The Last Drop

By Simon Hugo

“Advice from an escaped criminal lawyer. You should hope this never happens.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Sep 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664112452

Book preview

Copyright © 2020 by Simon Hugo.

ISBN:   Softcover     978-1-6641-1246-9

             eBook          978-1-6641-1245-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 08/24/2020

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Contents

1.1

2.1

3.1

1.2

2.2

3.2

1.3

2.3

3.3

1.4

2.4

3.4

1.5

2.5

3.5

1.6

2.6

3.6

1.7

2.7

3.7

1.8

2.8

3.8

1.9

1.1

Someone much cleverer than me (I can’t remember who) once said, You are what you appear to be. Well, I appear to be a murderer. The fact that I am not is neither here nor there. I appear to be one, and so I am one so far as the rest of the world is concerned. Except the person who actually is the murderer. The jury came to the conclusion that I am a murderer. The Court of Appeal, after spending a week considering three weeks of evidence, concluded that it was a decision that they were entitled to reach on the evidence. The Supreme Court decided that not only was it a reasonable verdict but that the sentence was not inappropriate. The jury were entitled to give the judge that option, and he was entitled to pass it.

The Home Secretary agreed. She would, wouldn’t she? It was her idea.

Well, that’s that then.

2.1

I woke up, as usual, at about six o’clock in the morning, before the radio came on. I wondered which case I was going to feel most miserable about today. The dead teenage girl, caught in the crossfire of a gang gunfight? (Stolen car, poor CCTV. Not a clue). The murder of a doctor who a father felt had caused his daughter’s death? (Two tragedies for the price of one.) Or the dead husband; children and wife missing?

Maybe something new. Exciting and not miserable.

I switched off the radio as soon as it came on. No need for anyone else to be woken up, though I don’t know why I worried. Alison, my wife, would wake up anyway and complain, even though this has happened every day since I became a police officer. My teenage sons wouldn’t hear anything unless it was an offer of money or food.

A call came in at about half past eight, while I was in a morning briefing with my team. I had heard something about it on the local radio on the way in. Police searching a property in Tonbridge. No details, but I wondered why it was worthy of report.

We didn’t get what the uniforms call a shout. No need to rush. The victim was either already dead or waiting to die or be saved. I couldn’t do anything about either. Serious crime is a serious business, not to be rushed.

The search was in the garden of a house in Elm Lane. A possible suspicious find. For some reason, it was referred to me. No other details were given to me at first. I wondered why this was my business. I don’t do gardening; I do murders and serious GBH. Not personally, of course, though it is sometimes tempting. We set off with little hope of anything noteworthy. On the way I was told it was a possible shallow grave in the garden. The uniforms are usually the first at the scene, destroying evidence and, metaphorically and sometimes physically, trampling in the flower beds.

I went with Detective Sergeant Alison Moore (another Alison, gets confusing sometimes), my usual DS. She was driving extremely carefully, as though she had just passed her test. She said that she felt a bit under the weather. She thought it might be some sort of virus. I suspected that it was the sort of virus you get in the pub if you stay there too long. She seems to be susceptible to such viruses.

We arrived to find the usual cordon, manned by three young officers who looked as if they did not know what they were supposed to be doing and, worse still, did not know who I am. Detective Inspector Neal to you. Or sir!

It was pissing down with icy, wind-driven rain, this being late February. I had a coat but no boots, so my brand-new shoes were going to get very wet. Alison had thought to bring wellies, despite the virus. Smart arse! I had boots—in my car, not hers.

The briefing from the uniform sergeant was that the home owner, who had just moved in, found a mound of bricks at the top of the garden, behind some bushes. He thought it was just that, a pile of bricks. When he moved them he found a layer of concrete rubble. Under that were planks. He was puzzled by this and had lifted some. Underneath there appeared to be recently disturbed earth. Someone had taken some trouble over this, quite recently. After looking at this for a while and thinking about it, he decided that he should call the police. The uniforms had started poking about, as usual, and in this case actually trampling in the flower beds. They had tried to move the planks—fortunately, without success. I shouted at the sergeant, Get them out of here. Tell them to go and stop some traffic.

The house was large, with bay windows on either side of a gabled front door. The security gates had been left open, leading to a gravel drive and front garden that was bigger than my back garden. In fact, bigger than my house. In need of some care and attention, but expensive nevertheless. The back garden was large and green, with several trees and outhouses. It was also in need of some care and attention. I don’t know much about gardening, but I know a mess when I see one. Still, much more than I could ever hope to afford.

The men with the rubber gloves and the white overalls (Crime Scene Investigators. CSI. They like to be referred to with capital letters and initials) arrived and tutted (as usual) about the mess we had made so far and how their job was now almost impossible. They put up a white tent around the suspected grave, as well as the cordon around the house. The tent always puzzles me. My advice is that you never go camping in a white tent. There always seems to be something unpleasant in there. The planks were carefully lifted out of the ground. They showed little signs of decay, so they had not been there long. The CSI started digging very carefully. I anticipated the headline in the Courier (a local paper): Hole in garden. The police are looking into it. That is exactly what we were doing. The editor had a penchant for silly and inappropriate jokes.

After digging for a while, they reached about three feet below ground level. The body of a woman slowly emerged after some very careful trowel work. She was probably mid to late thirties, or more, but well looked after. White, tall, and