For Better, For Worse: Domestic noir meets police procedural in this gripping page-turner

By Jane Isaac

'Jane Isaac knows how to tell a good yarn. Expertly plotted and true to life' Mel Sherratt.

Stuart Ingram was once a respected local councillor...

The first time the police knocked on Gina's door, they arrested her husband.

The second time, they accused him of child abuse.

But he died a guilty man.

This time, the police are here for Gina – to tell her that her husband is dead. Murdered, just two weeks before his trial.

Gina always stood by her husband. Even when everyone else walked away. She believed the trial would clear his name. But now Stuart is dead.

And his wife is the suspect.

It's a race against time for DC Beth Chamberlain to uncover the truth – especially when a second man turns up dead.

Domestic noir meets police procedural in this pacy thriller from Jane Isaac, perfect for fans of Samantha Downing, Fiona Barton and K.L. Slater. Previously published as Presumed Guilty.

Praise for Jane Isaac:

'Gripping subjects, brilliantly drawn characters and a twisty turny journey from beginning to end. A tense, thrilling read and definitely 5 humongous stars from me' Angela Marsons on Hush Little Baby
'Isaac does a superb job of escalating the tension and dread' Publishers Weekly
'Move over La Plante...' Susan May, Suspense Magazine
'Tense, dark and gritty: perfect combination' Ian Patrick, author of Rubicon
'Crime writing at its best' David Evans, CWA Debut Dagger-shortlisted author of Torment
'Jane Isaac just gets better with every book. Deeply unsettling and unputdownable' Rebecca Bradley, bestselling author of the DI Hannah Robbins series

'Jane Isaac writes unmissable quality crime fiction' Michael Wood, author of For Reasons Unknown.

'Gripped from the very first page... and just when you think it's over, it's really only the beginning' June Taylor, author of Losing Juliet.

'Brilliantly and intricately plotted, Jane Isaac has produced a terrific page-turner' Lizzie Sirett, Mystery People.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Mar 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781838934729

Jane Isaac

Jane Isaac is married to a serving detective and they live in rural Northamptonshire, UK with their dogs, Bollo and Digity. In The Shadows is Jane’s twelfth novel and the fifth in the highly acclaimed DCI Helen Lavery series. Twitter and IG: @JaneIsaacAuthor

Book preview

August 1996

The sound of the lock snapping into place amplified in the darkness as she closed the door. She froze, checked her watch: 11.48 p.m.

She pulled her jacket across her chest and hurried down the lane under the obliging light of a crescent moon and a million stars, like prying eyes, squinting down at her through slits in the blanket of darkness.

Close to the bottom of the lane, she heard a rustle nearby. She looked over her shoulder, stepped back into the shadows and held her breath. A crow, disturbed on its roost, cawed and flapped before silence prevailed.

11.53 p.m. Edges of grass poked through the gaps in her sandals, spiking her feet as she continued across the bridge and past the ivy-covered mill ruins. The track at the bottom of Mill Lane was a well-trodden route leading to Isham Rec, an area of natural beauty, frequented by dog walkers and joggers in the daytime; families with blankets and picnic baskets in summer. But tonight, the air was clear and still. And belonged to her.

A quick check back. The last houses of the village were boxes in the distance.

She pressed deeper, the light fading, broad leaf branches reaching across, intertwining their fingers to form a natural tunnel, allowing only stipples of moonlight to penetrate the canopy. A breeze gushed through, brushing away the last heat of the day. She tugged at her collar, quickened her step.

11.55 p.m. At the end of the track, a railway bridge led to the picnic area and river beyond. She paused to search for the letters scratched into the bricked arch beneath the bridge. The pads of her fingers sank into the grooves when she found them: J&D. A tear pricked her eye as she recalled the hours it had taken to carve out the stone; the intense, passionate moments afterwards.

11.57 p.m. Her feet clattered up the metal steps of the bridge, breaths quickening hard and fast as she climbed. By the time she reached the top, her lungs were burning. Heat gripped her cheekbones. But it didn’t stall the shiver of anticipation that rattled down her spine.

She looked back at the steps, moved to the middle of the bridge. Scoured each side. Under the silvery light, the rooftop peaks of the housing estate in the distance were eerie.

11.58 p.m. Another glance around. She bit her lip.

The soft rumble of an engine in the distance.

She turned back to the bridge, focused on the track. The train rounded the corner, its light on full beam dazzling her. She blinked twice. For a second it felt surreal, like a fairground ride. She leaned forward, held out her arms wide like an angel, waiting for the rush of air to hit her as it approached, as she had so many times before.

11.59 p.m. Almost there. She stepped up onto the bridge to gain the full extent of the blast. Placed a foot out. Felt the movement of the air. And jumped.

1

October 2017

The spray from the wheels of a lorry splashed across Stuart Ingram’s windscreen, temporarily blinding him. He switched up his wipers, resisted the temptation to depress the brake, a movement that would send him sliding across the dual carriageway, and squinted, battling for a clear view of the road through the darkness and the rain pummelling his windscreen.

He overtook the lorry and pulled off at the next junction into Rothwell, a small market town on the fringes of the Northamptonshire border. The streets were deserted, dull hues behind tightly drawn curtains the only sign of life in the old terraces that lined the roadside. After a week of unnaturally high October temperatures and the Met Office predicting a possible autumn drought, the rain had arrived with a vengeance, swamping everything in sight and leaving a slick residue as the hard-baked ground failed to cope with the sudden onslaught.

The streetlights bobbed and flickered through the blurred car windows, casting shadows on the buildings nearby. He approached the quaint shops and restaurants that marked the edge of the town centre, turned right at the roundabout and parked up in the market square.

The sixteenth-century Market House sat tall and proud, its limestone structure gleaming, newly polished by the downpour. Stuart skirted around the edge of it, scurried across the road and was relieved to see the welcoming neon sign lit on the door of the takeaway. It wasn’t the glossiest shopfront – the stringy nets had covered those windows for eighteen years – and the inside was plain and functional. But, hell, it served the best curries in the area and was well worth the detour.

Ten minutes later, he left the shop carrying a white plastic bag with filled pots inside. The smell of the food wafted into the air, tickling his senses as he rushed back to the car. In fifteen minutes he’d be home, tucking into his curry with his trusted spaniel, Oscar, at his feet and his wife, Gina, moaning about his weekly indulgence. His stomach growled in anticipation. He flipped up his collar, halted beside the zebra crossing to allow a white van to pass. The headlights of another vehicle in the distance flickered on the wet surface. At least a hundred yards away, he guessed. Plenty of time to stop. He stepped onto the zebra crossing.

The engine roared. The car picked up speed. He looked back. Shielded his eyes from the dazzling headlights. Hurried across. He was almost on the other side, toes touching the kerb when it swerved, partially mounted the pavement and ploughed into him. The thump splintered his eardrums and hurled him into the air. The bag he’d clutched so fervently flew from his grasp. A shower of lights filled his vision, until he was tossed into a well of darkness.

The Jaguar’s wheels screeched across the tarmac as it sped off, leaving splatters of food and broken pots scattered across the pavement and swirls of steam curling up into the damp night air.

2

DC Beth Chamberlain shouldered the door to her locker closed, pulled on her jacket and heaved a weary sigh. She was about to start the last shift of her tour and it couldn’t have come sooner. She never minded working into the night on the Homicide and Major Incident Team, especially when there was a new case running; the work was generally fast moving in those dark hours. This was different. The county detective night car was on hand to take initial action on the serious jobs of the evening: rapes, murders, robberies. All the detectives in the area covered the night car on a rota basis, which meant she was required to do her stint only two or three times a year. It was a twelve-hour run, tough on the body clock and, to top it off, the last few nights had been sluggish at best.

‘Bet you a fiver we’ll have hit the drive-through by midnight,’ a voice piped up behind her.

‘I reckon we can last until 1 a.m.’

‘You’re on.’

Beth turned and gave her colleague an awkward nod. Tonight, she was crewed up with her homicide sergeant, Nick Geary. While she didn’t wish crime on the innocent residents of Northamptonshire, she also didn’t relish the idea of a night parked up in a layby, desperately trying to make light conversation with someone she’d broken off a relationship with a little over a month earlier.

They checked their pepper spray then fastened their belts. Nick pressed his phone to his ear, logging them on to duty. Beth pushed her stab vest into her holdall and wrestled with the zip, cursing the health and safety regulations requiring them to take all their protective equipment with them in the night car. She stood, tied back her dark curls into a loose half ponytail and watched her colleague’s face tighten. She shifted from foot to foot as the call lingered, straining to hear his side of the conversation.

Finally, he lowered the phone and slipped it into his pocket. ‘You win. Looks like we’ve already got the first job,’ he said, grabbing his bag and moving off.

She hauled up her own bag and followed him as he trotted down the back stairs. ‘What is it?’

‘Major incident in Bridge Street, Rothwell.’ They’d reached the door now. He grimaced at the rain outside, lifting a hood over his short dark hair. ‘Possible suspicious death.’

*

A kaleidoscope of blazing lights greeted them at the roundabout that marked the intersection between Rothwell’s Bridge Street and High Street. Beth tugged up her hood, climbed out of the car and approached the four by four marked with bold police livery blocking the road. The earlier downpour had abated, leaving a slow unrelenting drizzle in its wake and thick globules dripped off the trees and streetlamps as they passed.

A uniformed officer she didn’t recognise stood beside the police vehicle, blowing into his hands. He was clearly positioned to guard the scene from the end of the road and divert any incoming traffic through the side streets, although there was little traffic passing through that evening. Beth and Nick flashed their badges. The officer exchanged pleasantries, cursed the weather and directed them to a figure, beyond the inner cordon.

Dick Ramsay, the incident response shift sergeant, looked up as they approached. ‘I’m glad you guys are here.’

‘What have we got?’ Nick asked as they stepped over a splatter of rice on the pavement.

‘Hit and run. Looks deliberate. The victim left the curry house across the road, seconds before, and crossed at the zebra crossing.’

‘How do we know it was deliberate?’ Beth asked. It wouldn’t have been the first case she’d attended where the driver wasn’t paying attention, hit a pedestrian and sped off in a panic.

‘The assistant at the takeaway saw it happen.’ He paused and nodded at a lit shopfront on the corner of the road opposite. ‘Apparently the crossing was clear when he stepped onto it. The car veered across onto the pavement on the opposite side of the road to catch him.’

Beth strained her eyes to see through the net curtain of the takeaway. The layout was plain: a counter for ordering, a red bench beside the window for customer seating. But it did have a clear view of the crossing through the glass door, especially for someone stood at the counter.

‘The witness said it knocked the victim twenty feet or so into the air,’ the sergeant continued. He moved off, motioning for them to follow, and halted beside a lump covered with a foil blanket on the ground, close to the centre of the market square. ‘This is where he landed. The informant called an ambulance before they called us, more in hope than expectation, I reckon. The paramedics pronounced him dead at the scene at 10.23 p.m.’

Beth checked back to the crossing, gauging the distance from the point of impact. It must have been at least fifteen yards.

‘The hypothermic blanket was the only thing I had in the boot to cover him with until the CSIs arrive,’ Ramsay continued. ‘At least it’ll save him from the weather and—’ he looked up ‘—the prying eyes.’

Several cars were dotted nearby. When there was no market operating, the square doubled up as the town centre car park. It was lined with cafes and shopfronts on two sides, all encased in darkness, and flanked by the Holy Trinity Church on another. Along the bottom sat a row of residential terraces. Beth followed Ramsay’s eyeline to a house in the middle of the terrace where the silhouette of a woman stood at an upstairs window, blatantly staring down at them.

Ramsay pulled back the blanket. Covering bodies risked contaminating potential evidence and was generally avoided. But, given the wet conditions, she doubted there would be much left for the CSIs at this scene. The body was twisted, contorted from the fall. An arm was thrust out at an awkward angle, a leg folded beneath him. She crouched down. One side of his face was pressed into the tarmac, the head misshapen and split open at the top. But the facial features, on this side at least, were fairly intact. She peered in closer. There was something familiar about him. ‘Do we know who he is?’ she asked.

‘We’ve been through his pockets. No wallet, ID, or car keys on him. It’s possible they dropped out of his clothes when he was thrown through the air.’

‘We’ll get a search team out,’ Nick said. ‘What about the takeaway owner?’

‘He paid in cash,’ the sergeant said. ‘They didn’t know him by name. Said he comes by every Thursday around this time.’

‘A regular?’ That indicated a routine, a habit. If this was deliberate, it also meant someone knew his movements.

‘So they say.’

‘Can they give a description?’ Beth asked.

‘Dark hair, medium build, middle-aged.’

‘Some regular,’ Nick muttered beside her.

She ignored his sarcasm, although it was understandable. The description was vague at best. ‘What about the car he drove?’

Ramsay shook his head. ‘The witness was a woman working the desk. She’s only been there a few weeks. It was the owner who told her he was a regular. He knew from the order. Apparently, the victim always ordered chicken curry – without onions.’

Beth scanned the area. Some rooms were lit above the cafes and shops where they’d been converted to flats. She saw a curtain twitch, and another. She looked back at the line of terraces at the bottom. The woman had retreated from the window and disappeared from view. Any of these spying eyes may have seen something. ‘I take it you’ve started house to house here, and along the main road too?’

He nodded. ‘I’ve had to draft in extra officers to assist. I’ve called in the Collision Investigation Team, and forensics too.’ He glanced skyward. ‘Don’t fancy their chances much though.’

‘Let’s do a PNC trace on all the cars parked here,’ Nick said to Beth. ‘If he travelled by car, one of them could belong to him.’

A familiar voice turned her head. ‘You beat me to it.’

Nick stifled a laugh as Beth spotted Detective Chief Inspector Lee Freeman. He was wearing a long wax-cotton raincoat that hung off his rotund stomach. A matching sou’wester hat covered his balding scalp. At only five foot seven inches he stood shoulder to shoulder with Beth and looked more like a local farmer than a senior investigating officer in the police.

‘Evening.’ She pushed back her hood and passed on the details they already knew.

‘We were about to establish the route the killer took out of the town,’ Nick said.

‘Straight out of Bridge Street towards the Glendon Road.’ Ramsay thrust out an arm and pointed out the direction. ‘We’ve got another roadblock positioned past the pub for now. I’ve asked the night shift to check, but they’re mostly country roads. There are certainly no police cameras that way. According to the witness at the takeaway, the driver made off at speed. Our best bet is witness sightings along the route, especially if they were driving erratically.’

Freeman stretched a latex glove over his right hand, crouched down and rested the other hand on his knee to steady himself. He pulled back the sheet and inspected the injuries.

‘Could the witness at least provide any details on the car?’ Beth asked Ramsay.

‘White Jaguar.’ He flipped back a page in his notebook. ‘Saloon. The takeaway assistant’s into cars, reckons it was an XJ. The car made off before she could get anything else.’

Beth grabbed her phone and put out a call for white Jaguar XJ saloons registered in the county, and any reported stolen recently.

Freeman was examining the facial features of the victim closely as she ended the call. Beth pocketed her phone when something glinted in her peripheral vision. Her eyes rested on the offending item, partially hidden beneath a vehicle nearby. She walked the few yards or so towards it, bent down and reached underneath the car, pawing at what she now realised was a card of some sort. It scraped against the asphalt as she dragged it out. The silver indentations on the credit card gleamed against the street lighting. ‘I thought he was familiar,’ she said, holding it up as she re-joined the others. ‘It’s Stuart Ingram.’

Freeman pulled a face, stood and stared at the card. ‘That’s all we need.’

3

Back in the incident room, Beth joined the band of her colleagues called out of their beds at this late hour. The smell of damp cloth cloyed her nostrils as she cradled a mug of strong coffee. It wasn’t particularly cold outside, but the persistent drizzle had penetrated her jacket earlier leaving her shoulders soggy.

Freeman cleared his throat. ‘Okay, we’re pretty sure our victim is fifty-two-year-old Stuart Ingram of 46 Hay Close, Great Oakley, Northants.’

A murmur passed around, gathering momentum as it travelled. Stuart Ingram was a local councillor and businessman who’d been arrested last year when a former assistant accused him of sexual harassment. Although she later withdrew the complaint, the ensuing investigation discovered images of child abuse downloaded on his computer. Ingram pleaded not guilty to possession of indecent images of children, vehemently denying the allegations, claiming he had no idea how they found their way onto his computer. The file was built and the case prepared for trial, but not before it rocked the county to the core, the press chewing over the life of a prominent local businessman, well-known for his charity work and service to the community. Nobody in Northamptonshire could fail to be aware of the Ingram case.

Freeman raised his hands to hush them. ‘Ingram was hit by a white Jaguar on the zebra crossing beside Market House in Rothwell.’ He unfolded a map, pinned it to a noticeboard at a wonky angle. Many crime incident units computerised all their documents these days and worked from screens, but Freeman had joined homicide in the 1990s and was old-school, preferring the pin board system. He pointed out the potential routes the car had taken into and out of the town. ‘We’ve put out a county-wide appeal for sightings of the car, and uniform are doing house to house for any witnesses near the scene. Let’s check all the borough and police cameras in the wider vicinity for CCTV footage of a vehicle that matches its description. We need to establish what route it was taking.

‘I also want the Ingram file reviewed. Every witness statement reread, every piece of evidence re-examined. We need to revisit friends, family and any associations he may have in case somebody held a personal grievance against him. That includes Vicki Ryan, the girl who accused him of the initial harassment. If this incident is linked in any way to that case, we need to establish that connection now.

‘Let’s build up a picture of the victim’s movements,’ Freeman continued. ‘Starting with today and then tracking back over the past few weeks. But first we need to visit his wife.’

An ill-fitting window rattling in the wind was the only sound that filled the room. ‘Beth?’ he called. Beth felt the shoulders of others nearby relax, as she raised her hand. Although a necessary part of the job, delivering the death message tugged on every copper’s heartstrings and was a job they were keen to avoid if at all possible.

‘I’d like you to go out to see Gina Ingram. Deliver the news and see what you can find out. I know it’s difficult, especially with the background on this one, but we really need details of friends, family, acquaintances – all the usual – so we can start eliminating people. Obviously, we’ll look at their associations from the existing case, but there’s always a chance that something or someone has cropped up since. Get started on the family liaison officer role and see what you can find out about the victim’s recent movements; we need to know exactly where he was tonight. I’ll get Warren Hill to join you as soon as I can.’

Beth’s heart warmed. Warren was a trained family liaison officer, like herself, and she’d worked with him on a high-profile murder a little over a month earlier, her first time in the role. He was a diligent detective, sensitive to the needs of the family and unobtrusive in his approach. It would be good to be working with him again.

Freeman turned back to the main room. ‘Right, folks. Given the history, the press will jump on this, so let’s keep it tight for now. Nothing, and I mean nothing…’ He paused, beady eyes searching the bodies in front of him. ‘Leaves this unit, without my consent. I’ll liaise with the press office to put out a statement after the family has been notified, but I want to keep the flow of information close on this one. The last thing we need is a media circus deterring potential witnesses from coming forward.’

‘This could still be a random attack.’ Sergeant Nick Geary’s thick Northern Irish accent spread through the room. ‘Somebody lost control of their car, collided and drove off in a panic when they realised they’d hit something. The conditions were ripe for it.’

‘It’s possible,’ Freeman responded. ‘We’re not ruling anything out at present. But the witness clearly stated the car veered across the road and mounted

Reviews for For Better, For Worse

[pgchuis · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The second I have read in this series and excellent again. Beth is technically a Family Liaison Officer, but that role seems to come and go as the plot requires. Here she is assigned the murder of a man about to stand trial for possessing child pornography, but whose wife believed his claims of innocence.There were further murders and a little on Beth's personal life, but not enough to detract. I'm deducting a star for the loose end left, presumably to follow into the next instalment. It struck me as entirely unnecessary (and perhaps unlikely - how much longer and more widely is the murderer's sense of injustice likely to burn on?)