Dead Weight

By Silwyn Williams

A serial killer is loose in the small Welsh seaside town of Abercarnog.

When the body of a prominent young woman is discovered, splayed over the altar stone of a mock Druidic temple investigators quickly suspect that a pagan cult is involved.

Detective Inspector Mike Probyn soon has other ideas.

Establishing a list of suspects and chasing down every lead he inches closer to the truth, but when the chief suspects start to fall prey to the real killer Probyn must catch the real murderer while there is still anyone left to save.

Full of conspiracy, intrigue and long buried secrets, Abercarnog is not what it appears on the surface and as you dive deeper you will discover that everyone hides something.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781326312152

Book preview

Dead Weight

Dead Weight

Copyright

Copyright @ 2015 David S. Williams

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-326-31215-2

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Published by Razoredge Productions Ltd

Cover Artwork – William Halsey

Chapter 1

The time had come. Tonight was the night she was going to die.

They lay in the double bath, immersed in fragrant foam, he with his head against a tiled wall streaming with condensation, his strong legs straddling her slim tanned body; she, leaning back against his broad chest, nestling against his crotch, breasts bobbing in the warm water. Her dark hair was tied up above her head, revealing an equally slim curvaceous neck.

She half-turned and looked up at him, smiling, white teeth gleaming in the subdued lighting. ‘You were really great tonight, you know,’ she said. ‘For an old man, that is.’ She arched her body, adding: ‘Look. My nipples are still hard.’

He ran the palm of his hand over one of them. They were bright pink and erect. She was still receptive. He nuzzled his head against her shoulder. ‘Less of the old,’ he murmured. ‘Or you won’t get the present I’ve got you.’

She sat upright, twisting on his testicles, making him wince. ‘You’ve bought me that necklace, haven’t you?’ she said excitedly. ‘Please tell me you have. Please.’

‘Calm down,’ he ordered. He knew how to subdue her, how to make her obedient. ‘Or you’ll get more than you’ve bargained for. Sit up properly.’

She did as she was told. He leaned to one side, and reached to the floor. But it wasn’t a necklace he retrieved from under the towel. It was a length of polystyrene string.

‘Arms by your side. Head up. Close your eyes. That’s right.’

There was a mirror on the opposite wall. He watched her as he placed the noose around her neck. He wondered briefly what her reaction would be. With one swift movement, he tightened it. He saw the string bite into her neck. Her eyes flicked open. Bulged. Surprise, shock then horror. She began to struggle, her fingers clawing at the twine. Her cries dwindled into an ineffectual gurgle. He pulled the cord harder, tighter. He watched it sink further into her skin.

Then, quite suddenly, she went limp. She slid slowly under the water and he held her there for over two minutes. He couldn’t believe it. It was over. She was dead. It had been so easy.

……….

It was almost four days later when Dave Cunningham found her - naked and damp and unmistakably dead. He was running late and anxious to get to work, took a short cut through the town’s memorial park. The five mile training run he had embarked on that morning had taken longer than expected. He was now regretting bitterly his lethargic Spanish holiday. Sun, sex and sangria had taken their inevitable toll. When he reached the Victorian bandstand in the centre, he paused briefly. A short rest and a quick run home.

His hands on his hips, he arched his back. His felt his heart pounding against his ribs. Perspiration trickled down his back. His T-shirt with its Abercarnog Rugby Club logo clung to his body. He heard the town hall clock strike eight. And swore. There was no time to loiter. He had to hurry. He had to get home, get showered, get dressed. A quick cup of coffee and away to work.

Then he saw her.

He glanced to his left at the circle of twelve Gorsedd standing stones. A miniature Stonehenge. They were dark grey and stained with lichen. A relic a time, half a century earlier, when Abercarnog had hosted the National Eisteddfod of Wales. A thirteenth stone lay on its side in the centre of the circle. A Druidic altar stone. He became aware that there was something lying on its surface.

Puzzled, he looked again. Hesitated a moment. Brushed again the perspiration from his eyes. A third glance. No doubt now. It was a woman. She was young. She had a good figure. She was tanned. She was naked.

He walked towards her. Took a longer, closer, more penetrating look.

Then he wished he hadn’t.

……….

The persistent ringing of the bedside telephone dragged Mike Probyn out of a deep slumber. For a few moments he couldn’t remember where he was. Then the warm naked body of the woman curled beside him, her buttocks soft against his crotch, reminded him. One arm lay across her, his hand cupping her breast. They had spent one of their rare nights together, lying clammily under a single sheet.

His penis, still sore after a night’s long slow lovemaking, was erect again, sandwiched between her thighs. Drowsy with sleep, he groaned softly with pleasure. He caressed her and felt her turn towards him, arching her hips. He manoeuvred himself so he could penetrate her again.

Finally the strident tones of the telephone woke him completely.

Angry and frustrated, he propped himself on to one elbow. Squinted at the digital clock. The numbers were blurred.

The phone rang again. He fumbled for the receiver. ‘Probyn here,’ he said.

He heard a familiar voice at the other end of the line. ‘Cruise,’ he said. ‘What the hell time is this? He paused, listened to his sergeant’s reply. ‘You’re kidding.’

Probyn peered again at the clock. The numbers were clear now. Christ. 8:17 am. He yanked himself into a sitting position and swore.

The woman at his side stirred. She turned and leaned across him, her breasts soft and yielding against his naked body. She opened her eyes and stared at the scarlet digits. Then awareness kicked in.

She jerked away. ‘Look at the time,’ she cried. ‘Why the hell didn’t you wake me, Mike?’

Probyn clamped a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Keep your voice down...’

Sue Martingale wasn’t listening. ’You bloody fool. You know Joe will be home in an hour. He’ll kill me... he’ll kill me…’

She thrust herself away, rolled off the bed and searched frantically for her clothes. Probyn watched as he spoke to his sergeant. ‘Say that again, Cruise.’

Probyn listened, one half of his brain concentrating on what Cruise was saying, the other fascinated by the way she dressed. She scooped firm breasts into a red Lurex underwired bra and wriggled into matching high-leg briefs. She placed her flimsy expensive dress above her head. It slid down her body.

Probyn was intrigued by her sinuous dexterity. For a woman just a year away from her unforgiving forties, she still had a good figure, though lately her waist was getting fuller; her hips and thighs heavier. Built more for comfort now than for speed.

Not that he was complaining. He was a good ten years older than her. Too old to be choosy.

For a moment, he was tempted to pull her back into bed. Then thought better of it. Right place, right woman, wrong time.

Cruise was still speaking. ‘There’s been a murder, sir. A young woman…And there’s something strange about it…’

‘Strange? What do you mean strange?’

‘Well… the body was found right in the middle of the memorial park for starters… and…’

‘And?’

‘Better if you came and saw for yourself.’

Probyn decided to act on his sergeant’s advice. ‘Give me half an hour,’ he said. ‘

He replaced the receiver and glanced up. Sue was at the dressing table, applying her make-up. She smeared her mouth with lipstick. ‘I shouldn’t have stayed. It was madness... madness...’ She kept repeating herself. ‘I knew this would happen… I knew it…Why the hell did I listen to you?’

He refrained from reminding her that she had made no protest when he had suggested it. Too much wine had prevented either of them from driving and a taxi was out of the question. A witness was the last thing either of them wanted.

Probyn walked towards her and placed placatory hands on her shoulders. ‘I’ll make you coffee,’ he said.

She jerked them away. ‘Coffee! Coffee! Don’t be so bloody stupid, Mike. I haven’t got time for coffee.’ She searched her handbag. ‘Where the hell did I put my car keys?’

They were on the dressing table. Within arm’s reach. He picked them up and held them out to her. He watched her reflection in the mirror and saw how anger, petulance and frustration combined to score the deep the lines on her forehead.

She snatched them from him and thrust her feet into her shoes. She glared at him and pushed him to one side. Probyn said nothing. He knew better when she was in this kind of mood. She took one final look in the mirror, checked her make-up and flicked up her hair with the tips of her fingers. Then, without another word, she left. She stamped down the stairs and slammed the front door behind her. He heard her high heels clack down the drive.

He glanced at the clock. 8:26 am. Less than nine minutes from waking. Her fastest exit yet. He grimaced at the mirror. He hoped to Christ she got home before her husband.

Joe Martingale was trouble - not a man to tangle with. Especially over a matter of personal property. Especially over property like a wife.

……….

Detective Sergeant Brian Cruise stood on the fringe of the murder scene. He was just over six feet tall, lanky with a pallid complexion, prematurely thinning hair and an angular face. At twenty-six, he had yet to put on weight in spite of a prodigious appetite. A graduate of a red-brick university, he had turned down the chance of entering the rapid promotion scheme. The subdued animosity of some of his fellow officers had made him choose experience instead.

He watched from a distance as the Scene of Crime officers secured the site and wondered what Mike Probyn was going to make of it. He glanced over his shoulder. Talk of the devil, he thought.

Detective Inspector Mike Probyn was striding across the close cropped grass, the stubborn thrust of his jaw matching the aggressive manner of his walk. He was two inches shorter than his sergeant, broader, stockier, more powerful.

‘Right, Cruise,’ he said without preamble. ‘What’s this surprise you’ve got in store for me?’

‘Like I said earlier, sir,’ Cruise said. ‘Better see for yourself.’ The sergeant led the way towards the circle of standing stones, now sectioned off by gently flapping police tape.

Probyn ducked underneath. The sergeant followed and nodded at the altar stone. ‘What do you make of that, sir?’

For several moments, Probyn stood still. Though he was at least ten yards away, he could see that the body was that of a young woman, early twenties he reckoned. She was naked and lying on her back, her head turned to one side. Flowers, identical to those in the adjacent beds, festooned her tanned full-breasted body. At her side was a white bowl.

Probyn nodded slowly. ‘See what you mean, sergeant. Bizarre… to say the least.’

Cruise grunted. ‘The understatement of the year, sir. Wait till you get closer.’

Probyn glanced carefully at the ground before approaching the victim. Cruise read his thoughts correctly

‘I’ve checked for footprints…’

‘Did you find any?’

He shook his head. ‘The ground’s as hard as nails… This drought… I’ve sent for the pathologist and forensics though. They might come up with something.’

Probyn moved closer. He could see that the victim was older than he originally thought. Early thirties probably. Attractive, even in death, with a good figure and soft seductive skin. Her long dark brown hair was draped around her head in the shape of a fan. Auburn highlights glinted in the sunshine. Her hands, placed across her body in an attitude of prayer, were clutching a small bunch of flowers. Another smaller bunch had been placed at the top of her thighs, partially hiding the thick wedge of dark pubic hair. Petals had been scattered over her.

He bent to have a closer look. There was a deep cut in the woman’s neck, a long slash that started just below her left ear and travelled round until it disappeared under her hair. He noticed there was no blood on the stone itself. He peered closely at the white earthenware bowl placed in the space by the side of her head. It contained a dark red liquid.

Probyn nodded at it. ‘What do you make of that?’

‘Looks like blood to me, sir.’

‘Better check it out.’

Probyn’s eyes travelled down the body, then back to her face. It was heavily made up. There was rouge on her cheeks and her lips had been painted a bright red.

He stood up. ‘Who found her?’ he asked.

‘Early morning jogger, sir.’ Cruise nodded towards the man who was hunched on one of the benches. ‘Decided to take a shortcut through the park. Something he doesn’t do normally.’

Probyn grunted. ‘Bet he won’t do it again.’ The inspector turned back to the body. ‘You were right about one thing, Cruise. You said you had a surprise in store for me. And you were bang on.’ He had seen many murders in his time, but had never got accustomed to the macabre experience. ‘What sort of nutcase would do a thing like this? And why? Bit theatrical, don’t you think?’

‘To be honest, sir, at first I thought it might be some kind of religious maniac. Someone involved in paganism. The black arts. That sort of thing.’

Probyn grunted. ‘You thought this could be a ritual killing?’

‘My first thoughts, yes. It has all the hallmarks. The body on the altar stone… the flowers… the bowl of blood. And the situation. This is a druid circle. And the druids were pagans.’

Probyn thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No. This particular circle of standing stones was erected to celebrate a cultural event. Nothing to do with paganism or the Celts.’

‘I agree, sir. There’s something else which made me change my mind. I can’t see a coven of witches and warlocks cavorting around this stone circle. This place is too public.’

‘Anything else?’

‘I’m certain the victim wasn’t killed here. No blood on the stone or anywhere else. If this had something to do with a group of weirdoes and she was a sacrificial victim, she would have been killed on the spot. It would have been part of the ceremony.’

Probyn nodded his agreement. ‘Then why go to all this trouble?’ he asked.

‘Trying to distract us from the true reason for her murder. That’s what I think.’

Probyn glanced at Cruise. The man was intelligent, diligent, and dependable. A man he could rely on. But for how long, he wondered, would he have him as his side-kick. Promotion beckoned – and he wasn’t about to stand in the man’s way. ‘Still,’ he said. ‘we can’t dismiss the possibility out of hand. You’d better run a check. See if we’ve got some satanic sects operating in the area.’

He glanced around at the terrain. A belt of tall trees and thick shrubs surrounded the park. At each corner was an entrance, the gates removed many years earlier. To the north and east were substantial Edwardian villas, each set in its own grounds, each protected from prying eyes by trees and shrubs which gave them the privacy their owners demanded. In the centre was a bandstand. To the south was a low wall separating the park from the bus station and a public toilet built of concrete blocks. To the west a thick hedge of flowering shrubs.

He glanced again at the cadaver. ‘Let’s look at this logically, Cruise. Like you said, it’s obvious she wasn’t killed here. Which means she was brought here in some kind of vehicle.’

‘So where would the murderer have parked it?’

‘Where indeed?’ He paused for a moment: ‘Tell me, Cruise. How heavy do you reckon she is?’

Cruise shrugged his shoulders. ‘Dead weight, sir? Nine and a half… ten stone…She’s a well built girl.’

‘Do you reckon you could carry her a couple of hundred yards?’

Cruise pondered. ‘If I carried her over my shoulder, I could.’

‘Yes. But would it have been an easy job?’

Cruise shook his head.

‘Which means that whoever carried her would be pretty strong. So we’re probably looking for a man. Next question: where would he have parked?’ He glanced around again at the rows large detached houses which dominated the northern and eastern sides of the park and at the bus station and public toilets. ‘I can’t see whoever it was parking in front of those houses. Or down there near the bus station. Much too public. Which leaves only one place.’ He knew the area well. He turned to face the western hedge. ‘Come on, sergeant. Let’s go and have a look.’

They found a half hidden break in the hedge, straddled a low stone wall and entered an area which had once been a marshalling yard where wagons had trundled down the valley to supply the world with coal. But that had been over seventy years earlier when coal was king. Weeds and wild flowers now proliferated. Hemlock, alexanders and willow herb were making an aggressive takeover bid for the man-made backwater. The rails and sleepers had been torn up and removed, leaving a sea of low rolling ridges littered with hardcore and struggling tufts of grass. A rough track, its tarmac rutted and pockmarked with potholes, led from a side road.

Probyn pointed at it. ‘I reckon a car could come down that without breaking its axle, don’t you, Cruise.’

Cruise nodded. ‘Which would mean that whoever brought the body could have parked here and carried the body just over two hundred yards. Say three hundred to be on the safe side. Reckon you could do it?’

Cruise thought for a moment. ‘It would take some doing but I reckon I could.’

Probyn nodded in agreement. ‘So we can safely assume that the murderer is a man, not necessarily young but strong. Also, there’s the strong possibility that this is where he parked his car. Isolated. Dark. Little chance of being discovered…’

‘Unless there were courting couples here at the time, sir. Having a good shag in the back of their car…’

Probyn glanced at him. ‘Are you speaking from experience, sergeant?’

‘Good God, no, sir. Me do a thing like that?’ Cruise’s grin widened. ‘You know me. Pure as the virgin snow. Besides, I’m too scared of the missus.’

Probyn became serious again. ‘You’d better check on courting couples. Make some discreet enquiries. Someone might have seen something.’ He paused. ‘Let’s try some extrapolation. He would have parked his car, as near to that gap in the hedge as possible, carried her body to the centre of the park, arranged her body on the altar stone, picked some flowers and placed them on various parts of her body. Then he would have returned to his vehicle, brought that bowl of blood and placed it beside the body. What does that tell you, Cruise?’

‘He was local.’

Probyn nodded. ‘Exactly. local. He knew the best place to park without being seen.’ We can also assume that he chose the right time. The body must have been placed here in the early hours of Monday morning or it would have been discovered earlier. The whole area would have been quiet at that time.’

‘But we can’t assume that no one saw him either, sir… however careful he might have been.’

‘Absolutely. Better get a house-to-house in operation and while you’re at it, get this whole area cordoned off and searched.’ Probyn had seen enough. ‘Let’s get back to the body. We need an identity. Get the photographers to take a picture and circulate it. We might strike lucky.’

As they approached the murder scene, they saw that the pathologist had already arrived. He was kneeling at the side of the altar stone, examining the body.

Dr. Maurice Newbury was rapidly approaching retirement age. He was short, rotund and bald. Though the heat wave had lasted for weeks, he was dressed in a dark suit. His shirt was a light blue check, his tie green with bright yellow stripes. Bright red braces held up his trousers which were a full two inches above his black boots. They revealed bright orange socks. Probyn shook head in disbelief as he noted the vibrant clash of styles and colours. Newbury was not a man addicted to the fickle demands of fashion.

Newbury heaved himself to his feet when he saw the two police officers. He glanced at Probyn over thick dark horn-rimmed spectacles, pushing them over the bridge of his short stubby nose with an equally short stubby forefinger. ‘See you’ve got another murder for me, Probyn,’ he said.

His tone was one of disapproval, his voice grating, as though the inspector had deliberately engineered the crime to make his morbid life more difficult. Probyn ignored the criticism. Over the years he had come to know him well and their relationship over the last ten years had been an amicable one. If nothing else, Maurice Newbury was thorough and conscientious.

‘I do my best to please,’ he said lightly. Then added: ‘Anything to report, Maurice?’

Newbury glanced over his spectacles. They fell down his nose. He thrust them back into place with his index finger. ‘Give me a chance, Mike. I’ve only just arrived. The only thing I can say safely at this moment is that it looks like the work of a nutcase.’

‘That was my first thought too…’

Newbury glared at the inspector. ‘But not any more? Do you know something I don’t?’

‘No I don’t. But there are certain aspects which lead me to think otherwise.’

‘Is that a fact? Suppose you could be right.’ Newbury turned back to look at the body. He breathed in through his teeth and shook his head slowly. ‘The situation… the middle of a park, the blood, the flowers. Makes me wonder if someone is playing some kind of a game. Time I had another look, I think.’

Probyn watched as Newbury lowered