Argyle house a dci boyd.., p.1
Argyle House: A DCI BOYD THRILLER, page 1
ARGYLE HOUSE
A DCI BOYD THRILLER
ALEX SCARROW
Copyright © 2023 by Alex Scarrow
All rights reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published by GrrBooks
CONTENTS
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
DCI BOYD RETURNS IN
Also by Alex Scarrow
About the Author
Acknowledgments
To Mum, an oasis of calm and tranquillity. Love you, Ma.
PROLOGUE
It was dark. The only light he had to work with was the dappling amber glow leaking through the swaying branches of the tree, flickering down onto the old brick wall and the wire-mesh cage over the exhaust-gas pipe. He really would have benefited from a torch, but then he’d have attracted attention. Curtains twitched all the time on this street. Busybodies, looking for kids to complain about, cars that were parked without resident permits, wheelie bins lined up in the wrong fucking place.
The mesh was rusty. An old one installed decades ago, no doubt, the cage had looked as if a vigorous jerk would break it free from the rusting screws that attached it to the wall. But, oh no, God forbid that it should be so easy. He’d tried. The bastard screws weren’t yielding.
He pulled out the screwdriver he’d brought with him. The good news, and he really needed some, was that it had a Phillips head, and the cage’s cross-drive screws looked as though corrosion hadn’t yet reduced them to useless nubs of rust.
But he’d have to be careful: while the grooves were just about there, it would be all too easy to damage the screw heads… Gently, gently.
The first screw came loose without a fight. He unscrewed it and tossed it into the patch of nettles on the other side of the cracked tarmac beside him. But the second screw’s head threatened to dissolve into oxidised flakes. Carefully he managed to get a purchase on it and unscrewed it, holding his breath.
Quickly now, he told himself. The kids who regularly hung out here to smoke could come along at any moment. Or maybe not. It was bitterly cold tonight. They were probably staying in and bitch-slapping each other over their Xboxes instead.
All the same. He needed to get this done.
The third screw was easy as easy peas… but of course – shocker – the last one turned out to be the Screw That Would Not Yield. He dug the screwdriver’s head into the wretched thing, putting his whole weight behind it, so that what was left of the cross-head grooves might still be put to work… and it slipped.
The screwdriver slid sideways, the tip driving into the fleshy pad at the base of his thumb.
‘FUCK!’ he snarled in anger and pain, then clapped a hand over his mouth. Shit.
He looked around to see whether he’d been heard. The windows of the houses opposite remained still.
1
Nadine stood by her bedroom window and looked down at the flames flickering through the branches of the distant trees. It wasn’t the first time it had happened there – another dumped car set on fire. The clearing beside the wood seemed to be a magnet for fly-tippers and joyriders, and occasionally a gathering place for those mucky old perverts who did that doggying thing.
She sighed. Her little cottage was supposed to have been an escape from all this, from the yobbos and ne’er-do-wells, the sound of revved cars doing wheel spins and feral kids kicking empty bottles around at three in the morning. You’d think that five miles out from Hastings, along a barely used B-road, she’d be able to live in peace, but – oh no – she’d picked a beautiful little cottage that just happened to be round the corner from a site where nocturnal troublemakers chose to converge on a Saturday night.
She dialled 999, fully expecting the voice on the end of the phone to blandly assure her that a patrol car would arrive in due course.
Of course it wouldn’t. The police never seemed to bother with anything these days but, still, she felt it was her duty to at least make the call.
‘Which service do you require?’ answered a toneless voice.
‘Police,’ she said, sighing. ‘Again.’
2
Boyd felt Ozzie’s cold wet nose nudging his dangling hand. A persistent action that experience told him wasn’t going to cease no matter how much he willed it to do so. He knew it was 7 a.m., or a minute either side, without looking at his watch, because Ozzie’s internal food-fuelled chronometer was as precise and accurate as any digital clock. Tummies needed refilling, bladders needed emptying, and Ozzie was right here beside the bed to remind Boyd in case he’d forgotten that fact.
Boyd splayed his fingers for a moment, allowing Ozzie a good old tongue-in-between-the-fingers slobber, then finally lifted his head up off the pillow. ‘All right, all right, you food-pest – I’m getting up.’
Ozzie snorted a reply and then padded out of the room and down the stairs, back to Mia. Boyd turned over to look at Charlotte. She was still fast asleep on her side. Her auburn hair was loose and wild, a fine tress dangling across her nose and mouth, and fluttering each time her lips gently parted as she breathed out.
He eased himself out of her small double bed, swung his legs round and let his bare feet settle on the soft floor. Unlike his own sparsely decorated house, Charlotte’s home was fully carpeted.
He went downstairs to feed an impatient Ozzie and far-more-patient Mia – though they both gave him a ‘What took you so long?’ look as he gave them their breakfast. It was while he was waiting in her small kitchen (a fraction larger than his, to be fair) for the kettle to boil before he realised it was his birthday.
Forty-eight today.
He had a text message from Emma telling him that his card and present were waiting for him at home. At home – he wondered whether there was a sub-text in her words, as in ‘Have you moved out permanently, or something, Dad?’…
He took a coffee upstairs to Charlotte, who was now stirring. ‘Good grief, it’s nearly eight,’ she said as he set the mug down beside her.
‘I know, I’m running late.’ He kissed her on the mouth, then quickly began pulling on his trousers and shirt. ‘I’ve got a handover meeting with Sutherland at nine. Are you okay walking the dogs before work?’
She nodded. ‘Ah yes, you’re the new detective super-chief–’
Boyd pulled a face.
‘Whatever the rank is,’ she finished, sighing sleepily.
He reached for his tie and jacket and draped them over an arm. ‘DSI.’
She smiled. ‘Yes. That’s easier.’
He kissed her again and left the room, hastening down the narrow stairs.
He strode past both dogs who were waiting expectantly beside the front door. ‘Charlotte’s walking you this morning,’ he explained as he pulled the door open and shimmied round them.
He eased his Captur out of the tight parking space. Unlike Ashburnham Road, the parking outside Charlotte’s place was a first come, first served, nose-to-tail affair, with the losers having to find a space in the neighbouring street. He edged out of his slot and looked up at the bay window. Charlotte was shrugging on a dressing gown. She waved down at him as he pulled away.
As he drove to work, Boyd’s mind played over the conundrum of what to call this thing that they had going on. Was it a full-blown relationship now? Or was it some halfway step in that general direction? They seemed to have fallen into a pattern of him sleeping over at hers Monday to Friday and returning with Ozzie to his house at the weekends. They were, he mused, tech
He pulled into his reserved slot in the parking area. There was one for the DSI and one for the Chief Super; everyone else had to fight it out. DSI Sutherland, who had stepped up to fill in for Hatcher while she took some sick leave, naturally had her slot, and Boyd, filling in for Sutherland, had his. Which meant that Boyd had to park snugly beside Sutherland’s expensive Volkswagen and make sure he didn’t put a dint in the bloody thing when he opened his door.
Boyd entered Hastings HQ. Showing his pass to the desk sergeant, he was buzzed through and took the stairs up to CID on the first floor. He pushed through the double doors and immediately spotted Sutherland in his office, packing his personal belongings into a plastic box to take up to Hatcher’s office.
Boyd strode past Okeke’s desk – she looked as though she’d rather be anywhere else this morning. ‘Mornin’, cheerful,’ he called over his shoulder.
She lifted a brow with some effort, then let it drop.
He passed his ‘old’ desk, shooting it a rueful glance on the way to Sutherland’s goldfish bowl before finally hesitating in the open doorway of the DSI’s office.
‘Morning, sir,’ he said.
Sutherland turned. ‘Ah, Boyd. There you are.’
‘Here I am,’ he agreed. He looked at the box that Sutherland had already filled with his family photos and personal stationery. ‘Do we really need to office juggle? Is it entirely necessary?’ he asked.
‘It’s going to be at least three months until she comes back, Boyd,’ Sutherland said. ‘That is unless…’
‘There’s an unless?’ Boyd asked.
Sutherland straightened up. ‘She and I spoke on Friday. She is giving very serious thought to taking early retirement, Boyd.’
‘Oh?’ Boyd felt his heart sink. He’d been hanging on to the hope that two or three months of idle sick leave would be more than enough to drive her back to work.
Sutherland shrugged. ‘She sounded very much to me like she’s had enough, to be honest. That incident…’
Boyd nodded. It felt like no time at all since Roland Hammond and his Georgian thugs had paid her a home visit. ‘I can understand that.’
‘If she does go,’ Sutherland continued, ‘then it could be quite a while before they find a replacement at her level –’ he puffed out his chest – ‘which means that, yes, we need to office juggle.’
‘Great,’ Boyd muttered. ‘So I could be stuck in this bloody glass tank for some time.’
Sutherland looked taken aback. ‘It’s your own office, Boyd, for God’s sake! Away from the noisy oiks out there.’ He waved his hand out towards the CID floor. ‘What’s not to like?’
‘I’m not sure I’m going to enjoy being “on show”,’ Boyd tried to explain. He suspected he was going to feel like some bizarre Damien Hirst artwork – Mannequin in Perspex Case.
‘Ah…’ Sutherland nodded knowingly. ‘Imposter syndrome, eh?’
‘What? No…’ Boyd said. ‘It’s just… it’s literally like a wet-market aquarium in here. Like you’re an eel waiting to be selected, diced and fried. Sorry.’ Boyd genuinely was. ‘No offence, sir.’
Sutherland scowled. ‘None taken.’ He pushed his Penfold glasses up the bridge of his nose, then added: ‘You are allowed to step outside of your aquarium during working hours, you know? Mix with the troops?’ He placed his ink-blotter and some more framed photographs into the box. ‘I thought you’d be, you know… chuffed to get a little taste of the rank above? You’ve earned it.’
Boyd’s smile was more of a grimace. Acting DSI would have meant something to him if he’d been after the rank. But he wasn’t. It was a role that placed him at the interface between force politics and budget bickering. No longer having a part in solving crimes but guarding the resources for those who did.
‘Thanks for thinking of me, sir,’ he replied tepidly. ‘But, as I said at the time, maybe Flack would have been a better choice?’
Sutherland shook his head. ‘Flack’s too entrenched in his operation. We can’t pull him out. You’re the right choice, Boyd. Better get used to it.’ He smiled. ‘And so should Flack if he gives you any grief.’ Then he looked at his watch. ‘You good to have that budget handover meeting this morning?’
Boyd had been hoping that Sutherland had forgotten about that. ‘Yes. I think I’ll need to grab a coffee before we get stuck in.’
‘Of course.’ Sutherland finished picking knick-knacks off his desk and placed a second box on top of the first. ‘Can you get someone to whip these upstairs to my office?’
Boyd stuck his head out of the door. He spotted Warren loitering just outside the kitchenette. ‘Warren! You got a mo?’ he called across the office floor.
Sutherland looked at his watch again. ‘Her Madge’s office in about twenty minutes – is that okay with you?’
Boyd nodded and headed off in Warren’s direction.
Boyd was in the kitchenette waiting for the kettle to boil and dreading his handover meeting with Sutherland. It was going to be a long and exhaustive magical mystery tour through Sutherland’s CID departmental budget spreadsheet, with a stop at each cell so that he could explain to Boyd, at length, the number entered there.
DS Minter entered the kitchen, shrugging on his jacket and holding his Thermos mug in one hand.
‘You off somewhere already?’ asked Boyd, doing his best not to sound too envious. ‘Has something interesting come in?’
‘Body over on Cottle Street, St Leonards, boss,’ Minter replied. He poured Boyd’s not-quite-boiled water into his Thermos. ‘An old lady.’ He shrugged. ‘Dead a day or two, they reckon.’
‘Was it a break-in? Burglary? Any signs of violence?’ Boyd asked.
‘No, but it’s a quiet day and it’s a dodgy area so…’ Minter shrugged again. ‘Do you want to come with, boss?’
Boyd shook his head. As a DCI he was supposed to have been desk-bound. Now, as acting DSI, doubly so. ‘I’m with Sutherland until lunchtime. You run along. Have fun.’
Minter spooned some coffee granules into his Thermos, capped it and shook it.
‘Take Okeke along with you,’ said Boyd. ‘She looks like she needs to get out.’
3
Minter pulled up on Cottle Street behind a parked squad car. He looked up at the tall townhouse that loomed over them.
‘Oh, great – it’s this place,’ he muttered.
Okeke craned her neck to look at the words carved into the weathered stone above the main entrance. ‘Ah. Argyle House.’
‘Gargoyle House,’ Minter said. ‘That’s what I call it.’
She laughed. ‘Ha, right.’
