The Farmhouse and Murder: Murder Mysteries

By T M Goble

In the riveting English murder mystery, "The Farmhouse and Murder," Detective Inspector Anesia makes a triumphant yet emotionally charged return to her job after a two-year suspension. Her partner, and the father of her children, is now behind bars, serving a lengthy prison sentence. As she steps back into the world of law enforcement, she grapples with the fear of how her colleagues will react to her reappearance, haunted by the spectre of rejection.

Thrown headlong into her role, Anesia faces an unusual and seemingly ridiculous case, one that demands her attention despite its oddity. When a local woman suddenly vanishes, she is entrusted with the investigation, and the puzzle becomes far more complex than it first appears.

As Anesia delves deeper into the case, she discovers that beneath the tranquil facade of the farmhouse lies a tangled web of secrets, lies, and mysteries. The quiet village harbours hidden agendas, and the disappearance of the woman may be just the tip of the iceberg.

In "The Farmhouse and Murder," Anesia's journey to redeem her career becomes intertwined with a mystery that defies logic and explanation. Will she gain the acceptance of her colleagues and uncover the truth behind the enigmatic disappearance, or will the secrets buried in the farmhouse prove to be insurmountable obstacles? Join Anesia as she navigates a labyrinth of intrigue and uncertainty, where redemption and redemption become her driving forces in the face of a complex and baffling investigation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Creative Peak
• Release date: Feb 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224412280

Book preview

01

Dropping onto my seat behind the desk, the empty sensation, which had invaded the pit of my stomach when I woke this morning, continues to aggravate. I rub the palm of my hand across my abdomen as I nervously moisten my dry lips. No amount of logical reasoning about my predicament helps my body to settle. The long restless night when sleep evaded me has not helped. I close my eyes and take a long, slow breath to calm myself. It doesn’t work. The unnerving feeling that I will be ostracised remains firmly fixed in my mind. The sound of laughter reaches me. It enhances my gloomy mood as I am not part of the enjoyment.

I allow my eyes to wander around the small room. It has not been used during my absence and thick dust covers the ancient terminal. I reach across and push up the blind, allowing the bright light to fill the room. The dust motes dance in the air. Two years is a long time to be suspended, especially on half pay. My finances are desperate, which is the only reason I agreed to return to work. Would there be comments? Yes, some to my face and others behind my back. Whether I can endure them will be a different matter, but there is no option, as much as I would have liked one. I must brave out my reception and I assume the Superintendent will brief me as I do not know what cases I have been assigned. I sit listlessly in the chair, staring at the blank monitor on my desk. Even turning on the computer is too much effort. My mouth dries further as I think about the day ahead.

A firm rap on the door jerks me out of my trance. As it opens, I force my reluctant lips into a welcoming expression. An Inspector in uniform, who I do not recognise, enters carrying several folders. His smile is wide, displaying white teeth against his handsome tanned face. ‘Inspector de Montaigne, I presume.’ Flicking the door shut, he drops onto the chair opposite.

‘Yes.’ I do my best to appear calm and friendly to a colleague of the same rank, but it is difficult. How will I manage for the rest of the day if this first encounter is so challenging? He has shown no animosity towards me. I need to get a grip of my emotions. Not everyone will be hostile and unwelcoming.

Leaning forward, he offers his hand. ‘Mike Hubbard, I took over as the Station Inspector last week.’

‘Ah.’ It is an involuntary gasp which escapes from my lips before I have a chance to suppress it. When I was informed that I could return to work, I applied for the role of Station Inspector.

He grins. ‘The Super told me you applied, but you are a born detective, and he would not permit you to return to uniform.’

Unusually, words fail me. I had wanted that job. It would be regular hours, which would allow me to deal with the kids. Keeping my voice calm. ‘I didn’t even get an interview.’ The tension grips my throat and infuses my words.

‘I am a uniform man, tried for six months to be a detective. Total failure.’

At least I manage a smile at his self-analysis.

‘Down to business.’ He places some folders on the desk while I nibble at my lip, expecting the worst possible news. ‘Super has gone out but will see you when he returns, and he left a job for you, which he knows you will hate.’

Raising my eyebrows, I take a deep shuddering breath. He laughs.

Mike appears not to be interested in my humiliating past. He has made no comment or hinted about it, but he must know. Sitting with unnatural stillness, hands clenched in my lap, I wait for the news.

‘Gavin Thomas, the Police Commissioner, crashed his car last night and was taken to hospital.’

This is a strange beginning to my return as I have little experience in road traffic accidents.’ I rest my elbows on the desk to appear focused. ‘I noticed in the press he had been elected to the role and judging by his performance as a Labour Councillor, it is a bad move for the police.’

‘The Commissioner is giving the Chief Constable political hassle, so the Super wants you to enjoy Gavin’s company at the hospital to offer a smidgen of public relations.’ Mike laughs. ‘Rather you than me.’

I grimace, but the Super is prepared to put me on public facing duties for which I am grateful.

‘Anything from the patrol that attended the accident?’

‘Nope. Torrential rain, country lane. Powerful car that he could not handle. Hit a tree. No others involved.’

‘Okay, I have the picture. I don’t suppose the Super wants me to hassle him.’ I manage a grin although I cannot muster much enthusiasm for the task.

Mike laughs as he stands. ‘No. He emphasised public relations.’

‘Pity.’

02

Walking along the corridor at the hospital, the astringent smell of disinfectant assails my nostrils while my mind buzzes with apprehension about my return to work. Even though I was found innocent of any crime, people will wonder about me. I must chat with the Super later about my reservations. Perhaps he will be able to understand my dilemma. Trying to twist my mind away from my problems, I force my thoughts back to the forthcoming interview with Gavin Thomas.

It should be a quick public relations exercise. Although I do not feel in the mood, it can be ticked off and I will then return to the police station to await the Super.

In the months before I was allowed to resume work, I had set my mind and focus on returning to uniform. The Station Inspector’s job would have been ideal, but it has a new incumbent. My mind clicks into gear. Cold cases. The other Inspectors and Sergeants hate being allocated cold cases from the past. I used to dread them, but I could volunteer. There are no emergencies with such investigations, only boring paperwork, and computer searches, but it will allow me regular hours, which I crave, to sort out the kids. Their wellbeing and happiness are important, but we cannot live on fresh air and need money to survive. If my return to work impinges on them, I will resign and acquire another source of employment with more predictable hours.

Bringing my mind back to the present, I glance up to follow the signs to the private care wing. How a labour politician can justify being in there is beyond my comprehension, but it is not my problem, so I will not raise the subject with anyone. The soft carpets replace the hard plastic tiled floor, and the noise and bustle of the regular working hospital disappears into near silence.

A nurse standing next to a computer terminal is moving from foot to foot and appears agitated. As I approach, she focuses on me. Strange. Is she waiting for me?

I stride towards her in a positive manner.

‘Are you the police?’

The agitation in her voice and manner is obvious. I show her my warrant card. ‘What is the concern?’

‘Mr Thomas has become increasingly irritated as the police have not responded to the call.’

Although my first day back at work, I had missed nothing that I had been told. ‘What call?’

‘Although he only woke from a deep sleep and sedation about two hours ago, he instructed me to ring the police and tell them to urgently attend.’

I furrow my brow in confusion. ‘About what? Did you explain to the person you spoke to at the police call centre?’

‘No, Mr Thomas only told me it was urgent and to request that someone should be sent immediately.’

I think through the problem, and I am certain the call centre would not have noted the call to be urgent if no details were communicated.

‘Okay, I understand. I will speak with him and discover what is so crucial. Is he badly hurt?’

The nurse shakes her head. ‘A few cuts and bruises but because he claimed he was unconscious for a while, we have kept him in for observation, but there is nothing in his results to cause us concern. He complains of a badly injured back, but the doctors can find nothing obvious so have prescribed him painkillers.’ She pauses and glances furtively around before continuing. ‘I should not say this, but he is not a pleasant man.’

I manage a half grin to show my sympathy. ‘Let me meet him.’

The message from Mike is my meeting is a public relations exercise. But I will see, as I dislike any member of the public thinking that they can determine what is urgent, including a Police Commissioner who is an amateur.

The nurse knocks and leads me into the room. Gavin Thomas is lying flat on the bed but swivels his head towards me. His stare is challenging, and a flicker of annoyance crosses his face. Not a good start, but I’ll try a bright and positive approach, as it may be the best way to end my encounter with him quickly.

‘Good morning, Mr Thomas.’ I hold my warrant card at arm’s length as I approach the bed. ‘Detective Inspector de Montaigne. I believe you requested a visit from the police.’

He snarls. His mouth is tight and grim with displeasure. The nurse closes the door as she leaves. I sympathise with her having to deal with men like Gavin Thomas.

‘Why the hell did it take you so long to get here, the nurse emphasised it was important.’

His arrogant approach annoys me. My hackles rise. He is not a man to whom I will explain the actions of the police service.

‘I’m here.’ I keep my tone crisp and business like. ‘Do you want to tell me what you consider urgent?’

I will not ask how he feels, as I have no interest in his condition. The nurse explained that he wasn’t badly injured, therefore it is of no concern.

‘What is your name? You mumbled it just now. Repeat it.’

Whether he expects first-name terms, I can’t tell, but he has no chance with me.

‘Inspector de Montaigne.’

He huffs and groans as his dark brown eyes scrutinise me with distaste. ‘You have only just returned from your two-year suspension. Why have they sent you?’

This conversation is going downhill rapidly, and he has passed my threshold of tolerance. ‘I will not discuss any aspect of my career with you, Mr Thomas. You stated you had an urgent matter, but it now appears unimportant, as you wish to review matters that do not concern you.’

‘I will report you to the Chief Constable for rudeness.’

I flick a dismissive hand. His attitude is so annoying. I will not be bullied by this man. He is too full of his own importance. ‘Either you tell me what you perceive to be the urgent matter, or I shall leave.’

He narrows his eyes and stares hard at me, but I avert my gaze. With cool deliberation, I remove my notebook from my jacket pocket, take out a pencil and glance up as I poise it over the notebook.

‘Last night, just before my accident, I saw a man push what appeared to be a body into a ditch.’

I resist the desire to locate the nurse to check whether the drugs he has been administered could be hallucinogenic, but I jot down a few notes.

‘Describe the location.’

‘On the lane, about twenty metres before I crashed, there is a wide and deep ditch which I suppose to be a land drain.’

‘What makes you think it was a body?’

He grunts. ‘Arms and legs rolled loose as he pushed it into the ditch. I had the quickest glance as it was unexpected in the quiet lane, and it was raining torrents.’

‘Did you stop?’

‘No, of course not. If a man is pushing a body into a ditch, I am hardly likely to stop and confront him.’

‘Why did you assume the person to be a man if it was dark and raining?’

He grumbles with displeasure, and he scowls. ‘The strength needed to move a body so quickly. And before you ask, he was wearing all black and had a raised hood. He appeared to be tall and slim, but other than that it was too difficult to note any further details.’

‘I have recorded the initial information and will visit the scene to investigate.’

A nod indicates his approval and then he grimaces in pain, but I offer him no sympathy.

‘Did the sighting cause your crash?’

He does not like the question and pauses. His brow wrinkles as he ponders his response. It is the first time that he is lost for words which surprises me.

‘No. It was the poor road surface. The shock and my attempt to observe more of what was happening in my mirror caused me to swerve but my driving skills are top rate. I want you to report the road surface to the council and I will have words with them when I leave the hospital.’

I force my face to be deadpan, but whether it works, I cannot be sure. ‘Traffic police will have attended your accident site.’

‘I was in a delirious state when I regained consciousness and only called an ambulance.’

‘The officers would have been called by the ambulance service. They will have examined the cause of the crash and reported to the local authority if they discovered a defective road surface. Goodbye, Mr Thomas, I will report back on the findings of my investigation.’ With a brief wave of my hand, I leave with a sigh of relief that the interview is over.

03

Annoyed that the interview with Gavin Thomas had been so hostile, I check my watch. The Super will have to wait, as I must discover whether there is evidence to support his wild theory that someone pushed a body into a drainage ditch. Despite the heavy rain, I drive to the location passed on to me by the Control Centre. It is near to the hamlet of Royd on a quiet country road.

I pull off the lane and park in a field entrance. The tree that Gavin Thomas’s car hit is twenty yards away. Pulling on a fluorescent waterproof jacket, I walk slowly down the lane, gauging the surroundings. There is a building site, but in the other direction, only grass fields with sheep catch my attention. There are no nearby buildings. Three farms are aligned on the hillside that stretches up to a row of millstone grit crags. Each farmhouse has a long-distance view over this lane. They are about two hundred yards from the road, which is wide for a nondescript byway.

On close examination of the bark of the tree, I find blue paint, which I assume is where Gavin Thomas’s car impacted and came to a halt. He stated he saw the activity with the body about twenty yards before his accident. Closing the distance, I drift across to the six-foot-wide ditch which has water, not obviously moving, at the bottom. It is heavily overgrown and offers no clue as to its true depth.

Ten yards further and the ditch disappears, and the water appears to lie in a small tunnel. There is no obvious clue to its size as it is covered with loose debris, which appears to be fresh. Could it have been carried by the worst of the flood water which has reduced since yesterday? There is no obvious flattening of the grass verge to indicate something heavy has been dragged across it.

Perhaps if I remove some of the recent debris, I might manage to determine the radius of the pipe and whether a human could fit in there. Leaning over the ditch, my foot slips. I might easily fall in, so I need a different approach.

Further along the lane, there is a pile of logs and branches left by the roadside. I pick up a two-inch diameter branch about eight feet long, which is perfect for my needs, and return to where the ditch water enters the tunnel. The debris falls into the water and drifts into the tunnel, so the water must be moving. In the storm’s flood, the water would move more quickly, but I am struggling with lack of knowledge about ditches and overland flow. Although a slow and tedious task, I need to form a judgement whether a body could disappear into the tunnel. With determination, I jab at the debris of vegetation which is half blocking the entrance.

When I need two beefy coppers, there are none around, but it is not worth calling the Control Centre. After the initial progress, no further vegetation has disappeared. In desperation I attempt one last prod. If it doesn’t move, I will summon assistance.

The sound of an engine heralds the approach of a vehicle, but I ignore it. The rain is lashing down, but I want to prove Gavin Thomas wrong. If I do, then what was his motive in reporting the incident this morning? With the rain dripping from my hair and into my eyes, I will contemplate that thought later in the day.

The car stops, but I ignore it and carry on prodding. ‘What are you doing? Stop, as it could cause damage.’

My hackles rise. The last thing I need is an interfering busybody, so I ignore the command and carry on excavating the vegetation.

‘If you do not cease, I shall take a picture of you and inform the water company.’

My first day back at work is problematic enough without further hassle. My temper gets the better of me and I shout back, ‘Get lost! It’s none of your business.’

With intense irritation, I return to my task. The car door slams, and he removes his phone from his pocket. This interference needs sorting, so I stride across to him. Standing in front of him, I put my hands on my hips and glower. ‘It’s nothing to do with you. Get back in your car and go away.’ My tirade has no effect. Clearly, he will not leave me to deal with the problem.

I snatch my warrant card from my pocket and push it close to his face. ‘Detective Inspector de Montaigne from the Pennshire Police. Now get on your way. This has nothing to do with you.’

Sneering, he slips his phone back into his pocket, but does not move. ‘Continual poking with that branch will dislodge the grating, allowing vegetation debris to flow into the storm drains, which is why they become blocked.’

In exasperation I turn away, ‘What are you on about? There is no grating. I want to estimate the size of the tunnel.’

Instead of walking back to his car, he follows me. ‘What do you mean, there is no grating?’

Will this annoying man please leave me?

We arrive at the edge of the ditch. Flapping my arm in the direction of the tunnel, ‘See, no grating. I want the debris out of the way to gauge the diameter of the tunnel.’

He huffs with displeasure. ‘It is not a tunnel, it is a storm drain, and its full circumference when installed and clear is five feet.’

His knowledgeable response is a surprise. Five feet would be large enough to take a body, but perhaps this man is trying to pull the wool over my eyes. The whole situation confuses me. ‘Why would anyone wish to put a five feet concrete tube in a ditch?’

‘You are damned infuriating and I’ve better things to do with my time than educate the police on land drains. Why I will explain is beyond me.’

‘Explain what?’ I wanted to get rid of him, but I also require information about these drains.

‘This valley is deep, with large slopes. Penntown used to flood regularly.’

I regard him and remain quiet as I want to understand more about the ditches, as he has piqued my curiosity. It might be relevant to the Gavin Thomas enquiry. ‘Be brief.’

‘I will be as I have a job to do. The cause of the past flooding was the river being overwhelmed by the rapid runoff from this valley, hence land drains which help to catch the water and control its route through the countryside. The three farms on the slope all had drains installed.’

This man seems to know what he is talking about. ‘Where does the flood water go?’

Thankfully, he has calmed from his irritation and appears happy to explain. ‘It passes under the town and joins the river further down the valley, which is wider and can cope with the runoff.’ He peers at the ditch and the