Save Us: Win & Cleo, #2

By Molly Garcia

When Peter Shaw jumps from the top of a multi-storey car park onto the street below and his ex-wife is discovered murdered DCI Oliver Brooks and DS Stephanie Wright initially think it's a murder/suicide. That's until Cleo approaches Win with the strange messages she's been getting and the team reunite to look deeper into the case, leading them to an enigmatic man called Gideon who runs a support group he calls "The Truth Seekers."

Is Gideon a psychopath who skillfully manipulates his vulnerable group members, or is he the saviour he claims to be? Win & Cleo are in a race against time to discover the truth and catch a clever killer who's hiding in plain view.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Molly Garcia
• Release date: Apr 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224034659

Molly Garcia

Molly Garcia lives in Spain with her partner of over 30 years, they have two grown-up children. Molly has worked in social care and the NHS since 1991 and uses her experiences to guide her writing and to create complex and realistic characters and backgrounds 

Book preview

Prologue

Pete Shaw took the stairs.

Not that he was especially concerned about his physical health anymore, but it was an instinctive habit born out of years of trying to do the right thing.

Pete was a man who'd tried to live his life well. He'd eaten a balanced diet, exercised, and tried to treat other people with kindness and respect. But despite the good karma this should bring him, he was a lonely, isolated man whose world had become increasingly smaller as the years went by. As a young man with his life stretching ahead of him, he'd believed the world was his oyster, but now in his mid-fifties bitterness and disillusionment had suffocated any remaining optimism.

He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when it happened, all he knew was that each of life's disappointments had slowly eroded his hope like waves stealing sand from a beach.

Each event had taken its toll and brought him to where he was now.

The stairwell smelt of piss, Pete tried to breathe through his mouth but all that did was give him the taste of stale ammonia instead. Folded cardboard and stained heaps of blankets suggested that this was a regular spot for rough sleepers to bed down in, a thought that saddened him. It was where he knew he was likely to end up. Holding out a filthy hand and hoping an act of random kindness would give him enough spare change to get a bite to eat and a warm drink. His eyes filled with tears, but he brushed them angrily away. There was no time for self-pity, he was on a mission and he had to finish it.

Pete reached the top, he was slightly breathless, but being in good shape he'd made it to the top without stopping. He pushed against the rusted, metal door. It took a bit of force but with a hard shove, it swung open on creaky hinges allowing him access to the roof. The cool night air made him shiver. He wasn't wearing a pullover and the thin material of his shirt wasn't enough to keep him warm.

It only took a few steps to reach the edge of the roof, a low wall was all that stood between him and the sheer drop to the street below. He climbed up onto the ledge, his shiny laced work shoes slipping slightly as he got into position. He re-balanced himself and then wondered why he'd bothered.

Don't look down, he reminded himself as he stared straight ahead at the endless expanse of sky. The sun was about to set in a display of golds, reds, pinks, and blues that had he been in a different place and time would've filled him with awe.

Pete's heart pounded and the blood rushed in his ears. He tried to fill his dry mouth with saliva as he reminded himself of all the reasons why he stood where he was right now.

There was the dead-end job that would never get any better. Knowing that he'd have to grind away at it watching others get promoted above him as he desperately waited for retirement. That brought a wave of renewed bitterness. Younger men and women who'd come into the business after him moving up the ladder while he was ignored, sidelined, and treated like a piece of old furniture. He'd given up applying for them now. Each rejection had added to the bile of bitterness that burned his stomach and fuelled his misery. Better to accept his lot, he'd decided.

Then he thought of his failed marriage to Fiona. The years of seeing her once bright outlook seeping into the same misery that he saw etched on his own face in the mirror morning after morning, and knowing it was only a matter of time before it was all over. Inevitably, he'd come home from work one day to find her in the hall, cases packed, and her keys in the dish by the telephone. Pete had watched her climb in the taxi outside without so much as a backward glance at the house they'd bought with so much hope in their hearts twenty years ago.

Maybe it would've been different if they'd had kids, but that was another nail in his coffin. Try as they might they couldn't get pregnant until Fiona, too devastated by month after month of grinding disappointment stopped hoping and eventually stopped trying. She couldn't see any point in sex without the possibility of a baby. There was the odd fumbled encounter, usually driven by alcohol or a special occasion, but the love, the spark, the desire, was gone.

In the ten years since she'd left, Pete had often thought about ending his life, and he'd come close one miserable night after seeing the announcement of Fiona's wedding to her new partner in the local paper. Sitting in the living room, lit only by a dim light he'd run through his options.

Hanging? Pete wasn't sure he could master making a noose and getting it right. If life was bad enough now imagine the humiliation of fucking up his own suicide.

He could cut his wrists or slit his own throat, but then he thought about doing it and felt sick at the idea of slicing into his own flesh. His eye landed on the pack of paracetamol on the coffee table. He'd overdose he decided, clean and quick, especially if he washed them down with alcohol.

The next morning he'd awoken covered in his own vomit and stinking of stale whisky. His mouth was dry, his head was pounding and he was very much still alive. Cleaning up the mess he'd made before he'd headed off to work he decided he was such a failure he couldn't even take his own life properly.

It was a chance meeting a year later that changed everything. Finally, he'd realised why he was still here and what he had to do. He'd been saved that night for a reason. It wasn't a failure, it was part of a bigger plan.

Pete smiled as he stretched out his arms as wide as they'd go.

He flexed his fingers as though warming up for a piano recital, and he was still smiling as he leaned forwards, and pushed himself off the ledge.

1

Chapter One

DCI Oliver Brooks waited until the young PC had stopped vomiting and swilled his mouth with water.

Talk me through it again PC Weathers.

Weathers dabbed his mouth with a tissue that he'd fished out of his pocket, his face was still pasty and Oliver pointed to a nearby bench.

Sit yourself over there lad before you fall down.

The young PC gratefully folded himself onto the bench.

Sorry, Guv.

Oliver shrugged, We've all been there Weathers, that first body is always a shocker and yours was especially bad.

The PC shuddered at the memory of it.

It was a nasty one alright Guv.

They both looked over at the white forensic tent being erected to protect the body from the stares of the huddled group of bystanders rubber-necking and hoping to catch a gory glimpse. A few of them had phones held aloft and Oliver wondered why anyone would want footage of a dead body. He'd deal with that lot in a bit, but in the meantime, he needed to get the whole story from PC Weathers here.

The young PC flexed his shoulders as though to push off the burden of his initial shocked response before going through the whole story from memory. Not surprising, thought Oliver, this was going to be a death that would stay with the officer throughout his career.

There were a number of 999 calls that came through to control who then sent me and Pence to deal with it. The first call was from a young lady who was about to get in her car when she saw what looked like a man falling from the roof. The rest of the calls were from various members of the public who were in the street when the victim hit the pavement.

The PC blanched slightly at the last part of that statement as he remembered the crushed mess sprawled across the concrete face down.

Do you reckon it was a jumper?

Oliver shielded his eyes as he looked up at the roof of the multi-storey car park and worked out how many floors he'd fallen.

I'd think so sir, I guess we can't rule out an accidental fall or even someone pushing him, but him being a jumper is the most likely outcome.

DCI Brooks nodded vaguely, his thoughts already on what needed to be done. Find out who the poor bastard was, notify next of kin, and then see if there was any evidence to suggest it was a suspicious death. DS Stephanie Wright was already waiting for him by the forensic tent when he walked over, she smiled and jerked her chin towards it.

Your favourite pathologist is working the case you'll be pleased to hear.

Oliver sighed, Jonathan McKenzie I'm guessing.

Got it in one Guv.

As though knowing his name was being bandied about McKenzie poked his head around the side of the tent and scowled at them.

Well? Are you coming in here or not? Don't tell me the pair of you are too squeamish to cast your eyes over our poor pancaked victim.

Brooks noticed that Steph winced at the description but wisely didn't say anything, there really was little point, McKenzie did it for the shock effect. Inside the victim was face down on the pavement, the broken body surrounded by white-suited forensics. Jonathan squatted down so he had a good view of the victim's ruined face and Brooks reluctantly joined him, if he didn't he wouldn't hear the last of it.

Male or female?

Oliver asked his question as he twisted his head from side to side trying to work out the gender himself. He thought male but there wasn't much left to evidence it.

Male. And I have wonderful news for you old boy. I managed to retrieve his wallet which contained his ID. Once the blood had been wiped away I discovered that this fine specimen was once Peter Shaw with a date of birth that would make him fifty-six.

McKenzie handed over a plastic evidence bag that protected Shaw's driver's license, Oliver took it and gave it closer scrutiny.

Anything else in his pockets? Car keys, house keys, handy suicide note?

McKenzie shrugged, I think there are keys of some description but I can't get to them without disturbing my body too much, you'll need to wait until he gets back to my lab for that. At least you have a name and address now, it'll allow you to pass on the sad news to whoever he's left behind.

Brooks kept his face neutral while wondering why McKenzie felt the need to be so blunt and unfeeling. He might feel differently if it was him that had to do the death knock, he thought. It was all well and good to be cavalier about it here at the scene but try telling a relative the worst news possible.

McKenzie, oblivious as always to Brooks's discomfort at his attitude, rose to his feet and Oliver did the same. He felt his knee click, a reminder that time was ticking on, there was a time when he'd been able to spring up with no problem, he thought ruefully.

Right, I think we can make a start on peeling our chap here off the pavement and into a body bag.

His tone was almost gleeful and Brooks decided he wouldn't be hanging about for that part of the process.

Come on Steph, that's our cue to head off to this man's poor family and break the bad news.

Steph threw him a look of relief showing that she hadn't been keen to watch Peter Shaw making his last journey either.

Outside the tent, he showed her the driver's license.

52, Cornwall Close. That's on the big housing estate isn't it?

Steph nodded, Who do you reckon he'll have at home waiting for him guv?

Brooks shrugged, I'd put money on a wife at least.

They were silent in the car journey over, each deep in thought about the task ahead. Apart from being able to tell his nearest and dearest that he wouldn't be home tonight, there wasn't much more they could add. It was an ongoing investigation and there might not be an outcome until coroner's court. He thought it was likely to be suicide, but as there was no evidence either way it would be investigated as an unexpected death.

Pulling up outside the address he noticed it was a small ground-floor flat with a patch of scrubby garden out front. The flats were in blocks of four, two ground and two above, Peter Shaw's was the bottom right-hand one. He let himself in through the gate and they walked up the path together. Brooks pressed the doorbell and heard it echo inside.

They gave it a few minutes but heard no sign of anyone coming to the door. The curtains were drawn closed and it looked as though the flat was unoccupied. Brooks pressed the bell again, he held his finger on it for a little longer this time hoping that the sense of urgency would transmit itself to whoever might be inside. He followed it up with a couple of sharp raps on the front door and then stepped back to wait.

No one came to the door, but a kid on a pushbike stopped on the other side of the low wall to watch them. He was a scrawny kid with a shaved head and pale face, his clothes were a mismatch of too-small tracksuit pants and a too-large T-shirt that screamed hand-me-downs.

Do you know the man who lives here?

Steph had called over to the boy who just stared at them for a moment before shrugging his bony shoulders. Brooks walked towards him, and the boy looked as though he was considering hopping back on his bike and taking off for a moment before deciding to stay put.

Oliver flashed his badge, not that it was needed, around these estates the locals knew who the police were without the need for seeing their ID.

What's your name lad?

The boy stuck a grubby finger up his nose, rooted about for a while, and then inspected his find before wiping it on his leg.

I'm Colin.

Brooks sighed, this was going to be like pulling teeth.

Do you know the man who lives here Colin?

The boy nodded before flicking a glance up and down the street clearly making sure he wasn't seen talking to the enemy.

That's Mr. Shaw's place.

Oliver flicked a look at Steph, maybe Colin would be more inclined to speak to a female officer he thought as Steph rolled her eyes. That meant he was going to get shit about being sexist again.

Colin, does anyone else live with Mr Shaw? He's had an accident and we need to let his family know.

This difficult question necessitated another root around in his nasal cavity before yet more of his mined gold joined the rest on his trousers. Brooks tried not to wince.

Nah, he lives on his own. Me mum says he's divorced or somefing, but I ain't never seen no one else there apart from him. Is he a pervert?

Steph ignored the boy's question.

Would your mum know if there's anyone we can speak to that would be his next of kin?

Colin sighed as though being asked to do an especially hard math problem, but he pointed across the road at one of the houses with a neat garden.

Me nan lives in that one, she knows everyfing about everyone, and she's lived 'ere forever. Ask her.

Clearly deciding he'd done his civic duty for the day Colin pushed himself back on his bike and without so much as a goodbye sailed off down the road wobbling from side to side as he went.

Steph was already crossing the road and Brooks hurried to join her. The house that Colin had pointed at was neat as a pin and he could see the curtains twitch as the occupant checked them out. The front door opened before either even had time to raise their hand let alone knock or ring the doorbell, on the doorstep was a small, plump woman in her late sixties.

"I saw my Colin talking to you, what's he done now? His mother's at work so I'll