Dark Truths Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  A selection of recent titles by A.J. Cross

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  A selection of recent titles by A.J. Cross

  The Dr Kate Hanson mysteries

  GONE IN SECONDS

  ART OF DECEPTION

  A LITTLE DEATH *

  SOMETHING EVIL COMES *

  COLD, COLD HEART *

  The Will Traynor forensic mysteries

  DARK TRUTHS *

  * available from Severn House

  DARK TRUTHS

  A.J. Cross

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  First published in the USA 2020 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of

  110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

  This eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2020 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  Copyright © 2019 by A.J. Cross.

  The right of A.J. Cross to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8906-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-645-6 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0344-1 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  ONE

  Saturday 13 August. Nine p.m.

  The sports car turned into the entrance and came to a stop. Its lights went out. The young woman in the passenger seat gazed around. ‘Why here?’

  ‘Because you said you wanted us to get away, be out of doors, in the dark.’ He glanced down at her, grinning. ‘Why didn’t you change into something less … “pure”?’

  She pushed open the door. ‘I wanted to keep it on.’

  ‘And I’ll have you out of it in the next twenty seconds.’ Out of the car, they gazed at each other across its roof.

  Her brows rose. ‘You sound confident.’

  He came around the car towards her, a travel rug under one arm. ‘I am.’

  Her face glowing, she laughed, started running. He went after her along the black tarmac, followed as she veered from it to the grassy sloping field below them, lost her balance and went down in a pool of pale light. He came to her, put out his hand. She took it, removed her shoes, then watched as he spread the rug on the grass, held out his hands and bowed low from the waist.

  ‘Madame said she fancied it alfresco.’

  She came to him, took his hands in hers. ‘I want us to be on our own.’ She pointed down the hill. ‘Look. There are some houses down there.’

  He reached for her, pulled her gently down, whispered, ‘Let’s give them something to talk about.’

  After a few minutes she tensed, sat up.

  He touched her bare shoulder. ‘What’s wrong?’

  She held up her hand. ‘Sssshh! Did you hear that?’

  ‘Hear what?’

  ‘The voice,’ she whispered. ‘There’s someone here. Up there. People.’

  He looked in the direction she was pointing. ‘How do you know it’s people?’ He reached for her. ‘Oh, come on, Lucy—’

  ‘No.’ She got to her feet, gathering up her skirt. ‘I’m not staying here with some angry, menacing person hanging around.’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything.’

  ‘Your ears are full of champagne.’

  ‘I think it’s the champagne that’s getting to you.’

  ‘I heard it, Hugo, and I don’t want to be here. Come on.’

  He watched her walk carefully up the slope and on to the tarmac. Folding the rug, reaching for her shoes, he followed, quickening his pace, his tone low and teasing. ‘Here I co-ome. Coming to get you … in a weirdly, menacing way …’

  Squealing with laughter, she took off in the direction of the car park.

  Monday 15 August. Six forty-five a.m.

  The athletic-looking blonde moved along the trail, ponytail flipping from side to side, the sun strong on her thumping head. Her date the previous evening had let her drive his car. She’d got it up to seventy, immediately pulling it back to forty as headlights appeared behind them. The car had followed them for a couple of agonizing minutes before pulling around and away. Her date had laughed as she’d given the police car the finger.

  Now, she sped along the familiar tarmac, ignoring the headache, revelling in her own fitness, savouring the softness of the white vest against her skin, well worth its hundred-plus price tag. In another eight minutes she reached her usual turnaround spot and headed back, getting the familiar endorphin rush. Runner’s high. Exhilarated, she upped her speed, picking up a distant, steady rhythm some distance behind her. She grinned, increased her speed again. Within seconds the footfalls were gaining on her. She increased her speed some more, flying now. He passed her on a blast of displaced air, causing her to flinch, almost stumble. Regaining her balance, she shouted, ‘Too damn close, moronic idiot!’ The car park was directly ahead. If he was still there when she reached it, she would tell him there was an etiquette to running. She ran on, reached it, chest heaving. It was deserted. She checked her fitness watch, smiled. Despite the moron, she had reduced her time by five whole seconds. She went to her car without a glance for another parked on the opposite side. She took out a water bottle and drank from it, eyes on the heavy tree-cover just ahead. Tensing at a soft movement, she half-turned, felt breath on her cheek, in her hair, thumps to her chest. She sank, still looking at trees, letting go of the day and her life as the soft white vest grew red.

>   TWO

  Monday 15 August. Nine thirty a.m.

  Detective Inspector Bernard Watts squirmed on the wooden seat, his shirt sticking to him. He took a fifth glance at his watch in as many minutes, picking up the ping of a phone. Organ music swelled, the sizeable crowd got to its feet and turned. Watts did the same, followed it to the door and out into the hot morning sun. He joined those walking past the floral tributes laid along the edge of the wide path because he couldn’t think of anything else to do. He gazed down at them, stopped at the large wreath bearing the West Midlands police logo, muted comments from fellow officers drifting to him. He looked back at the church. Acting Chief Inspector James Brophy from Thames Valley, in full dress uniform, was emerging. Watts’ thoughts drifted to his own father’s funeral years before. His view of life while he still had some had been straightforward: life was about class. That was class with an a, not an ar. He’d extolled Birmingham’s car industry as the place to work. As well he might, with seven kids to support, even if he hated the mindless work. ‘And people will always want cars, our kid. British cars.’ Even in the mid-seventies, there were signs that his father had got it wrong. In the years that followed, Watts had learned that education was what life was really about. He’d made sure his own daughter knew it. It had got her to Oxford.

  He looked up, smiled. Pathologist Connie Chong was coming towards him. ‘Wherever you are, it’s miles away.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Weather like this is enough to remind us that it’s good to be alive.’

  ‘Too hot for me.’

  Her eyes drifted over him. ‘Why aren’t you looking pleased with yourself? Twenty-nine pounds takes a lot of getting rid of.’

  He followed her gaze to the church and the large coffin emerging from it. ‘You know I haven’t got a face that does “pleased”.’ They watched Brophy stop to talk to Maurice Gander’s widow. Watts imagined the sentiments being expressed, suspected that Brophy was good at that kind of thing. On a series of soothing nods, Brophy shook Mrs Gander’s hand then headed quickly in their direction.

  ‘That went well, wouldn’t you say?’

  Chong expressed agreement. Watts said nothing, thinking that as funerals go, it had gone. Brophy took his arm and steered him away from the other mourners.

  ‘This concerns you too, Dr Chong. Police in the south of the city have a situation. An attack on a woman early this morning. I don’t have the details but I’ve agreed for headquarters to assume overall responsibility for the investigation. SOCOs and forensics are already on their way to the scene, plus uniformed officers.’ He looked at Watts. ‘I know there’s four days of your leave still outstanding, Bernard, but I want you on it now, as senior investigative officer. Here.’ Watts took the location details from him. It had been a while since he’d been part of a large, ongoing investigation, let alone running one. For the last five or so years he’d headed the cold case unit at headquarters with just two colleagues. Brophy turned to Chong. ‘You’re also needed as soon as possible’ – his mouth crimped – ‘because of the heat.’ And to Watts, ‘Take PC Judd with you.’

  Memory supplied Watts with a hazy picture of a newly qualified constable with spiky blonde hair who looked about fifteen. ‘Judd? She’s just out of training. She’s raw. Knows next to nothing—’

  ‘And I’ve got six officers already working a murder, another four on beaches hundreds of miles away and Judd needs the investigative experience. She’s now part of this investigation under your guidance. You’ll find her in the squad room.’ Brophy looked at him through heavy-framed glasses. ‘Police Constable Judd doesn’t share your summation, by the way. In her opinion, she’s destined for great things in this force. You can tell me who’s right.’

  Watts went directly to the squad room, picking up the tension among the few remaining officers getting ready to leave. She was sitting in a corner, frowning at her phone, thumbs in a frenzy. ‘Judd!’

  Her head came up. She sprang to her feet, pocketing the phone. ‘Sir!’

  He hooked a finger. ‘Officers here get by with “Sarge”. Car park. Now.’

  Edging between desks, ignoring colleagues’ glances, she followed Watts down the stairs and out to a black BMW X5. They got inside. Judd gave it a quick once-over. ‘Nice. One of headquarters’ sneakers?’

  ‘Mine.’ He snapped, his attention snagged by a small tattoo on the inside of her left arm: a bird trailing barbed wire in the direction of her wrist. He looked again, the wire morphing into a single word: Free.

  She was looking at him. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Why the question?’

  ‘I don’t like surprises.’

  He drove across the car park, between the tall brick pillars and out, wanting to get the measure of her. ‘What’s your investigative experience so far?’

  ‘In the four months I’ve been here I’ve attended several domestics, helped arrest a violent drunk, attended a suicide where—’

  ‘I said, “investigative”.’

  She gazed at the scene rushing past her window. ‘Nada. I’ve put in a complaint to Brophy about it.’

  He gave her a sideways glance. ‘That’ll be Acting Chief Inspector Brophy.’ His eyes went back to the road. ‘You the stroppy type, Judd?’

  Her head spun to him. ‘No, sir, Sarge. All I want is a chance to do some real police work. What’s happened?’

  ‘Violence, is all I know.’ He jabbed the CD player. Following a soothing couple of minutes of Karl Jenkins, he frowned, picking up a repetitive tk-tk-tk. He glanced at Judd, her head repetitively nodding, ears stopped, phone clutched in her hand. She looked up at him, pulled out the earphones, dropping them and the phone into her bag. Jenkins prevailed. For Watts, whatever problems and pressures he had, there was nothing like being out of reach for a few minutes, listening to—

  ‘Got any hip-hop?’

  He felt heat rising on to his face. ‘Do I look as though I have!’ Twenty more minutes of Jenkins and they entered Blackfoot Lane, narrow, sloping steeply downwards, official vehicles parked nose to tail close to a high brick wall on their left. Watts shot another quick glance at Judd in profile. He knew next to nothing about her but his instincts were already working overtime: she was trouble. Whatever was waiting for him, he could do without a loose cannon. ‘All I want from you is that you do exactly as I tell you. What you don’t do is get creative. Got it?’

  ‘Sir.’

  Watts sighed. After a week with his daughter and son-in-law in Amsterdam, which had been OK until he’d realized that he didn’t have a lot in common with either of them and all the sights had been seen, he’d been more than ready to get back to work. What he hadn’t anticipated was the chief, Maurice Gander, dying from a stroke, being handed a case for which he was SIO with zero briefing by a temporary boss he didn’t rate and being stuck with a rookie on a mission to prove herself. Maybe he should ease up on her. ‘Where are you from, Judd?’

  Her head spun to him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I can tell you’re not from around here. Down south, somewhere?’

  She looked away, out of the window. ‘No.’

  So much for sociability. He slowed as he reached a wide entrance, blue-and-white tape strung across it. A uniformed officer appeared in front of them, hand raised. Watts activated his window. The officer came to it looking overheated. ‘Morning, Sarge. Hot enough for you? If you hang on here, there’ll be a parking space in a tick.’

  Watts waited, eyeing a young, red-faced constable some distance away talking to a woman next to a yellow Boxster, two small dogs bouncing and yipping inside it. Her voice carried on the heavy air. ‘Now you listen to me. This is a right of way. You cannot refuse me access and—’

  ‘Pain in the arse,’ murmured the officer.

  Tuning out the woman’s voice, Watts looked beyond her. ‘When did they arrive?’

  The officer turned to look at the knot of reporters standing some distance away behind a barrier. ‘Not long after us.’ />
  ‘Tell everybody out here to keep it zipped.’

  ‘Sarge.’ The young officer hurried to the entrance, released one end of the tape and sent a signal inside. An official vehicle nosed its way out, turned and drove down the hill. The officer motioned Watts forward, the woman’s voice drifting through his open window as he drove inside.

  ‘So, why are you letting him in?’

  The car park was crammed, a large white forensic tent taking up much of one tree-lined corner. Among the squad cars was a van marked ‘Forensic Services’, a black estate car next to it. Chong was here. Sliding into the available space he and Judd got out into intense heat. He glanced at her uniform trousers. ‘While you’re on this investigation and the weather’s like this, wear something light.’ He headed for the tent, Judd at his heels. At its entrance a young officer wrote down their names, time of arrival and handed them plastic coveralls. They shrugged their way into them, Judd looking ultra-casual, like it was something she did every day. The constable held open the mouth of the tent. The heat inside was oppressive. Judd’s nose wrinkled. A sickly, metallic smell was riding the heavy air. Watts felt his head tighten and perspiration surge on to his face. He eyed the small red car, its driver’s door wide open, below it a thickening, red-brown pool starting to glaze. Hearing movement, he headed to its passenger side. In the narrow space between car and trees, a small figure in white coveralls was crouched over tanned limbs.

  ‘Anything to tell us?’

  Chong looked up at him, pulled away her mask. ‘Only the basics from a five-minute examination.’ Her eyes moved to Judd.

  Watts waved his big hand. ‘PC Chloe Judd, this is Dr Connie Chong, headquarters’ pathologist. When she speaks, we listen.’

  Chong stood, nodded to Judd. ‘Thanks for the build-up. I’ll tell you what I know so far. A call was received by local police at nine a.m. from a Julia Prentiss, reporting concerns about her daughter, Zoe Roberts. Apparently, the daughter’s employer had contacted her to tell her that Zoe hadn’t arrived at work for an early meeting and hadn’t phoned to say why she was delayed.’