Sudden death, p.1
Sudden Death, page 1
Sudden Death
Cover
Title Page
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
Chapter 63
Acknowledgements
Canelo Crime
About the Author
Also by Rachel Lynch
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
Chapter 1
Kelly Porter adjusted her seatbelt. It felt tight. Too tight. But she knew that this was just her imagination. It wasn’t that she’d put on weight; though Christmas was just around the corner, she hadn’t over-indulged just yet. It wasn’t that the belt, or her seat, had changed position in the night. And it wasn’t that she was wearing the wrong coat. It was none of those things.
She just felt off.
At forty, and a new mother, she could’ve blamed hormones, baby weight, and any manner of minor irritations, but she didn’t. She knew full well what was going on, and she pulled the driver’s mirror down, for the twentieth time, to check her make-up. Millie, her nanny, had arrived early this morning, to take care of Lizzie. Today was a big day, and Millie knew it, but they didn’t discuss it. At just over four months old, Lizzie was blissfully unaware of what lay ahead for her mother today, though it was tempting to use her as a sounding board, safe in the knowledge that she wouldn’t understand a word. But one day she would, and Kelly knew that kids repeat what they hear at home. She’d been a copper for enough years to know that. It’s how they caught many parents who happened to be criminals; or were they criminals who happened to be parents?
She kept her chat with her daughter to gurgles and playful squeals. In itself, this drove her to the worrying realisation, at times, that she thought she was going mad. The absence of adult conversation at home, except with Millie when she arrived for her shift, and when she handed over at night, or her stepdaughter, Josie, studying for her A levels, bothered her. It was different at work of course. As the gaffer of the serious crime unit for the northern Lakes in Cumbria, she enjoyed plenty of chat in the office, but it wasn’t really the kind of exchange she craved. It was all statistics, case files, and people doing horrible shit to each other. What she really needed this morning was someone to tell her everything would be okay when she faced Johnny in court. Her ex-boyfriend, and Lizzie’s dad.
As she sat despondently in the car, willing herself to start the ignition and begin her journey to the crown courthouse in Carlisle, her mobile rang, as if on cue. It was Kate Umshaw. Detective Sergeant Umshaw was her right arm, and her second in command. The woman she couldn’t live without. Their friendship had grown from the necessity of being colleagues, when she’d turned up in Cumbria, fresh from the Met in London, six years ago, tail between her legs and eyes wide shut, to the close bond they had now. They’d been through much together, and Kate was about the only person on the planet who understood what she was facing today.
‘Hey,’ Kate said.
‘Hey,’ Kelly replied. ‘It’s so good to hear your voice.’
‘How you feeling?’ Kate asked.
‘Shit.’
‘Obviously. Are you sure you don’t want me there?’
Kelly had told her that she’d rather face today on her own. It wasn’t because she didn’t want or need Kate by her side, it was just that she had to concentrate on shutting out the noise. It was a paradox that to get through one of the hardest days of her life, she’d have to purposefully focus on being quite alone. Of course she wanted Kate there. Kate had been there, in Highton prison, when it all kicked off. Kate had seen what Ian Burton was capable of. But most of all, Kate knew Johnny. It wasn’t that Kate couldn’t face him – quite the opposite, in fact; she’d been arguing that life was too short to hold grudges. It was testimony to her emotional maturity that her 2i/c liked the man, but disapproved of his behaviour.
In court today, the defence team was wrapping up. Yesterday had been the turn of the prosecution, and Kelly knew the case inside out. It was her case. She’d lived the details for months, from the moment they’d found Jack Bell’s body to the moment they’d finally given the Crown Prosecution Service enough to charge the twisted bastard who did it.
What she hadn’t seen coming was that the divisions between the defence and prosecution inside the courthouse would tear her love life apart. Johnny had moved out, but it wasn’t that they’d fallen out of love straight away, or had a massive messy fight and thrown things, or said stuff that they couldn’t take back. No, it wasn’t like that. It was simply impossible to live with someone who was a witness for the defence. He’d been Kelly’s rock pretty much the whole time she’d been back in Cumbria. He’d helped her pick herself up when her mother died. He’d caressed her in the middle of the night when she woke up sweating, not sure if she could go on pursuing people so sick in their heads that it made her physically ill.
‘Of course I want you there, but it’s better if I do it on my own. It’s selfish of me, but I think I’ll keep it together better if I’m on my own. Besides, I don’t want you facing Ian Burton,’ she told Kate.
‘Oh, Kelly, you know I’d love to face Ian Burton, on my own, in a cell, with a rusty piece of metal,’ Kate replied.
‘That’s what I mean,’ Kelly said. They laughed. ‘We’re looking good. But I’ve said that before,’ she added, alluding to the fact that, in a courtroom, the truth didn’t always prevail. She took the conversation back to the case. They’d all seen bastards walk free, or get shorter terms than they deserved. Equally, they’d all seen Mrs Miggins get three years for fuck all. It made no sense sometimes, police work. Mrs Miggins was police jargon for busybodies who stymied the whole criminal justice system. They brought 10 per cent of criminals to trial, and most of those didn’t get what was merited. As soon as an investigation left the confines of the office at Eden House, in Penrith, and was passed to lawyers and barristers, crime took on a new life form. It turned into an entirely different beast, and it was out of their hands.
For her lover of almost five years to travel so far to that side of the law made her blood boil. But they shared a child. And she missed him. That was what really disturbed her today.
‘Just remember my ex is a dickhead too. We all have one.’ Kate’s ex-husband, Derek, had left the family home after twenty-odd years.
‘Did you see the papers this morning?’ Kelly asked.
‘Yup, absolute bollocks,’ Kate said.
The headlines had run with Johnny’s noble commitment to PTSD charities and how Ian Burton had dedicated his life to the military, for queen and country. The problem was that the prosecution, in going after a soldier who suffered undoubtedly with mental health issues, came across in the media as unfeeling twats. The fact that Ian Burton was warped in the head before he ever touched a uniform was irrelevant. If they even suggested that Ian Burton was damaged goods, then the human rights card was played, and plastered all over the news. It didn’t really matter how loudly they argued that not all ex-soldiers damaged by war turned into serial killers. Whichever way you looked at it, Ian Burton was a victim and his targets were scum convicts, so who cared?
It was the first time that Kelly had been in the news and targeted by journalists on a personal level. They’d raked up her history from the Met and got soundbites from so-called ex-colleagues about the botched Coryn Boulder case that wasn’t even her fault. It was years ago, in London, when a material witness jumped off a roof, being pursued by her unit. But no one cared. This was a classic case of coppers going after the innocent. What could she do? Her team had been put on trial by social media, and lost. Her face was all over the news and journos had camped outside her house for weeks. Which was why she parked a few streets away, and went out the back, across her terrace, exiting the rear gate, crossing a tiny bridge over the River Eamont, and scuttled over the newly unveiled Pooley Bridge, avoiding most of the attention from reporters hoping to get a shot at her.
It was
There’d be plenty of them at the courthouse too. The world had gone mad. It was as if no one wanted to remember what Ian Burton had done to his victims, or the organised crime ring run by his father from inside Highton prison. All they wanted was to fight for a killer’s human rights because it looked good on social media and influencers got a million more followers for using hashtags such as #freedom and #justice.
Thankfully, inside the court room there was no such circus. In Britain at least, things like that were still unwelcome in the business of judicial proceedings; how long that would last remained to be seen. The way things were going, Kelly reckoned she might not hold her breath. Like the chief constable reminded her: policing wasn’t a popularity game and she should keep her head down and do her job, if she still wanted it.
She did.
Even after the media slurs and the stupid things she read on social media about herself, she still believed in her role, and that she made a difference. That was all coppers wanted at the end of the day. They didn’t get it mostly, but every now and again they did, and that was good enough. She owed it to the families of the victims.
‘Good luck, but you don’t need it, you’ll wipe the floor with them,’ Kate said.
Her second in command referred to the case in general, and not Kelly’s testimony, which in fact hadn’t been needed in the end, so convincing was the forensic case her team had built. The facts spoke for themselves, so much so that the jury squirmed every time details were brought up of exactly how Ian Burton liked to torture his poor sodding victims. Burton had pleaded not guilty and so subjected the families of those concerned, as well as the public purse, and the poor jury, to a litany of brutality in court. It was criminal in itself, but that was another matter.
‘Thanks, love,’ Kelly replied.
They hung up. She checked her rear mirror again and caught a glimpse of the hills to the east of Ullswater, and felt a pull that she hadn’t experienced for some time. She’d been so wrapped up in hiding from the press, and coping with Johnny’s betrayal, that she’d given the hills a rain check. It was as if she lived in any other ordinary town, and not on the edge of the national park, surrounded by wilderness. She knew in that moment that the first thing she’d do after the verdict, whether it went their way or not, was get up there above the snowline, and hike her guts out. The thought gave her renewed resolve and she started the car just as a couple of journalists, grabbing coffee at the shop next to the Crown pub, spotted her and darted towards it.
She sped past them and had never felt so much desire to flick the bird at somebody as she did in that moment. It took all her strength to keep her finger hidden. She drove past them and headed off towards the M6. She gripped the steering wheel so hard that a stinging sensation alerted her to her senses. Her nails were digging into her flesh and she released her grip.
This case was killing her.
Chapter 2
The Right Honourable Lord Donald Reilly held his woollen coat close to his body, as he battled to pull on his leather gloves at the same time. The damn weather up north was confounding. The wind almost blew him off his feet, but one of the pilots gently took his elbow and guided him towards the machine that was to take them back to London. The helicopter, whether modern or a hundred years old, was a certified death trap if ever there was one, and defied physics. A scientist at heart, and by academic award, Donald hated them.
There was something distinctly untrustworthy about the dynamics of the blades and their flimsiness in the face of the slightest gust of wind and covering of grey cloud. The Lake District had both, in spades. He knew that the only reason his associate for the weekend chose to be transported in one, was status. Helipads sounded respectable and impressive. To Donald, though, they rang alarm bells in his head.
He’d flown in enough of them to know. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer, as he always did before he flew. He’d checked the credentials of the two-man crew, who were both ex-RAF, and they were, as expected, exemplary. However, his sensible brain kept throwing up grave uncertainty, warning him of impending doom. Only Bart could convince him to climb inside a damn metal box that was about to defy logical mathematics, because he had a way about him like that. And Donald had to admit that he was grateful to his friend. Over the weekend, he’d been more than generous. Donald had reached the conclusion that, due to Bart’s wealth and confidence, the chances of him chartering a poorly maintained vehicle were slim. He even smiled at his paranoia.
He glanced over at the house which had been his home for three days, and marvelled at the grandeur. All weekend, he’d been treated to a steady stream of the things in life that were the preserve of the rich and powerful. Bart never disappointed. A flicker of guilt wafted through his mind, as if fluttering into the ’copter on the wind, and he thought of his wife and two children, who were technically adults now, for the first time all weekend. He hadn’t had them on his mind last night when his friend had served up the entertainment just over the lawn there, in the private rooms of Laurie Fell House. But he reassured himself that his movements were protected and Bart’s network watertight. It had to be. As a member of the government, Donald had a duty of care to the nation as, at the very least, an example to them. But that was the fundamental attraction of breaking the law: it was intoxicating and addictive because it was risky.
The jitters hit him once more, as thoughts of betraying his wife and children deserted him. His mind was cast back to his nerves, and again he saw himself facing certain death in an entirely unreliable invention of humanity. The helicopter. He reached for his diazepam, prescribed by his private doctor in Mayfair. That, and the substances he’d imbibed last night, should do the trick, but his hands still shook.
He climbed into the cabin and the fine leather interior beguiled him for a moment. As a peer of the realm, certain privileges were owed to him, and he smiled to himself at the apt nature of his surroundings. He sat back and settled somewhat. It was a short flight after all, and they’d be in London soon enough. He’d told his wife that he was being driven by limousine from Cumbria back to the capital, a long and thoroughly dull journey by road. She didn’t expect him until late tonight. However, Bart’s last minute idea to fly, though at the time crazy, was a perk Donald’s ego couldn’t resist, despite the risk of the press getting hold of photos of them together. They’d managed to avoid direct contact in the public eye for a good few years, at the direct intervention of the prime minister. But Donald was confident that Bart was discreet. He’d had plenty of practice.
He reflected on the forty-eight hours that had just passed. This remained their most perfect secret. He trusted his host with his life. They’d known each other a relatively short amount of time, if one counted the political spectrum in the UK as one spanning centuries. Indeed, their friendship had taken up less than a decade. In that time, under-secretaries had come and gone, business interests had shifted and the prime minister had become older and greyer, prematurely, as they all did eventually. Donald had never fancied the top job: it was for show-offs and attention-seekers. Better to be out of the spotlight and able to continue one’s indulgences off the radar, rather than have them played out in the gutter press, for all to see and judge. Downfall was rarely as a result of bad performance on the political stage. It was more to do with ancient tweets, personal mistakes and unfortunate gaffes, usually involving sexual miscalculations.
He plopped himself onto the seat and placed headphones over his ears as he was told. The interior might be sumptuous, he thought, but the wind whipping through it made it feel as flimsy as a two-man tent on Dartmoor. He could barely hear himself think as the current of air travelled through the cabin like a knife cutting ripe camembert. The whole machine shook. The blades above his head made a deafening din and the whirring sound induced nausea. Back in the eighties, he’d avoided the machines like the plague, but unfortunately, as an officer in Her Majesty’s armed forces, he hadn’t had much choice. It was the preferred transportation when in theatre, and in the eighties there was enough deployment around the world to give everyone a ride occasionally.
The headphones gave him some comfort.
The pilots busied themselves with checking charts and finalising their computer-programmed flight plans. He rolled his eyes and said another prayer as he realised that he was probably going to be ferried back to London on autopilot, not even at the hands of a human being. People trusted computers too much these days. He’d skipped breakfast; his nerves wouldn’t allow it. He’d dismissed the chauffeur at the last minute, and the driver would be making the three-hundred mile journey now on his own. It was too late to change his mind and indeed, he saw Bart striding across the grass, beaming from ear to ear, and eager to get going.
