Silent bones, p.1
Silent Bones, page 1
Silent Bones
Cover
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Acknowledgements
Canelo Crime
About the Author
Also by Rachel Lynch
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
Prologue
The joke wasn’t funny. Not tonight. His habitual clowning around was no longer a source of camouflage that kept him distant and safe. He felt naked and exposed without it.
It was tight in the small dark space and he struggled to get a full breath. Things had gone too far. The rising panic in his chest told him so.
His head hurt and he sensed a sticky substance around his temples, running into his eyes and his mouth. He tasted his own fear. In the blackness, the petrol-like fluid clung to his skin. It didn’t smell the same as the grime from the lake. Clarity, which had taken its time to dawn on him, now gripped his senses and he knew, beyond the doubts denying his reality, that it wasn’t sweat either. It was just that his reasonable brain didn’t want to admit the truth.
It was swelteringly hot in the confined cavity. He calculated that they’d been driving for some while, over bumpy tracks, round tight bends and up and down hills. They weren’t in town, of that at least he was sure. He hadn’t heard any other traffic for some time and they weren’t constrained by junctions, stops and lights. It was oily black and he was completely sightless. His upper body tightened further and he shouted out, but his throat was raspy and sore from the exertion.
He heard a radio and the volume was turned up, because everybody loved the tune, including him. The Police had re-released ‘Every Breath You Take’ and he listened as Sting’s voice comforted him. Nothing could go bad when Sting sang, it was a love song, or so his mum said. She was in love with the singer and the knowledge made him feel awkward. Women her age shouldn’t think like that, or that’s what his dad said. His parents’ faces caused unwelcome feelings to rise up in his already compressed torso. They hung in the gloom as his body rattled around the boot space. He’d let them down.
If only he’d taken his jacket off, like he’d been asked to, he wouldn’t be so hot. And maybe he wouldn’t be here right now.
The car hit a large bump and it jarred his back, and he cried out once more.
But they ignored him.
The fur inside his jacket rubbed against his cheek, as if it knew that he needed consolation in that moment. He could get another jacket, he thought despondently as his fingers wriggled around the material where it had been cut. It might take him a whole year to save up for one, but he could do it. He’d take an extra job at the working men’s club in town. Legally, he couldn’t serve booze until he was eighteen next year, but no one would tell if he pulled the odd pint for his dad’s mates.
His mind was made up, and the plan was a welcome distraction as he rolled painfully in the shrouded shadows of the tiny metal chamber. In his wild imagination, it became a tomb. The hopeless claustrophobia, and the deep dark terror, was only relieved by the occasional nod to the outside world, as periodic light penetrated the dimness. Tiny cracks in the metalwork focused his eyes as they became accustomed to the endless, crushing murkiness.
A momentary flash of illumination confirmed what he already suspected. His head cracked against the hard interior and made contact with the rough carpet lining, and he knew that the oily substance sticking to his clothes wasn’t sweat or mud, or fuel, but his own blood.
Chapter 1
Kelly Porter backed her car out of her driveway and she headed into Pooley Bridge as its residents slowly woke up to another day. The drive to her office in Penrith was a mere twenty minutes. Some days she fancied the route past the great mansion of Dalemain and through the tiny hamlet of Stainton, but today she decided upon the narrower road to the east of the village, through Sockbridge, by way of some diversion. Her mind needed distraction, and negotiating the early morning tourists in their rented vehicles, heading to the hills, gave her ample time to decompress.
Not that she needed a rest from her daughter, or the domestic goings-on brought about by a blended family. But the demands of an eleven-month-old, as well as Johnny’s teenage daughter, were sometimes overwhelming, and space was something that was essential for her sense of humour to survive. She checked herself in the windscreen mirror, gently placing a strand of sun-kissed auburn hair behind her ear. Forty suited her. Some would say she was lucky. Her partner, Johnny, enjoyed the luxury of part-time volunteer work with the mountain rescue teams, and so he was a hands-on dad, available to fill in around her more structured role as head of the serious crime unit for the northern lakes. It wasn’t an aspersion on his lifestyle, it was just that his routine was more fluid, and thus suited to the needs of a growing family. He could take shifts around Kelly’s more formal arrangements, which required her to be in the office every day. Tension around her job was a burden accompanied by a certain amount of guilt, and they’d split briefly for just that reason. Whether they could ride future storms remained to be seen. For now, they were committed to working on their relationship.
The road was quiet, even for peak season, and she drove over the new bridge and parked in the village centre. Darren’s coffee, at the Chestnut House, was a treat she indulged in when she had the time. Pooley Bridge was a tourist village, with holiday lets and inns taking up most of the real estate. The typical offerings for visitors were catered for by outdoor shops, bookshops, and souvenir vendors. The Chestnut House comprised a small supermarket, stocked with local produce and items that relaxed holidaymakers thought they could afford: jams, fudge and toffee made in the Lakes, wrapped in pretty boxes covered in images of the Wainwright treks. Through the back, they had a daily delivery of pastries, and Kelly considered the odd croissant or pain au chocolat a little morning pick-me-up when she’d skipped breakfast, like she had this morning.
The fact that Lizzie had wanted to play hide and seek at three o’clock this morning added to her desperate need for caffeine and sugar, and she’d left Johnny sorting washing, with Lizzie helping by placing pants on her head. Their eleven month old was as oblivious to her parents lack of sleep, as she was to their fluid gender roles when it came to raising a child. It had just happened that way, and Johnny was equally as comfortable changing nappies as he was saving lost souls on the mountainside. His ego was equipped for being a stay-at-home dad.
He knew Kelly went to work for a break.
She parked in the village and walked to the Chestnut House, which was always open early for business. The steamers delivered thousands of day trippers throughout the summer, pouring seasonal pounds into the local economy, keeping the residents afloat, even with the bite of rising costs. Kelly did her bit. This morning she felt like buying two pastries.
‘Morning, Kelly!’
Darren was always chirpy. His face never failed to make her smile, which was much needed in her line of work. She enjoyed speaking to real people who were still alive occasionally; it threw light and shade over her existence. Shelley was busy stacking shelves, and shouting questions at Darren from the back. It was a normal weekday morning, despite being peak summer season.
‘It’s going to be a glorious day!’ Shelley said, poking her head over a box of toffee.
‘How will that hold up in this heat?’ Kelly asked.
The heatwave seemed to have arrived, like a furnace on a dial, two weeks ago, and showed no signs of letting up. The reservoirs of the north of England were already worryingly low, including Thirlmere, to the south, which supplied the city of Manchester. Tourists thought it had always been a natural lake, and not the man-made extension of the tiny Wyburn, carved out by the Victorians and run by a cut-throat business for profit, that it was. Standing on top of Raven Crag, you’d never guess that it wasn’t sculpted by a 4-million-year-old glacier like most of the others,
At eight in the morning, the ruthless heat hadn’t yet taken a hold of the village, but by midday, Kelly knew she’d be thankful for the cool of the old red stone building of Eden House in Penrith, where she spent most of her time. The old walls were merciless in the winter, but welcome in the summer. She wore casual kit: trainers, a comfortable skirt and T-shirt, donning formal wear but rarely, when she had an important meeting or a press conference.
‘I quite like runny toffee,’ Darren said happily. Shelley rolled her eyes.
Kelly went to the coffee machine and pressed the button for a cappuccino, and chose two pastries.
‘Two today, eh? Big job? Serial killer on the loose? Or are you out catching that crocodile that took those swans last week?’
They all laughed. Apparently, a steamer captain had seen three swans disappear under the surface of Ullswater, never to re-emerge. It had been the subject of local gossip ever since. Chances were it was a giant otter, but the internet said it was a crocodile, and the story had stuck.
‘Three cancellations this week,’ Darren said. He referred to local holiday lets which had apparently suffered from the news of a reptilian killer in the lake. Locals found it amusing, until it lost them money.
‘I’ll bag these apples myself,’ Shelley chipped in. ‘Honestly, Kelly, I’m gonna murder him one of these days.’
It was Darren’s turn to roll his eyes. Kelly watched her counting fruit, noisily, as if to hammer home her point.
‘Be careful what you tell me, Shelley,’ Kelly said. ‘You could do a lot of damage with those apples.’
‘Yeah, she’s my witness! You threatened me!’ Darren chuckled.
Kelly paid for her breakfast and went out into the sunshine, making her way back to her car. There was something about sipping hot drinks in warm weather that Kelly enjoyed. Weird, she knew, but strangely satisfying. She popped the cup in the holder and started the engine, pulling out and lowering her sunglasses over her bright green eyes. She couldn’t wait to eat and devoured the croissant first, dispersing crumbly flakes all over the passenger seat and down her top. It hit the spot and she’d wait for the other delight until she was stationary on the M6 junction. By the time she reached the office, her hands would be greasy, but her belly full, and unlikely to rumble again until it was time for lunch.
As she drove away from the fells, with the national park behind her, on the approach to Penrith, Kelly felt a sense of contentment with her job. It was something that one could never predict. It had its horrors, for sure, and she’d seen her fair share of mangled bodies and the darker side of humanity, but for the most part, it was entirely unpredictable, and that’s what kept her in the Lake District. No day was ever the same.
Chapter 2
Kelly’s drive into Penrith was without event. Crime in the northern lakes was sporadic. Her team found themselves between the ebb and flow of the larger cases, which sucked their resources and made them dig deep. The in-between times were opportunities for paperwork and admin: dull in itself, but necessary. Kelly tapped her hand on the steering wheel as she waited to get across the M6. She’d never been a patient person. The news was all about the weather, which wasn’t uncommon for the Lake District. In the winter, it was all about clouds and storms, and in the summer, sunshine and windows of perfection for the higher peaks. It was all well and good planning a hike up Scafell Pike, but if it was cloudy at the top then your efforts could be well and truly wasted. Climate change was on everybody’s lips, and how the hot spells were unprecedented, but Kelly remembered other stifling summers.
The warm periods did make Johnny’s job busier though. Hikers always underestimated the fells. Sheer drops and ragged rocks made for tricky terrain underfoot and one tiny mistake could have fatal consequences. But her business wasn’t bodies at the bottom of a mountain from misadventure, it was victims who’d met their end at the hands of a perpetrator with intent. Accidents happened all the time, be it at the wrong end of farm equipment, chasing sheep across a bog or cramping in a freezing lake, but Kelly’s job was taking up the cases where humans had caused the misdeed on purpose. Murder was a rare malady, though many contemplated it. She recalled Shelley’s tongue in cheek threat earlier, and the moment was bittersweet: most homicides were at the hands of somebody known to the victim. What tipped somebody over the edge from an idle jibe to cold killer was something that had always puzzled her. Much crime was committed in the heat of passion, but there existed a very distinct line between the two sides of the law.
The flow of traffic into Penrith itself was benign and she parked behind Eden House, anticipating a catch-up with her team. As she approached the front door, trotting up the stone steps, a figure appeared and shoved a mobile phone into her face.
‘Detective Porter, what’s your reaction to the body found in Thirlmere reservoir this morning?’
Kelly’s brain raced and she was stuck between brushing the phone away out of her personal space, and processing what she’d just been asked. A body? Why hadn’t she been told? She noticed the lanyard around the woman’s neck, which said PRESS, and Kelly pushed her way past, up the steps.
‘No comment,’ she said.
The woman didn’t give up that easily and virtually chased her up the stone stairs.
‘Could it be a suicide?’ the journalist pressed her.
Kelly ignored her. She tuned out from the sound of the woman’s voice and went in through the double doors, thoroughly vexed by the intrusion. She greeted the uniforms at the front desk and a young constable stood up and left her desk, coming into the foyer.
‘Questions about a body in Thirlmere?’ Kelly asked.
‘Press on to it already?’ the constable asked, peering through the doors. The woman was still there, and she waved brazenly at them both. They tutted in sync, and turned towards the lifts.
‘Came in an hour ago, boss. No details yet. A squad car has gone down there to see what’s going on.’
‘Do I need to be worried?’ Kelly asked.
‘No idea, boss. It was reported by an early morning swimmer, we haven’t even generated any paperwork yet.’
‘So how the hell does she know about it?’ Kelly asked, indicating the journalist outside. The constable shrugged. ‘Find out who she is, she’s obviously been given the inside track.’
Kelly marched to the lift. The problem with a county where sheep outnumbered humans was that everybody knew each other’s business, or thought they did. It was unhelpful in her line of work. All she was concerned with was if a crime had been committed. A body turning up in a reservoir could have lots of possible explanations, so before the press went on a spree of wild theories, she needed to establish the facts.
The lift opened on the fourth floor and she entered, peering around to see if her second in command had got hold of any information before the press. They wouldn’t have long. A lone journalist armed with misinformation could cause a lot of damage, and muddy the facts. A body in a lake in Cumbria was not necessarily news, though she could see the evening headlines if they didn’t get a handle on it. She could even imagine the involvement of the croc supposedly terrorising Ullswater: maybe it had caught a taxi down to Thirlmere and dragged somebody under the surface?
Kate emerged from her office as Kelly threw her things down on a table in the incident room and walked to the coffee machine. Her second in command was trimmer since starting her affair with the superintendent, Andrew Harris. Older than Kelly by a decade, she didn’t resent Kelly’s rank, nor did she suffer fools. She dressed casually, like her boss, and nursed a coffee.
‘Body? Thirlmere?’ Kelly asked, eyebrows raised. ‘Morning.’
‘Morning, Kelly,’ Kate said, smiling. ‘That was quick.’
‘Inside job? Some PC’s little sister?’
The journo had been young, all keen eyes and innocent smile. She’d gotten under Kelly’s skin.
‘Came in just as I did. No details yet. A squad car has gone to investigate and report back. Apparently, a woman going for a wild dip this morning noticed something near the water’s edge and rumour has it that it’s a body.’
‘If it is, we’ll look like idiots sending a lone squad car. I’ve just been stopped by a journalist outside; chances are she’s in her car on the way there now. Fancy a drive?’ she asked Kate, who nodded and went to grab her bag, plonking her mug on a desk.
