Summer of Swallows

By Molly Garcia

The summer of 1998 was one of the most exciting that Rosie Harper had ever known. She was dating the lead singer of "The Swallows" so her life was all about wild parties and having fun. When Rosie suddenly vanished suspicion immediately fell on Chris Swallow who then disappeared from the limelight.

When DCI Jack West finds out that a dead hoarder has been identified as Chris he uses it as an opportunity to re-open Rosie's cold case.

In the meantime, her sister, Laura, has never given up hope of finding out what happened to her big sister. With the help of her shady friend, Ray, she decides its time to find out the truth.

Everybody seems to have a secret to hide, but who is willing to kill to keep it buried?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Molly Garcia
• Release date: Apr 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224482825

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

Chapter One

Clive and Mavis Falworth had lived at number 12, South Street for fifty years having moved in as newlyweds and then raising their two children there. Now in their twilight years of retirement, they lived a full life that would’ve been satisfying had it not been for their neighbour at number fourteen.

A reclusive man in his fifties he’d moved in almost twenty years ago. And as Mavis regularly told anyone who stopped long enough to listen, he had no pride in the place. The garden was so overgrown with weeds you could barely see the path or the fence, and if that wasn’t bad enough, there was the smell. The stench of rotting rubbish was a constant source of misery for the Falworths as their neighbour just threw the black bags of rubbish out of his front door and into the little front garden. No one knew his name so locally he’d become known as Rubbish Man.

It wasn't as though the Falworths hadn't tried to do anything either. They’d both contacted the council and environmental health, especially after Mavis saw a rat scuttling through the fence into her own pristine property. Five years ago, after a particularly hot summer generated enough complaints, the local authority had sent people to clear the front of his house. It'd taken the council workers three days to get rid of it all. Mavis had watched as they'd shifted every bag into the skips they'd parked out front and wondered how much it'd cost. Despite her relief at something being done at last, she'd tutted at the expense incurred by taxpayers like herself. Mavis was of a mind that too many people were lazy freeloaders and her neighbour was a perfect example.

For a few weeks, it’d been blissfully smell-free, but it wasn’t long until Clive had spotted the rubbish man standing on his front step, and launching a black bag into his garden.

Clive had called over, Hey there, come on, don’t be filling it up with rubbish again. Don’t you think there’s a better use for taxpayer's money than cleaning up behind your lazy self.

The Rubbish Man scowled at him before slamming his front door, and it hadn’t been long before one bag became two and so on until the garden was once again filled with them. Every summer the smell was unbearable, especially as the heat warmed the rubbish. When the wind blew in their direction, the Falworths had to either go out for the day or sit inside with all the windows closed. They'd tried the council again but they were insisting they had to follow a process of making contact with the resident first.

We'll inform him that environmental health will be coming out and that if we have to clear his property again this time we'll be charging him for it. The local authority can't be throwing precious resources away on cleaning up behind people.

Mavis wasn't a quitter and she'd phoned every week without fail and sent a written complaint each month. No matter how hard she pushed, it just felt as though no one cared. It was frustrating, every time she contacted them she was just fobbed off with the same excuses.

Sitting trapped in their house one evening she'd turned to Clive, I bet if one of those council bigwigs had to live next door to him they'd be a bit quicker to act.

Clive nodded, it was usually best not to try and talk when Mavis was in full swing. He didn't enjoy the situation any more than she did, but he wasn't a man who raised complaints. He left all of that malarky to Mavis, she thrived on confrontation and what she called going into battle.

In the last six months, it’d got so bad that the Falworths were considering selling up and moving away. Mavis's calls to the council were now every other day and her letters were increased to twice monthly. She still wasn't getting a result as quickly as she thought she should, but she had the feeling the local authority were finally starting to cave. The rotting rubbish smell had been bad enough, but now the whole place stunk like spoiled meat. As she'd told the woman from the council, the stench was making her feel physically unwell.

The woman had assured her that they'd sent a final letter to the house, If the owner doesn't respond this time then we'll take enforcement action against him. We appreciate how awful this must be for you but hoarding can be a very difficult thing to manage. We do have to take into account the householder's potential mental health vulnerabilities and this means we need to be sensitive in how we approach them.

Mavis didn't hold any truck with that soft nonsense either, What about my mental health? Do you not think that living next door to that stench and not being able to use my own garden isn't affecting me?

The woman sighed and Mavis got the impression she wasn't the least bit interested in Mavis's sensitivities.

The impact on the wider community of this sort of behaviour is always taken into account when we're working towards a solution. As I've already told you Mrs Falworth, we're at the point of taking action now so you'll need to be patient for just a bit longer.

Of course, the process being described to Mavis hadn’t made a jot of difference. As Clive said to his wife one particularly bad afternoon, He must have enough enforcement letters to paper his whole house by now.

Mavis had been out front weeding her garden when she spotted the uniformed police constable striding up the path next door and ringing the doorbell. She had herself an unimpeded view as the officer continued to alternately bang the door and press the bell.

Getting no response, he’d crept around the house trying to peer through the windows, but they were thick with grime and covered by grubby nets so she was sure he couldn’t have been able to see in. Not like her own pristine white nets and regularly washed windows, she thought smugly.

By this time Mavis had given up any pretence that she wasn’t watching and had pulled over her most comfortable fold-out chair while she watched the entertainment. Hopefully, she thought, I’ll get to see them drag the filthy old git out in cuffs, and just maybe he won’t be back. It'd be interesting to know what they wanted with him. Maybe he was a pervert? That had to be it, the way he just sat in that house all day with all the curtains drawn. He was probably looking at inappropriate images on his computer, she decided with disgust.

Now she had a better view of the officer she could see he was young. Very young, she thought, he was probably in his twenties but to her, he looked like a school kid. Pulling out his radio he had a mumbled conversation with someone before coming out and going to sit on the wall at the bottom of Rubbish Man’s garden.

It wasn't long before a second police car arrived and another two officers joined the young one who jumped off of the wall when his colleagues pulled up. The oldest of the bunch, a uniformed officer with greying hair and broad shoulders, removed a large, red, metal object from the boot of his car. Mavis liked a police documentary so she knew they called this the Big Red Key. It was used to pound through doors when the police needed to make a forced entry, and she couldn't believe her luck in getting to see it unfold in real life.

Revising her earlier idea on what was going on she decided it was more likely that he was a drug dealer. Perhaps he had one of those cannabis grows going on inside the house? She'd seen a few programs where the police had raided those types of houses and then bought out hundreds of plants. Mavis wondered if a film crew would show up. She smoothed her hair back and straightened her dress to make sure any creases would drop out. If they did film it then she wanted to look her best.

It didn't take much to put through the door so the officers could pile through. By this time her husband had come out to find out what was taking her so long, and Mavis pointed at the action next door.

Go and get me a drink will you Clive, I have a feeling we'll be here for a while.

He rolled his eyes and she shot him a glare just so he knew she wasn't amused by him. Settling back in her chair to wait for her G&T she watched the front door closely so she didn't miss anyone coming back out. It felt like they'd been in there for ages when Clive came back with a drink each and pulled over the foldout table and his own chair so they could keep an eye on the action together.

Mavis was halfway through her drink by the time the young officer came out. His hand was clamped over his mouth and he ran to the end of the garden where he bent over and vomited. This looked interesting, thought Mavis before prompting Clive to refresh their drinks.

Chapter Two

DCI Jack West couldn't believe the name that his DS had just dropped on him.

That's right, that old hoarder guy that snuffed it, it's none other than Chris Swallow. Original frontman of The Swallows. Can you believe how the mighty have fallen? From sex god being chased by millions of screaming groupies, to some bloke living in a house full of boxes and shit.

Last time I heard that name it was in connection with a missing girl, Rosie Harper.

DS Scott Potter rolled his eyes, Back in the dark ages wasn't it boss?

Jack shook his head, Cheeky little fucker, 1998 wasn't exactly the dark ages. When were you born?

1993 boss, makes me 31.

You'd have been way too young to remember the band then. They were huge, all sex, drugs, and rock n roll. Then the bad press really started, it wasn't just the cool stuff they wanted out there either. No, it was getting dark, young girls hanging out backstage and parents suggesting they'd been given drugs by the band. By the time Rosie vanished their reputation was already in the toilet, and it didn't take much for the world to believe one of them was responsible.

Scott shrugged, They sound like a bunch of dicks. Which one was the chief suspect?

Chris Swallow himself. According to Rosie's friend, Billie, she'd been seeing him for a few months off and on. They went to the gig, got their backstage passes, and then followed the band back to their pad. According to Billie, that was the last time she saw Rosie.

His DS shook his head, Come on, there must've been hundreds of people at that party, surely it could've been anyone, why Chris?

There were a lot of rumours at the time. Rumours that Chris was sleeping around behind her back. I always wondered if he killed her in a fit of temper and buried her somewhere out there at the house. When I interviewed him he had a massive lump on the front of his head. I thought at the time that maybe Rosie had fought back and hit him, but I couldn't prove anything.

Scott grinned, It's like a claim to fame then boss? You meeting all those band members back in the day.

Jack rolled his eyes, Yeah, yeah, take the piss why don't you? So, when are we searching his gaffe? I take it this is an unexpected death investigation, what was it that prompted PC Williams to go there in the first place?

The council bloke that went round the place didn't get an answer when he knocked so he lifted the letterbox and saw a swarm of flies. He'd had experience of coming across a dead body before so he phoned it in and asked for the police to do a welfare check. Poor old Williams drew the short straw, and you know the rest.

Scott glanced at the clock, Actually, the team is about to head out there. Fancy coming along for old time's sake boss?

Picking up his jacket he gave a nonchalant shrug, There's nothing else going on so I may as well.

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Chris Swallow's house was surrounded by moulding black bin bags stuffed full of rotting rubbish. It looked as though he'd been opening his front door and just slinging them outside into the garden. The day was already warming up and Jack could smell the stench even before he got to the little gate that would allow access to the front of the house. The bags were piled everywhere in various states of decay, and the smell was like nothing he'd come across before. It filled his mouth and nose and made him gag at the acrid taste of it. It was no good trying to step over the bags. there wasn't a space big enough to put his foot, and so with a deep breath that he regretted the moment his mouth filled with the sour smell, he squelched across the garden. Trying not to think about what he'd been stepping on he kept his eyes trained on his goal – the front door.

Jack jogged up the steps to the entrance, eager to get away from the rancid garden. Then again inside wasn't much better, he thought with a groan. Every spare space was stuffed full of items. Boxes teetered on top of each other, magazines were piled to the ceiling, and everything was coated in a thick layer of dust. The smell wasn't as strong, but there was still an underlying odour of rotting food and years-old dirt to contend with. Jack's mum used to have a saying when she visited somewhere