Soft Summer Blood

By Peter Helton

A seemingly open-and-shut case becomes increasingly complicated for Detective Inspector Liam McLusky in this intriguing police procedural.

It all seemed so simple: a murder; an obvious suspect; a shaky alibi: DI McLusky never had it so good. Until a second killing challenges all his earlier assumptions. With every new piece of evidence McLusky brings to light, the case becomes more complicated. Does it have its roots in a disappearance eighteen years earlier, or is it firmly based in the present?

Meanwhile, DI Kat Fairfield and DS Jack Sorbie are tasked with finding the daughter of a prominent Italian politician, who has disappeared while on a student exchange programme at Bristol University. Neither is overjoyed to be lumbered with a routine missing person’s case while McLusky heads a high-profile murder investigation. Until they find a dead body of their own…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Severn House
• Release date: Apr 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781780107417

Peter Helton

Born in Germany, Peter Helton now lives in Bath, Somerset. He has a Fine Art degree, and paints and exhibits regularly in London, Cornwall and Bath, writing in his spare time. As well as the Chris Honeysett mystery series, he is the author of the DI Liam McLusky series.

Book preview

ONE

Charles Mendenhall let himself out of the house via the French windows and stepped into the soft evening air. It had been a hot June day, which was why he had waited until it was almost dark. Not that it mattered; there would be moonlight and starlight, and having lived at Woodlea House for over thirty years, he believed he could probably negotiate every shrub, tree, pond and path of the gardens blindfolded.

Jogging. It really was the most moronic thing to do. But quite addictive. Yes, it was moronic, repetitive, boring and extremely unsightly. After all, who would want to look at the blotchy legs of a flabby sixty-four-year-old puffing along the lanes? Which is where grounds of nearly four acres came in so handy. Charles Mendenhall would not be seen dead running around his neighbourhood in shorts, trainers and sweat-stained T-shirt, but there was no one to see him here in the evenings, except perhaps David, should he make an unannounced visit. He had bought the trainers and shorts and the step-counter thing he couldn’t get to work two months earlier and for six weeks had just looked at them as they lay, neatly arranged, on a chair in his bedroom. He’d been too tired or too busy with other things; it had been raining or it had been patently too warm to run. The whole idea was stupid; he would look utterly ridiculous. Then one day he had realized he could just jog through the garden. Round and round the house. He felt silly for not having thought of it earlier.

The first time he had ventured out in his unfamiliar sports gear, brimming with good intentions to jog each day for at least half an hour, he had lasted five minutes and had to lean against the big oak for support, panting and heaving, wondering whether he was going to have a heart attack. He had gone to see his doctor who had examined him and told him that his heart was fine and exercise would not kill him. But even his doctor thought jogging was stupid. It could give you jogger’s bladder, ruin your joints if you ran on hard surfaces, pump you full of car fumes if you did it near a road.

But how else were you supposed to lose the flab? He had been doing it for two weeks now, had lost four pounds and had become quite addicted to running. Looked forward to it. Always at dusk, always the same route.

Charles closed the door, took a deep breath of the summer-scented air and set off: across the terrace, on to the expanse of the large lawn, green fading to grey in the settling darkness, diagonally to the western edge, around the long flower bed, on to the stone-flagged path. Past the cool greenhouse, seven strides, past the heated greenhouse, eleven strides, across the circular scented garden with its curved benches, past the oaks, on to the small lawn with the statue of Hebe, along the eastern edge of the lily pond, down into the dell and the apple orchard, once around the double row of ancient unproductive trees, up the eight steps to the gravel path, his least favourite bit of the run, through the long borders and between the dark yews and so back on to the large lawn at its eastern end.

And around again: across the large lawn, past the greenhouses, seven strides, eleven strides, across the scented garden. Charles slowed beside the three oaks, stopping by the edge of the small lawn. There was that strange feeling again. He had felt it the other day and it was just as strong as it had been then: the conviction that he was not alone in the garden. Trying to calm his breathing, he stood and looked back. The sensation had come to him in the scented garden, as though someone was running silently behind him. There was enough light left to see that there was no one in the circular garden, but the feeling that there was someone present besides himself was so strong it would not have surprised him to see a person sitting on one of the two benches. It was difficult for deer to get into the gardens unless someone left the rear gate open. Someone could only mean the gardeners or his own son, but when David did visit he showed little interest in the garden and even less in the woodland that lay beyond. He should check, of course. Deer had caused havoc in the gardens last time the gate had been left open.

His breath had calmed a little, but not completely, and he realized that anxiety had got hold of him, here, in the centre of his own realm. He turned and looked unhappily across to the statue of Hebe, a mere silhouette in darkness. It was late. One and a half turns round the garden would have to be enough tonight. He retreated from the statue as though it was a living threat and crossed the scented garden in a hurry, but he was loath to run now because the noise of his running steps would mask any other sounds. Walk, don’t run. Walk, don’t run. He retraced his steps: hot greenhouse, cool greenhouse, stone-flagged path. He sighed with relief when he reached the open space of the lawn and started jogging again, back towards the safety of the house.

Until he saw it. One side of the French windows stood open. Had he not closed it properly earlier? Fear crept up on him from the empty gardens behind and crawled towards him from the gaping darkness of the open door. You forgot to close it, that’s all. Charles tried to convince himself of it, but there was nothing wrong with his memory; he could clearly see himself shutting the door, could hear in his mind the snick of the lock. Irresolute, he stood in starlight in the centre of the lawn. The house is too big for you now that Yvonne is gone. You have become old and frightened, and you are jumping at shadows. He forced himself to take calm breaths, straightened up and crossed the lawn to the offending French window. Cautiously, quietly, he slipped inside the drawing room, stood still and listened to the aching emptiness of the house. Never before had the stately ticking of the long-case clock sounded so loud in his ears. It took several minutes of listening for Charles to convince himself that he was alone in the house.

McLusky stepped out of the shop into the bright sunshine and experimentally stomped his brand-new black gentleman’s umbrella on to the pavement. He held it in his right hand and walked a few paces, using it like a walking stick. Then he changed to the left hand and took a few more steps but failed to get the rhythm right. He felt foolish and decided to carry it instead. DI McLusky hated umbrellas even more than he hated rain. They were a nuisance when it was windy and an even greater nuisance to carry around when it wasn’t raining at all. Which it was not, though heavy thundery showers had been forecast. Not that McLusky cared all that much about thundery showers or getting wet. He had bought it because Laura had pointed out to him only the other day, as they were getting drenched running from a restaurant to a nearby pub, that it was the man’s job to keep his dinner date dry; that a bit of old-fashioned courtesy – and courtship – would not go amiss if he was serious about them getting back together. Which McLusky was: quite serious. Brolly-buying serious, even though he found the chivalrous-male routine a touch sexist.

He was on his way back to Albany Road police station through the pedestrianized part of Broadmead. It was busy and he was in danger of – and sometimes tempted to try – puncturing his fellow lunchtime shoppers with the metal point of his furled umbrella. There was a sudden commotion a few yards ahead of him: calls of protest and people moving quickly. Ahead he heard the prattling sound of a scooter engine. A young man on a black Benelli scooter had come up across the crowded pedestrian-only thoroughfare and was holding station, engine revving, in front of a men’s clothes shop. The rider was wearing a full-face helmet and had his face obscured with a scarf. He was looking over his shoulder at the entrance to the clothes shop, which was wide open because of the heat. McLusky knew a getaway rider when he saw one. He sped up to get to the scooter. Just at that moment he heard a shout and a bareheaded teenager came running from the shop, holding a thick stack of men’s designer shirts in front of him. He swung himself across the back seat of the scooter, hotly pursued by a male shop assistant. McLusky took two steps forward and jabbed his umbrella into the spokes of the rear wheel just as the rider sped off. It was a short journey: the engine whined and the scooter jerked forward but came to an almost immediate and sudden halt, unbalancing rider and pillion. Both fell to the ground and the scooter engine cut out. The pillion, still clutching the stolen shirts, fell heavily, hitting his head on the unforgiving pavement. The rider scrambled to his feet only to have them knocked from under him by McLusky, while the shop assistant pounced on the pillion who had still not let go of the shirts and was bleeding over them from a split eyebrow.

‘Sit on him!’ called McLusky to the assistant, but the man was more interested in recovering the shirts and let go of the twisting, punching and kicking thief who took off down the road at a speed that suggested he might have achieved a cleaner getaway without a scooter. The scooter rider was also trying to punch his way out of McLusky’s grip, but the detective inspector remembered much of his basic training and once he had hold of one of the man’s arms the outcome of the struggle was predictable. The rider screamed in protest inside his helmet as McLusky bent the arm until the struggling stopped. He wrenched open the visor of the helmet but left the silk scarf that covered the suspect’s face in place, not wanting to get bitten.

The rider was rolling his eyes, trying to get a look at his assailant. ‘Let me go, you stupid wanker! I’ll fucking kill you!’

‘That’s been tried before,’ growled McLusky truthfully. ‘I’m a police officer and you’re under arrest.’

‘What?!’ he wailed, disbelief in his voice.

McLusky dropped a heavy knee into the man’s back to make sure of him, rattled down the caution and thumbed his radio. Just then a uniformed police officer, guided there by the CCTV operators, arrived at the scene. It was PC Becks, whom McLusky knew well. The DI handed the still restless man over to him once Becks had cuffed him.

‘I did caution him, Becky. The other one got away, I’m afraid.’

‘No, he didn’t; he ran straight into us. We were just around the corner getting out of the car and CCTV relayed that he was on his way. Pym has got him in the car. Let’s have your helmet off, lad,’ PC Becks said. The suspect tried to headbutt him with it so McLusky kicked him hard in the back of the knee, grabbed his cuffed wrists and forced him to the ground. This was unpopular with the man who started swearing incoherently.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Becks.

‘My pleasure. Charge him with robbery, reckless driving, resisting arrest and ruining my umbrella. The scooter will be stolen so charge him with that as well.’

The PC removed helmet and scarf from his prisoner. The driver looked no older than fourteen. ‘And driving without a licence; he’s far too young.’

Young, yes, thought McLusky, but he could see the hard lines of grown-up contempt in his face. The boy still hadn’t quietened down when PC Becks marched him away and offered to introduce him to his new, improved pepper spray if he didn’t cooperate.

McLusky tried half-heartedly to retrieve his umbrella but it was comprehensively mangled. ‘Poor thing never lived long enough to see its first drop of rain,’ he muttered and, leaving the scooter lying there, walked back to the umbrella shop to buy another one.

He made it back to Albany Road station without further incident. Still feeling foolish carrying it around but quite pleased with his lunchtime exploits, he strolled exaggeratedly across the CID room towards the kettle, swinging his umbrella in time.

DS Jack Sorbie looked up from his desk and eyed McLusky with distaste. He held the unshakeable conviction that his own low promotional prospects were entirely due to McLusky having been ‘imported’ from Southampton into Bristol CID. He burped quietly behind his hand, bringing back the taste of his lunchtime pints of cider, and looked studiously down at his computer screen when McLusky sauntered past him with a mug of coffee.

In his office McLusky leant the umbrella against a filing cabinet and then manoeuvred himself into the narrow space between his desk and the window. His office, which he suspected had been converted from a broom cupboard, was minute, possibly not large enough to open his umbrella in without knocking the collection of empty coffee mugs off the filing cabinets. Albany Road station was a cramped 1960s cube of a building near the harbour. It had never been modernized, which meant that the electric wiring was fragile, the plumbing was noisy and there was no air conditioning. Sometimes McLusky heard unexplained rustling from inside the wall beside his desk, which he thought was either rats or the sound of cheap cement bricks crumbling.

His office was a complete tip again. Files covered all the surfaces, including the floor. The small desk had barely enough room to accommodate the computer screen, keyboard and phone as well as the files and forms he had dumped on it. In winter his office was well-heated since the radiator under the window had been designed for a much larger room, but in summer it could get stifling in here. The window was wide open; it gave on to the service area at the back of the station and overlooked the backs of houses. He made room for his mug of coffee on the desk and turned on the plastic six-inch fan which started up with an annoying buzz and shook its head jerkily from side to side, making a squeaking sound at every jerk. Its airstream lifted the corners of files and papers and contributed to the impression of disorder on his desk.

He lifted the mug of economy instant towards his lips but was gripped by a sudden cough and splashed several forms with coffee while setting it back down. This cough was getting annoying; it had started over a month ago and he could not get rid of it. It was beginning to worry him, too. McLusky smoked – had smoked since his early teens – and he had now given up trying to give up since it always failed and cost him weeks of irritable misery. Once his cough subsided, he took a few sips of coffee and lit a cigarette, the latter strictly against regulations since the entire building was a no-smoking area. Perversely, smoking usually stopped his cough, as it did now.

He picked up the topmost form and shook a couple of drops of spilt coffee from it on to the carpet. It was the form that came with the memo informing him about his upcoming AFT. McLusky hated acronyms almost as much as the nonsense they usually stood for – in this case his Annual Fitness Test. This worried him as much as his cough. He had recently tried to cut down, luring himself away from cigarettes by eating sweets and chocolate bars. He had put on a stone and a half in a very short time. He had stopped eating chocolate now – almost as hard to quit as smoking, he had found – but the weight had stayed on. The AFT was looming closer; he’d never manage to lose the weight in time. He pushed the form aside only to reveal the next piece of bumf he had brought back from the latest PIM he had attended. PIM stood for Performance Improvement Meeting where they had talked at great length about PPAF, the Policing Performance Assessment Framework, and the paper he was staring at now was headed The Changing Face of PPAF. It was so naff you could not make it up, yet someone obviously had. Anything to avoid having to go out there and catch criminals.

His apparent inability to come to grips with completing paperwork on time or returning questionnaires by the required deadline had been brought up by Superintendent Denkhaus at his last PDR – Personal Development Review – where McLusky had confessed that his stress levels rose dramatically as soon as a questionnaire landed on his desk. They had promptly sent him an SAF – a Stress Assessment Form – to fill in, which amused him only long enough to drop it into the bin. When they asked why he hadn’t returned it, he pretended not to have received it. They had sent him another one, which added to McLusky’s stress.

Some of these acronyms did not even make sense; it was obvious that HOLMES – the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System – had ‘large’ and ‘major’ squeezed into it purely to spell the name of the famous detective, since there were no ‘small’ or ‘minor’ enquiry systems as far as he could tell. WORMS stood for Warrant Management System, which surely should be WARMS. McLusky sighed and pulled the Stress Assessment Form towards him and started filling the blank spaces with impatient, jabbing biro marks.

Selling up was out of the question. Yes, Woodlea House had become too big with Yvonne dead and David, his less-than-perfect son, visiting only when his business ventures needed bailing out, but he could not imagine living anywhere else. It was home. Could the strange feelings of unease he was experiencing from time to time perhaps be a sign of old age? Becoming fearful? He did not feel old yet – hell, he had just taken up jogging and was already feeling the benefits. Maybe he should talk to his doctor about it. Anxiety disorder, that kind of thing. But he didn’t want to start taking pills for bloody anxiety; that was ridiculous.

He stood on the veranda, the French windows closed firmly behind him. It was late again. A bit too late for his liking – he preferred a little more illumination for his evening run – but he had been working on his still life until the last light had drained from the sky. Perhaps he should give it a miss tonight.

No, that would be cowardly. It would be giving in to wishy-washy feelings of angst. Anyway, exercise, he had heard on Radio Four, was beneficial in cases of anxiety and depression. He performed a few half-hearted warm-up exercises, jogged on the spot for a moment, felt foolish doing it and set off. The moment his feet touched the springy lawn he felt better, full of purpose, and he fell into the familiar rhythm of running and breathing: monotonous, measured, meditative. He broke into a sweat almost immediately. Along the long flower border, on to the stone-flagged path. He was not sure why he wore a T-shirt at all – no one was going to see him – but he had never liked being bare-chested, except perhaps on a beach or a boat. And he hadn’t been on a boat since … well, since that day in 1998. Past the cold greenhouse, seven strides, past the heated greenhouse, eleven strides. He felt vulnerable unless he was fully dressed; even these ridiculous shorts made him feel somehow exposed. He had never been a very physical person, much to Yvonne’s regret. And David’s, too – he hadn’t been the football-kicking type of dad, to be sure. Through the scented garden and up towards the three oaks.

Charles slowed. It was even darker here close to the large trees and, damn it, here it was again – that anxious feeling – and it had caught him at almost exactly the same spot in his run. He had never checked the back gate. Why had he not made the effort? He would feel better now if he knew it was secure. In the light of day he had dismissed all his night-time fears, yet here was that feeling again. He had also meant to talk to the gardeners about the back gate, but the business of the day had driven it from his mind. He stopped running and jogged on the spot for a bit, then stood still altogether, trying to level his breathing. It was the same feeling, and he felt it in the same place – how odd – as though it was somehow bound up with the location. The anxiety sat in his stomach just below his solar plexus, but the impression that he was being watched he felt all over on his exposed skin. He took a few tentative steps forward under the dark canopy of the oak trees, then stopped again and looked back towards the lower scented garden where nothing moved. The thin sound of a crack, as from a twig snapping underfoot, reached his right ear, and he whirled around, looking up towards the circular lawn where the statue of Hebe stood unrecognizable, a black silhouette in the fading grey dusk. The crack had been quite close. Did twigs crack by themselves? It could be a badger. Badgers could dig their way into the garden even under the enclosing wall. He felt the desperate urge to turn back towards the house the way he had come. But no. He was not going to give in to childish feelings. Then quite a different thought struck him. What if he was going senile? Dementia? Whatever it was, he could not allow himself to be spooked in his own garden. He would go forward, not back; he would get past this anxiety and resume his run. He was still sweating. It was very warm and very still. Perhaps he would just walk the rest. Yes. He moved forward, tentatively, setting down each foot in turn quietly, towards the figure of Hebe. There were still crickets rasping in the grass around him. Another crack, this time behind him. He turned around. Under the three oaks, where he had halted a moment ago, stood a figure, completely dark, as though masked; not even the eyes were visible. The figure stood not twelve paces away in the deeper darkness under the trees.

‘What … what are you doing here?’ Mendenhall asked. His voice was not as firm as he would have liked. ‘What do you want?’ He received no answer. But somehow he knew what the figure wanted, instinctively, however absurd it might be. ‘Why?’ he whispered into the silence. The dark shape took three, four, five quick paces towards him, raised one arm and levelled a gun at him, the bright metal glinting in the starlight. He flinched back. The muzzle flash was blinding, the sharp bark of the shot shrill in his ears. The bullet ripped through his throat and unbalanced him. His hand flew up to the screaming wound and found gushing blood. The pain was hideous. He opened his mouth, perhaps to scream, but already could not find the strength. He