipping on a pair of blue crime-scene gloves, she began looking for anything that might explain what might have happened here. She pulled open the curtains to let in the brutal morning light, fanning brightly across the room, an almost disrespectful illumination of this stark reality.

Starting at the bedside, the only thing of note was the lack of a mobile phone, clock or alarm. She walked into the en-suite bathroom, pulling on the light cord as she entered. After a few pings, the neon light provided a harsh brilliance to the tiny, window-less room. Approaching the sink, she caught her reflection in the mirror; you look a mess, she thought and quickly looked away. The cupboards, waste bin, shower cubicle and toilet all looked normal. The medicine cabinet contained the usual over-the-counter stuff; there were no prescription drugs.

Leaving the bedroom, she quickly checked the spare room and main bathroom, but nothing unusual showed up. Returning downstairs, she opened the curtains at the front and the blinds at the rear. In the kitchen, unwashed pots and pans revealed Angie had cooked last night; the table set for two. So, she was entertaining last night, she thought, examining the two empty wine glasses. On the hob, a covered pot with the remnants of a chilli con carne, another with a rice-spattered colander balanced on top, revealed the main course.

On the kitchen table, two plain white dinner plates sat opposite one another; remains of a half-eaten meal on one, the other looked unused. A few pieces of crispy garlic bread lay abandoned on a small plate between them, flanked by two glass dessert bowls. Crowthorne leant in to pick up a long-handled dessert spoon, revealing a yellow coloured residue in the bottom of the bowl. Lemon, she noted, lifting the spoon to her nose. At the end of the table, there were two large wooden bowls; one half-full of apples and oranges, the other home to general bric-a-brac and several pill blister packs. 

She picked up one of the packets, finding it empty, as were the other six identical packs. She couldn’t make out the brand name, as the pill blisters had all been popped open. Lifting the lid of the stainless steel pedal bin to the side; she found seven cardboard pill boxes. The label read Tryptillum described on the back as an antidepressant.

‘Seven packets?’ Crowthorne muttered to herself, her mind leaping to a suicide conclusion.

No, not Angie, she thought. It didn’t add up from what she knew of her, let alone the absence of any kind of note.

Angie’s lounge looked the normal picture of order it always had; cushions placed with precision at each corner of two opposing sofas and a coffee table between them with nothing on it except a small cut glass bowl.

A perimeter check had established that the windows, upstairs and down, were all sound. The front door had been locked and appeared untampered with. In the kitchen utility area, home to a washer-drier, the back door was firmly closed, but unlocked. It had a handle locking mechanism, that if pulled up from the inside, the door could not be opened from the outside, whether a key had been turned or not. Checking it, she found that the handle had not been pulled up, allowing access from outside. Maybe it was just an oversight or maybe it had been left this way for a reason.

Returning to the kitchen, she stopped at the table, looking at the surroundings as if trying to make sense of it all. Picking up one of the empty pill blister packets again, she slowly shook her head. She staggered backwards, crashing into a wall of cabinets, her jacket riding up her back as she sank slowly to the floor. The tears came thick and fast, stinging her cheeks, as she finally gave in to the undeniable fact that her friend was gone, forever.

She tried to replace images of the pitiful scene upstairs, with memories of the vibrant detective she had worked beside. Feeling a sharp pain, she glanced down to see the pill blister packet lying crumpled in her unfurling, blue-gloved hand. Sniffing heavily, she wiped her eyes with the cuff of her jacket, allowing herself this brief breakdown for a short while longer. Eventually, the sound of sirens in the distance forced her to pull herself together, before her colleagues arrived. She struggled to her feet and straightened out the crumpled pill packet. Composing herself, there was one thing of which she was certain: There was no way the Angie she knew would have committed suicide.

Chapter 2 - Autopsy

Saturday 14th March 2015

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Other than official police dogs, pets were inadmissible to the Norfolk Constabulary and certainly not in the mortuary, but that didn’t concern Dr Kate Jenner. As Head of Pathology for over ten years now, no one was going to stop her bringing in her precious rescue dog, Donny; it would be a brave person who tried.

‘There you go, boy,’ she said, feeding the shaggy crossbreed a small piece of cake she’d made last night. ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’

She rubbed the top of his head, crinkled her nose and popped another piece of cake in her own mouth with a wink. Donny looked comfortable in his office bed, nestled between the wall and the far-side of Kate’s desk. Saturdays were normally a no-go for Kate, but today she had made an exception. She pulled on her surgical gown with a sigh, not because it was a little tight around the midriff, but because she knew that she couldn’t put the job off any longer.

The door to her office opened and her assistant, Gregory Phillips, poked his head around.

‘All ready for you, Dr Jenner.’

‘Thanks, Greg; I’ll be there in a minute – I’m just going to scrub up.’

She caught her reflection in the mirror above the sink as she went through the process of preparing her hands for work. She noticed that her greying brown hair was getting a little too long, but that was all that concerned her. Kate had never been one for make-up, since she had no one to please except herself and Donny. Hair net in place, she snapped on the surgical gloves with just a slight puff of talc. She looked back in the mirror, as if confirming that she was now as ready as she would ever be. After a short pause, she clapped her hands together.

‘This won’t do, will it, Donny?’ she said, ‘The sooner we start, the sooner we finish.’

Reluctantly leaving the warm confines of her office behind, she stepped into a landscape composed predominantly of industrial stainless steel. The basement floor mortuary was cold and bereft of colour; much like its temporary inhabitants. It was kept at a constant temperature, between two and three degrees Celsius, marginally less inviting than a butcher’s walk-in meat store. Jenner walked over to join Phillips at the mortuary table, her protective over trousers swishing as she walked. Facing Phillips across the table, she first looked at him and then down at the subject of this morning’s autopsy. She stood motionless, staring at the corpse in front of her.

Phillips glanced over to her with a look of concern.

‘Everything is in place, doctor?’ he said, looking nervously at the equipment he’d laid out on the side table. She didn’t budge.

Phillips, a recent graduate, had only been working with her for just over three months, but knew that things had to be done her way. Early on, trying to be proactive, he had inadvertently processed some lab results without using the correct logging procedure; her procedure. She had calmly asked him to abandon all he had done and restart the entire job; he never made the same mistake again.

‘Dr Jenner?’ Phillips said.

Her training and years of experience had hardened her to the emotional side of the work, but when presented with a colleague the whole thing became personal again. After all, it was only a few weeks ago that DI McDowd had been standing beside her at this very table, overlooking her work on some other unfortunate soul.

‘Is everything OK, Kate?’ Phillips said, stooping down slightly under the overhead lights to get a better look at her.

The words broke the pathologist from her temporary trance and she shook her head as if to clear away her thoughts.

‘Yes, I’m fine, Greg.’ She paused for a moment longer, then said ‘It’s just that DI McDowd was one of the good guys. She was professional and thorough and took a real interest in the pathology. She wasn’t exactly a team player, but she had strong personal views on procedural matters and always had probing questions for me; they were rarely trivial,’ she said, then paused again. ‘What on earth is she doing on my mortuary table?’

‘That’s what you are going to find out,’ Phillips said.

‘Right; let’s do just that, shall we?’ she said, finally springing into action.

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An hour and a half had passed in a flash. Jenner and Phillips were carefully replacing the removed organs into DI McDowd’s abdominal cavity prior to the final stitch-up. The physical examination had been virtually completed, with samples taken for further investigation, including a toxicology report. Jenner pressed the stop button on her lapel, ending the voice recording of the session.

‘Well, it’s down to the toxicology lab for the definitive answers, but it does look like an overdose,’ she said, with a resigned shrug of her shoulders.

‘You sound sceptical, Dr?’ Phillips said.

‘She was such a vibrant personality.’

‘Did you know her socially?’ Phillips said, as he continued the business of finishing up.

‘No, but we had lunch together occasionally. She was always welcoming and easy to talk to. She rarely questioned me on work matters over lunch. She had a quiet intellect; interested and interesting,’ she said, with a warm smile.

‘Sounds like you’re going to miss her?’

‘Yes, her team is going to find it hard to investigate this one. Apart from her poor excuse for a boss, that is,’ she said,

‘DCI Forrester?’ he said, looking over to her.

‘How that man ever rose to the position of DCI is beyond me.’

‘Not a fan, then?’ Phillips said, with a smile.

‘He lives off the good work of those below him, particularly DI McDowd. He’ll mourn her loss, if not for that reason alone.’

‘I’d heard they’d had a fling some time back, and that he had taken the split up so badly he gave her a hard time at work?’

‘Absolute rubbish. Who told you that?’ she said, but before he could provide an answer she continued. ‘She knew exactly what that man was all about; classic brown nose with very little talent for the job,’ she said, with a slight flare to her nostrils. ‘He gave her a hard time because he knew she could take his job if he slipped up again.’

‘Sounds like you’ve had a few run-ins with him?’ Phillips said.

‘He has little respect for forensics or pathology. He has ignored crime scene rules on many an occasion. In the early days, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Once, I had to have a quiet word with him about his conduct at a murder scene, but he took it the wrong way, telling me to keep my advice to myself. Arrogant bastard; I was only trying to help him.’

‘You can’t help some people.’

‘True. On another occasion, he managed to contaminate evidence by refusing to wear gloves at a crime scene. This time, I made a complaint to DCS Spencer.’

‘Brave.’

‘It wasn’t easy, but it ended with HR giving him a verbal warning. We’ve crossed swords ever since,’ she said.

As if on cue, the mortuary door banged opened and Detective Chief Inspector Steven Forrester strode over to the autopsy table.

‘Just in time to be too late, DCI Forrester,’ Jenner said.

‘I’ve had a bitch of morning so far, doctor - please don’t make it any worse. What have you got for me?’ he said, extending his arms as if he were going to lean on the table.

‘No,’ Jenner said, pointing sharply at his approaching hands. ‘Not without gloves,’ she warned, and he backed away slightly. ‘There are no signs of external trauma. Brain, heart, lungs and liver all look as expected for someone her age and fitness.’

She looked over to Forrester, noticing that he was observing DI McDowd’s body seemingly without a hint of emotion.

‘Not surprising for an overdose, surely?’ he said.

‘I will need the toxicology report to be sure, but it looks like a cardiovascular shutdown, consistent with an Amitriptyline overdose.’

‘Amitrip...?’ Forrester faltered.

‘Amitriptyline. It’s an antidepressant, but is also used by some as a sleeping aid, although certainly not recommended and would not have been prescribed as such.’

‘They were prescribed for depression?’ Forrester said, starting to pace the length of the autopsy table.

‘She had no current prescription, for any drugs,’ Phillips said, catching Jenner’s eye.

‘Then how did she get them?’ Forrester said.

‘The empty pill blisters found at the scene were branded Tryptillum; there are over fifty branded forms of Amitriptyline legally available online without a prescription,’ Phillips said.

‘No wonder there are so many suicides,’ Forrester said.

‘Suicide by antidepressants is recorded as the second highest method of death by overdose in the UK,’ Jenner said.

‘What’s the most popular?’ he asked. Jenner was slightly taken aback by his strange choice of phrasing.

‘Interestingly, Paracetamol: It accounts for 30% of all such suicides in the UK and is why we can only buy thirty-two tablets over the counter.’

‘Ridiculous; as if that would stop them,’ he said, continuing to stride around.

‘Death by a Paracetamol overdose is not immediate; it can take two to three-days, ending horribly with acute liver failure.’

‘Very interesting, doctor,’ Forrester said, with no interest at all. ‘How many Ami...’

‘Amitriptyline.’ Jenner said.

‘...would she have had to take to do the job?’

Do the job? she thought, once again registering his total lack of empathy.

‘It can vary with body weight, age and general health, but anything over 6g is potentially fatal, especially if taken in conjunction with other drugs and/or alcohol.’

‘She had been drinking wine,’ Forrester said.

‘Not that much.’ Jenner was becoming irritated with his interjections. ‘The seven blister packs recovered, each contained fourteen 75mg tablets; that would be over 7g.’

‘Enough then,’ he said and paused. ‘That’s a lot of tablets to take; were there any signs of force feeding?’ he said, seemingly considering an ulterior motive for a moment.

‘There was some acidic burning around the oesophagus consistent with mild vomiting or reflux, but nothing excessive. There were no signs of any abrasion damage in the upper gastrointestinal tract, so I’d say no.’

‘Stomach contents?’ Forrester resumed his pacing up and down.

‘Minced meat, chopped root vegetables and rice,’ Phillips said, reading from his notes.

‘When will the full toxicology report be available?’

‘I’d say about two to three weeks, given the current caseload.’

‘Three weeks? That’s unacceptable,’ he said, momentarily halting his stroll around the room.

‘I’ve managed to bump it up the list, but we are not the only force using the Cambridge labs.  Anyway, as I said, I’m not expecting anything back that would be out of the ordinary.’

‘Sexual activity?’ he asked, again without a hint of sensitivity.

‘No signs of intercourse were evident.’

‘Anything else of any note?’ Forrester said, examining a notice board on the other side of the room.

‘A small tattoo at the base of her spine; the Venus symbol.’

‘Sign of the feminist,’ Forrester said.

‘What’s the sign for a misogynist?’ Jenner said, quietly to Phillips.

‘Well, it all looks pretty clear cut to me; suicide - plain and simple,’ Forrester said, returning to the table.

‘Well, it certainly looks like an overdose, but the investigative team need to come up with a plausible motive; there was no note, I understand?’ Jenner said.

‘We haven’t found anything yet, but that’s our domain, doctor. Can you let me have your preliminary report as soon as, please? I’ve got management breathing down my neck and I’d like to get this wrapped up,’ he said, turning to leave.

‘How compassionate of you...’

Forrester stopped in his tracks. He paused, silent for a few moments without turning, as though trying to contain himself. The tension was broken by Forrester resuming his exit without a response. He left the mortuary door swinging wildly, in and out of the room.

‘Wanker,’ Dr Jenner hissed.

It was just loud enough that he may have caught it as he left the room, but she calmly returned to continue the clean-up without a care.

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Bitch, Forrester thought as he approached the lift. If you want empathy, speak to someone who has the time.  As he pushed the button to call the lift, he was approached by a man wearing a hi-vis jacket and hard-hat.

‘Sorry, sir. You’ll have to take the stairs; we’re doing some maintenance work,’ the man said, gesturing towards the stairwell to the side.

The lift pinged and the doors opened.

‘It would appear it’s still working.’ Forrester said, ignoring the man and stepping into the lift.

‘Sir, I’m sorry; you’ll have to take the stairs; it’s not safe,’ the man said.

Forrester selected the button for the fifth floor.

‘I’ll take the risk,’ he said, as the doors closed on the protesting maintenance man.

‘Prick,’ the man said, shaking his head.

Forrester turned to check his reflection in the polished stainless steel walls of the lift. I’ve had to take on four of McDowd’s cases, on top of my own case load, and manage the enquiry team, he thought, recognising and immediately removing the forehead frown lines in his reflection.

Taking a step back and turning his leg to the side, he could see his Armani suit had creases at the knee. That’s because I had to sit through that mind-numbingly boring briefing for two hours, he thought. He tried in vain to press the creases out with his hand, shaking his head in disgust. He moved swiftly on to adjust his tie, so that the knot sat perfectly at the collar of his Paul Smith shirt. Here was a man in his early forties, trim but not fit, with stylishly short dark brown hair, not a strand out of place. He had been told that he could pass for a male model, a comment he passed on regularly. He certainly looked the business, but as many could attest to, his bedside manner was atrocious.

The real icing on the cake, he thought sarcastically, is having to deal directly with that highly paid consultant, Shaun bloody Young. Special ability? What bollocks; he’s just an average shrink who gets treated like some messiah, some fucking master investigator, he thought, screwing up his face in disgust. However, things will be different now that McDowd is no longer around to sing his praises. He took one last glimpse of himself, as the automated voice announced his destination. The lift came to a slow stop and he exited in perfect timing with the opening of the sliding doors. You will be answering to me from now on, and before long you’ll be looking for some other organisation to fleece, Mr Young, he thought, smiling to himself.

Chapter 3 - Goodbyes

Friday 20th March 2015

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It was a surprisingly warm day for the time of year as Shaun Young loosely ruminated on how the weather often played a significant part on funeral days. He was languishing towards the back of a large group of mourners, gathered to show respect for the passing of DI McDowd. He was suffering. Partly due to the stifling, slightly undersized, black suit and tie he’d rented at the last minute, but also because he was nursing a bruised chest, split lip, blackened eye and a blinding headache. How he’d managed to get himself into a scuffle last night, at his age, was still not clear to him. At the front of the crowd, a dour priest stood sermonising earnestly over an orderly pile of floral tributes, beneath which, lay the coffin of Angela McDowd. Rather than appreciating the sermon, Young was becoming increasingly irritated, as he fixated on the generalities and minor inaccuracies issuing from the priest’s mouth.

Although he would never openly admit it, Young was borderline bipolar; a genetic twist inherited from his father. The upside of his condition afforded him an almost euphoric positivity for the joy of life and the living. On the downside, he was prone to a short temper and an openness with his opinions, verging on the offensively blunt. To help him manage the ups and downs, he was grudgingly taking a long-term course of a low dose mood suppressant; the gold standard, mind-numbing lithium carbonate. Why the pharmaceutical industry had yet to find something less invasive was beyond him. He hated the fact that he had to take it, but sometimes it was the only thing that could help him back onto the straight and narrow. After all, knowing that he had control was everything to Young.

However, recent events had conspired to make him forget his repeat prescription; only able to pick up an emergency pack that morning. As the sweat gathered on his brow, he needed the medication to kick in. He was unsure how much more of this vague and uninspiring eulogy he could take. He struggled on in silence, trying not to think about the corrective action his mind wanted him to take. Instead his therapy reminded him to consider the resultant embarrassment to her family and friends that would undoubtedly follow an outburst.  This new-found tongue-holding capacity was a key part of some on-going trigger disengagement work he was doing with his therapist.

When not nursing a beating, Young was a reasonably good looking man. Tall, lithe and with reasonable clothes sense, he looked younger than his forty-one years. His eyes in this light were almost chromatic blue and could pierce one straight through if he was in the mood. His medium length hair, brown and slightly tousled, seemed to look that way by design, but it was his natural look.

‘Inspector McDowd had been with the Norfolk Police for over two years...’ the priest continued.

Young shook his head; Detective Inspector, Norfolk CID and two years, two months and twenty-two days, actually, Young thought, shuffling his feet from side to side, trying to contain his irritability.

His good friend Jay Bettis nudged his arm and, with a deft movement of his eyebrow, suggested he calm down. Young nodded, trying to look past this dreadful ceremony and forward to the drinks reception planned afterwards at the Crown Inn.

After the hand shaking and heart-felt condolences were completed, he and Jay returned to Young’s beaten Land Rover Defender, in search of the Crown Inn to the south-side of central Norwich.

‘Have you taken your meds yet, Shaun? You still seem very uptight?’ Jay said quietly.

If it had been anyone but Jay asking this question, not that there were that many who knew about his condition, he may have snapped again.

‘Just before the funeral, but it takes a while for them to kick in. All this isn’t helping...’ He looked over at Jay with a facial shrug.

‘You should have double-dropped,’ Jay said, with a wry grin.

‘Naughty, naughty. Very naughty,’ said Young, a smile returning to his face.

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On his way into the pub, Young glanced at the Licensee Notice, suitably framed above the doorway, pushed open the solid, windowless door and made a bee-line for the bar.

‘So, this was her local then?’ Jay said rhetorically, as they made their way through a moderate crowd. ‘Seems a bit of an odd place for a local?’ he added, observing a few humourless, late-middle-aged men at the margins, slowly supping on half-empty pints of beer.

‘She didn’t use it much. Tuesdays were quiz nights and Fridays she kept for after-work drinks to finish off the week.’

‘I didn’t think you did quiz nights?’ Jay said.

‘This is the first time I’ve been in here - Angie told me about it once, that’s all.’

The door of the pub pushed open behind them, followed by murmurs of quiet condolence. Another late-middle-aged man with a striking head of pure white hair, also dressed in black, bustled through to the business side of the bar.

‘What can I get you gentlemen?’ he said, in a lyrical Norfolk twang, without looking up at either of them.

‘Pint of Guinness for me and a single vodka tonic for my friend here, please, Mr James,’ Young said, with almost no gap between the landlord’s question and his retort. Toby James looked up at Young with a slight quizzical frown as he reached for a glass. Young had simply recalled his name from the licensee notice on the way in.

‘Friends of Angie are, um, were you?’ he said.

‘Friend and colleague respectively’ said Young, indicating Jay first and then himself. ‘She always spoke warmly about your hospitality’.

James shook his head mournfully as the Guinness crept slowly up the glass, inclined perfectly at a forty-five-degree angle.

‘Bloody tragedy it is. She was a regular in here and well-liked by us all. She used to get involved. Not one to sit with a quiet drink like some of them in here,’ he said, nodding back to the lounge.

‘How long had she been coming here?’ Young said.

‘A fair few years now. She started coming in for Sunday lunch, we’ve a big carvery out the back, with her sister and mother; lovely woman.’

‘You say regular, how often was she in?’

‘Couple a times a week,’ James said, using more of the local patois which Young loved. ‘A few drinks with people from work mainly, rarely stayed for more than two or three. Always sat at the bar and got involved. All apart from the last night she was in here. She just sat at the back there; trouble at work I guess?’

Young scrutinised the landlord. ‘Trouble? Did she say anything?’

‘No, not really; it was just my assumption. Someone, maybe a colleague, turned up after a while and they had a serious discussion about something. Not long after, they both left without finishing their drinks. That’s the last time I saw Angie.’

‘Can you recall what night this was and at roughly what time?

‘It would have been last Wednesday.  She came in at about 7:00 pm and they left around 8:30, I think.’

‘And what about this colleague? Could you describe him?’

‘She actually. Late thirties, brown suit and dark brown hair and roughly the same height as Angie. Oh, and she had one of those bloody song ring tones on her phone.’

‘Can you recall the song?’

‘No not really. Some guy singing Hello? Irritating bloody racket.’

‘Lionel Richie?’ Jay said.

‘No idea. She didn’t answer it; they were deep in discussion,’ said the landlord, handing over the two drinks. ‘On the house...’

‘Thanks,’ said Young, assuming Angie’s mother must have put money behind the bar for the drinks reception.

They walked back through the crowd, nodding to new arrivals also in black, and found a seat at the back of the pub.

‘I guess that’s new information then?’ Jay said, idly stirring the ice and slice into the vodka tonic mixture.

‘Yes, but whoever she was, she wasn’t a colleague.’

‘Are you seriously saying that you know everyone at the Norfolk nick and can discount them on the basis of the landlord’s description?’ Jay asked, with a look of disbelief.

‘I could name and identify everyone in the division, but that’s not the point. It’s against policy to have anything but a standard ring tone on department issue phones,’ Young said.

‘Could have been a personal phone?’

‘Very unlikely. Personal phones are frowned upon, for security reasons. CID pick up both business and private call charges.’

‘Doesn’t mean she didn’t have one,’ Jay said, taking a sip of his drink.

At that moment Angie’s mother, Elizabeth, approached the two of them with a tall, stocky chap roughly her age in tow.

‘Hello Shaun, this is my brother-in-law, John Crick,’ she said gesturing to the man behind her who looked even more uncomfortable in his suit than Young felt.

‘How do?’ Crick said, and without pause for a reply added, ‘I’ll go get us some drinks, Lizzie,’ already making his way to the bar. There’s an odd one, thought Young.

Young again offered his sincere condolences, echoed by Jay.  Angie’s father had died many years ago, so he guessed it was Elizabeth alone that had to handle this morbid affair. She thanked them both cordially and Young noted that she was handling it all very well, considering the tragic loss of such a young daughter in her prime. He wondered if she was putting on a brave face or whether she was still in shock.  He'd only met her a few times before, when she'd come into the office to meet Angie for lunch. He'd joined them once and had immediately taken to this slim, elegant and clearly strong-willed woman.

‘How are you doing?’ he asked her.

‘I’m just trying to get through this for the sake of family and friends; I’ll do my grieving in private.’ Young had a feeling that this was a woman who was no stranger to grief.

‘The police are doing their best to get to the bottom of this, I’m sure,’ he said, extending his hand to touch her arm.

‘They seem to be jumping to a suicide conclusion too readily for my liking,’ she said, with a slight shake of her head.

Young noted how she used both hands to keep a firm grip of her handbag, almost like a protection mechanism.

‘They have a procedure to follow, Mrs McDowd, but I am sure they are keeping their lines of enquiry open for all possible motives.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said with a pause. ‘Are you helping them with the enquiry?’

‘Not in an official capacity, no. There’s a good team working on it though, rest assured.’

‘I would like it if you were on that team,’ she said, looking him in the eyes.

‘Unfortunately, that’s not our call, I’m afraid,’ he said, with a shrug.

‘We’ll see about that,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I have some food laid out in the function room at the back. It’s not much, but please help yourself; drinks are free at the bar.’

With that, Mrs McDowd said that she should probably mingle with the other guests, but before she left, she quietly asked Shaun if he would call her later, after the wake. He took her number and promised he would do so before she disappeared back amongst the growing, hushed throng.

‘Come on!’ Young said, swiftly throwing back the last of his Guinness. ‘I need to get back and check on a few things.’

‘What about the food?’ Jay said, but Young was already at