Drag Ropes: DI Steven Marr, #4

By Shaun Edwards

Praise for the DI Marr books:

'It had me hooked from the very beginning!'

'Gripped me from start to finish.'

'Couldn't put it down.'

'Fab book! Real page turner!'

UK crime fiction author SP Edwards returns with DRAG ROPES, the latest story in the best-selling DI Marr series.

Vincent James makes his living voicing unpopular opinions about men, women and masculinity. The more people hate him, the more he earns.

So, when his body's found by the university lakes, sympathy's in pretty short supply.

How's Marr supposed to find the killer when pretty much everyone's got a motive?

Buy now, and find out.

About the Author

Shaun Edwards has always had an interest in the darker side of human nature. As a result, he spent most of his late teens nicking UK crime thriller books from his mum's bookcase. Have devoured pretty much everything by Peter Robinson, Ian Rankin, John Harvey and John Connolly, he decided to start writing his own stuff.

Ten years later, he pulled his finger out and actually did it. The DI Marr books result from an obsession with coffee and a deep love for Banks, Rebus, Resnick, Thorne and Charlie Parker.

Besides writing and reading whodunnit mysteries, crime fiction and thrillers, Shaun's other loves include noodling around on the guitar, going for long walks, eating too much pizza and laughing at pictures of pugs.

He lives in Suffolk, UK.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shaun Edwards
• Release date: Feb 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393157380

Book preview

Table of Contents

Contents

Drag Ropes

Copyright © 2016 by Shaun Edwards

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Contents

Drag Ropes

Copyright © 2015 by Shaun Edwards

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Drag Ropes

by SP Edwards

Copyright © 2016 by Shaun Edwards

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

CHAPTER ONE

As he sat down on the bench and waited for the hit, Vincent James wondered what the girl would taste like.

There were a fair few he’d seen here that he liked. But then that was to be expected, wasn’t it? A university: no-one here over the age of twenty-five. Girls still blessed with the beauty of youth, before life did a number on their bodies and weather-beat their face.

Vince knew that his chances of actually staying in his hotel room overnight were remote, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he’d paid for it.

No, the same thing would happen here as happened everywhere. At some point in the night, a group of girls would ambush him, screaming obscenities. Calling him every name under the sun whilst – inadvertently, of course – proving his point. You didn’t get annoyed by anything someone said unless there was an element of truth to it: blows that don’t land don’t hurt. Eventually, of course, the girls would leave, realising that he wasn’t going to plead for forgiveness or show any kind of remorse at all. Some of the white knights with them might make the odd comment about kicking his arse – something they’d never actually do, of course – and then the whole thing would be over and done with.

And then, at some point later on, a girl on her own would come up and try to do the same thing. But she’d be by herself, and once she'd had a few drinks it would be easy enough to talk her into going back to her dorm.

Vince smiled to himself. It was too easy, really; once you learned the patterns.

Vince wasn’t even special. The men he saw in bars lining up and gawping at girls without even talking to them could have what he had.

But they were too far indoctrinated. Nice guys until they died, their dick in a jar under their wife’s sink. Vince did what he could to help, but if someone wouldn’t help themselves...

Years ago, back when he was a kid, Vince had read the Narnia books. He’d loved them, and one quote had stuck with him for years. Then, funnily enough, it had been the perfect one to describe the average man.

‘So afraid of being taken in, that they cannot be taken out.’

The average man was happy to be miserable. Because he was told that was what he should do. Grow up, get married to a girl that treats you like shit. And if you don’t, it’s because you’re a ‘man-child’. Grow up, make the best of it, you can’t have everything your own way.

Shame. Shame. Shame on you, man-child.

It was sad, but then Vince couldn’t really complain: it only meant less competition for girls.

He checked his phone for the time, and decided that the bars would probably be busy enough by now.

When he stood, however, he felt a flood of pain in his forehead. At first, he thought that he’d just got up too fast, and he stood still, waiting for it to pass.

But it didn’t. Vince slumped back onto the bench in order to avoid falling. His dizziness was getting worse. He reached into his pocket and felt the small plastic bag that was still there.

The dealer who’d sold him the coke was well known around the university. Good reputation, even if he was a bit of a loser. He was safe, Vince had been assured.

So much for that. Vince could already tell he’d been poisoned. This wasn’t like anything he’d taken before.

There was a part of him that had always half-expected this might happen. He’d tried to prepare himself for it. You didn’t do what Vince did without really pissing some people off.

He reached up to his nose, which was starting to hurt, too, and felt blood running down from his nostril and into the hair of his beard.

Through the increasing pain, his thoughts un-muddled themselves and channelled into one, single thing:

Call for help.

But when Vince went to call for help, his voice caught in his throat, his mouth far too dry to even form the noise. If you were within ten feet of him, you might have heard the sound. But nobody was. In the dark and with the library some hundred yards across the lake from him, Vince had already begun to realise that unless he was very, very lucky, he was going to die here.

He turned his head and despite the pain, he worked to open his eyes. It was genuinely dark, now, and the closest source of light to him was the lamp post on the nearby path. So, Vince wrestled his body up, and began to take slow, staggered steps towards it. He was ten feet or so away before his legs gave out, and he fell to the floor.

Then, sharply and violently, he was sick onto the grass.

His heart – which had been pounding in his chest – seemed to be speeding up. His eyes were battling to stay closed against the stabbing pains in his head, but he kept them open. He knew that he was still in the dark, and wouldn’t be visible until first light. And he didn’t think he had that long.

He made another attempt at calling out, but it just triggered a second coughing fit.

It was when the coughing stopped for a second time that Vince decided to accept what had happened to him. It hurt, and he didn’t know if it was going to get worse before he blacked out. His heart seemed to be getting quicker and quicker, and Vince knew that there was a limit on how fast hearts could go.

How many men – how many great men – through history had been killed by their enemies? Vince was just another in a long line. Was it Socrates who’d been poisoned? And he’d taken death willingly, hadn’t he? Choosing to die because of the truth he was telling, and doing so knowing that it was more important to tell the truth than to stay silent and be complicit in the lie.

Vince decided he could do the same.

This time, when his eyes closed, he didn’t fight them. Let the peace come, he thought. Despite what he’d said in public, Vince had never really been sure if there was life after death, and truth be told it had never troubled him much. He certainly hadn’t expected to be finding out quite this soon.

He briefly tried to remember the Lord’s Prayer, just in case, but he couldn’t. So he tried to settle on one final, peaceful image. Something that would comfort him in his last few minutes of his life.

It was the thought of being home, when he was young. Of kicking a ball around the garden as his mum made dinner in the kitchen.

And, in the moments before Vince’s heart finally gave out, it was an image that did its job. It gave him something that resembled peace.

CHAPTER TWO

Marr reached the bar before anyone else in the theatre, though he had to do a bit of shoulder barging to get there. It wasn’t that he hadn’t enjoyed the play: as a whole, it had been a good interpretation. It was still Shakespeare, but you couldn’t have everything. And Twelfth Night was one of the more enjoyable ones.

When the barman turned around to serve him, it took Marr a couple of seconds to place the white haired older gentleman.

‘Brian?’ he asked.

The barman took the same couple of moments to place Marr.

‘Inspector!’ he said. Brian had been the bar manager at Hendon House, a noted wedding venue where – a few years back – a young bride had been killed the day before her big day. A second person had later been murdered during a wedding fair at the same place.

‘Not working at Hendon anymore?’ Marr asked.

‘Didn't you hear?’ Brian replied. ‘They closed it. After that whole...well, business...no-one fancied getting married there. Rumours started going around that the place was haunted. All a bunch of crap, of course, but no-one wants to get married if there’s the risk of a ghost bride turning up and spoiling the wedding. What can I get you, anyway?’

‘I'll just have a diet coke’, Marr said. ‘I’m driving the lady home.’

Brian's eyebrows knotted.

‘You’re not Lauren’s bloke?’ he said.

Marr nodded.

‘Ah, he said you were a copper.’

‘Who’s he?’ Marr asked.

Brian indicated behind them, where a man in his thirties wearing mustard trousers and a tweed shirt was standing by the wall, holding court amongst a group of bored-looking older ladies.

‘Owen Masters’, Brian said. ‘He’s a lecturer at the university, supplies drama students to the local theatre groups. He’s taken quite an interest in you.’

Marr raised his eyebrows.

‘Has he, now?’ he asked.

Brian chuckled.

‘No, of course not’, the barman replied. ‘What he’s taken quite an interest in is Lauren. Not that I blame him, with all due respect to your good self.’

Marr took the glass of coke and sidled down the bar, allowing Brian to serve the other customers. Once the queue died down, he and Brian talked for a few moments. Marr was waiting for Lauren to emerge from the dressing room, where she was no doubt chatting with the cast. This had been the first Shakespeare she’d directed, and she’d asked him to come along for moral support. So, here he was.

‘No chance of sticking the game on the TV I suppose?’ Marr asked, pointing to the flat screen behind the bar.

Brian shook his head.

‘No such luck’, he replied. ‘With this lot, you’ve got a better shot at the test match. Oh, hey up: your mate’s coming over.’

Marr continued to face forward, not acknowledging the person now standing next to him. He caught a flash of mustard out of the corner of his eye.

The man ordered a glass of red wine followed by a glass of white, stating loudly that the latter was ‘for Lauren’.

Marr looked up as Brian poured the glasses, and caught his eye in the bar mirror. The barman rolled his eyes before turning to present the two glasses.

‘On the house to you, Owen’, he said.

‘Well that’s very kind of you, Jim’, Owen replied, before turning to face Marr.

‘Hang on’, he said. ‘Aren’t you the detective?’

Marr willed himself to turn and reply, knowing that he wasn’t likely to enjoy the discussion. Still, he’d promised Lauren he’d be sociable. It didn’t help that Brian was still standing staring at the back of Owen’s head, gobsmacked at being addressed as ‘Jim’.

‘That's me’, Marr replied.

‘You’re Lauren’s man’, Masters said. It was a statement, not a question.

‘Still me’, Marr confirmed.

‘Well, nice work landing her’, Owen said, in a false, ‘men-at-the-pub’ kind of way. ‘I hope you won’t mind me saying: she’s beautiful.’

Marr shrugged.

‘No at all’, he replied. ‘You’re right, she is.’

‘Hope I’m not offending you’, Masters said.

‘Nope, you’re fine.’

‘What do I call you, then?’ Masters asked. ‘Detective? Inspector?’

‘Steve is fine’, Marr replied.

Masters was about to make a reply of his own, when one of the side doors opened and Lauren walked in. She looked flustered, which was fair enough, but she also looked very, very happy. It gave Marr a chance to enjoy her smile, which had always been one of his favourite things about her. His enjoyment was interrupted, however, by the man next to him.

‘Lauren, darling!’ Masters exclaimed, practically leaping up in the air before walking over to her, his swaggering walk making him look halfway between a cowboy and a stripper.

‘He looks like one of those horses at the Olympics’, Brian muttered, and Marr snorted a laugh.

‘Let’s hope she gives him four faults for a refusal’, he replied.

He was about to head to the toilet when he heard the repeated dinging of a spoon on glass. Masters was still standing next to Lauren, but was clinking his wine as if about to make a wedding toast.

‘The tosser’s brought a spoon with him!’ Brian half-muttered and half-howled.

‘Hi all! Hi all!’ Masters said. ‘Just wanted to say a few words on behalf of the University. My name’s Owen Masters, and for those of you who don't know me...’

‘Perish the thought, oh famous one’, grumbled Brian, but not loud enough to interrupt the flow of Masters’ obviously prepared speech.

‘I run the drama department there. A couple of our leading lights were actually in the play tonight: Hannah played Feste, and Katie played Maria.’

There was a polite round of applause, and Marr had to admit it wasn’t undeserved. They had been two of the better actors in the play, actually, the one