Jasmine, Rose Petals and Murder E-Book

Sam Christer

• Herausgeber: Jentas
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 459

Beschreibung

Evil has a unique scent. Dare you follow it? As a winter storm rages over the coastal city of Brighton, torrential rain exposes a shallow grave up on the cliffs, while a teenager goes rogue with a shotgun in a supermarket and a violent robbery is staged in an upmarket boutique. The resulting body count stretches the resources of the Brighton police. They badly need leads, but can they trust the testimony of Ciara O'Cleary, the sole witness to the robbery – who saw nothing, but seems to be offering vital clues? The slight, young Irishwoman is a supersmeller: buffeted and often overpowered by all the odours that surround her, her special gift could also be considered a curse. Is it even real? Is she an innocent witness, or a key operator in a carefully planned crime? The investigating detectives are divided, but maverick Sergeant Kate Darroch decides to risk her career by following the scent of Ciara's evidence, which leads her deep into Brighton's criminal underworld.   ---   "I really hope that the book is the first part of the series" - Bookbesties  ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐   "His ability to describe settings and characters with vivid imagery is akin to a painter meticulously adding layers of color to the canvas" - The history of the world  ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐   "An exciting book and I can´t wait to read even more from this author." - Gullbergs Bookshelf  ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐   "Intriguing" — Publishers Weekly   "Fiercely intelligent and curious, take a walk on the perilous side and enjoy." - Steve Berry

Leseprobe

–

Copyright © Sam Christer 2023

The moral rights of the author has been asserted.

All characters and event in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any recemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition included this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Ebook ISBN: 978-87-428-3120-5

Audio ISBN: 978-87-428-3121-2

Jentas A/S

www.jentasbooks.com

www.jentas.dk

@forlaget_jentas

/forlagetjentas

Scientific Facts

– We each have our own unique smell, as identifiable as our fingerprints.

– Some people are known as hyperosmics – ‘supersmellers’ – who detect scents most humans can’t.

– Hyperosmics, such as the Scottish woman Joy Milne, who smelled Parkinson’s disease on her husband even before he was ill, have detected diabetes, kidney disease, respiratory infections, cancers, liver disease and migraines.

– Scientists believe hyperosmics can also identify other humans purely from their body odours and can tell when people are frightened, anxious, excited – or lying.

Head notes

Crime Scene One

11.01 am

La Galerie des Senteurs Secrètes,

North Laine, Brighton, england

The torrential late morning rain has driven shoppers from the streets and left the boutique perfumery of François Moreau empty.

May as well have shut for the day, thinks the youthful 73-year-old, and he passes the time by imagining a new fragrance. He recently sourced a supply of fine black roses from a new nursery, at the base of the Cotopaxi volcano in Ecuador. In his opinion, they are to all other roses what white truffles from Piedmont are to English mushrooms. Incomparable.

François imagines an oud base note, with perhaps a zesty head of bergamot – and a jolt of jasmine of course: jasmine and rose are, after all, our floral signature. He remembers the first time he created a scent. It was more than half a century ago, in the South of France, back in the days when his misguided parents were expecting him to see out his life on the family vineyard, tending dusty, sunburned fruits.

‘Shall I make a start on the new stock?’

The voice breaks his reminiscence.

‘Pardon?’ He looks over at his bored young assistant.

‘Stocktaking, Monsieur?’ she says. ‘I can be getting on with some while we’re quiet.’

‘Oui, oui, yes, you go.’ He watches her pick up the devilish computer tablet that confounds him and disappear into a back room, which is stacked with recent deliveries from his production plants in Nice and Marseille.

The relentless rain is hammering on the shop’s front window. It has ruined today’s trade, but it will pass. Seven decades of living has taught him that.

Everything is just passing. The rain will stop and then we will be overrun with crazy Englishmen and women rushing to buy Christmas presents at the very last minute.

Almost on cue, the battered old brass bell slumbering above the front door tumbles awake, announcing the arrival of two bedraggled visitors who spill water from their hooded coats all over his pristine ash floor.

Etiquette demands that François give them a moment to compose themselves before seeking a sale. Quite unnecessarily, he ‘rearranges’ an immaculate display of colognes.

Seconds later, he feels the touch of a stranger’s hand on his shoulder.

Feels it just before an arm snakes around his neck and all but chokes him.

He is pulled from the counter and then punched in the stomach.

‘Shop keys and combination for the safe we know you’ve got in the back,’ a tall man demands.

François hesitates.

‘Fucking now! Tell it to me, fucking now!’ He punches him again.

François falls. His head and elbows crash painfully on the unforgiving floor. The puncher drops on top of him, then, like a jackdaw, pulls everything from his jacket pockets – his wallet, keys, his treasured photograph of himself and Mama, the last one taken together.

‘Last time, you old fucker: what’s the combination?’

‘One – nine – five – zero,’ François says softly.

‘It’d better be fucking right.’ His attacker stretches black tape over the shopkeeper’s mouth and around his wrists. ‘You should be at home, granddad, counting your fucking money, not working in this poxy shop. Let today be a fucking lesson to you.’ He lands a gratuitous kick before walking away.

François snorts blood.

My nose. My precious, precious nose!

He is bleeding profusely. His eyes are blinded by tears. He can no longer see the men, but he can hear them.

They are locking the front door. Crossing the floor. Heading into the back room. The room where the safe is. Where sweet Ciara is – hard at work, no doubt with those white things in her ears and that dreadful music playing.

François struggles to his knees, his septuagenarian heart hammering behind broken ribs.

Somehow, I will get to her. Somehow, I will protect her.

He raises himself on his hands and knees. Reaches out for the counter to get to his feet.

Another punch ends his gallantry.

And his consciousness.

Crime Scene Two

11.16 am

Oldhaven, Brighton

Store detective Shirley Johnson holds three records for catching shoplifters – the most in a day, most in a month, and most in a year. She is the Shirl-lock Holmes of the supermarket world. At least, that’s what her pun-prone boss, the very fanciable Mr Rod Rickham, calls her.

Shirl has worked at Zantafoods for six years and is only 31 snatches away from beating the late, great Alfie Richards’ total of 540, with 302 court convictions. Given the current cost-of-living crisis, she reckons she’ll pass his score before Christmas.

Life is good for Shirl right now, and if her instincts are right, it’s about to get even better. It’s only five minutes since she left the screens in the surveillance room to ‘stretch her legs’, and she’s already spotted some suspicious activity.

To the untrained eye, there’s nothing dodgy about the single man pushing his loaded trolley through the Personal Healthcare aisle.

He’s popping a couple of cheap deodorants in there, along with razor blades and some Tampax.

Even from a distance, she can see that it passes as a family shop. There are kiddies’ clothes, meat, tinned groceries, cheese, some cheap wine and a bottle of brandy. He could easily be mistaken for a dad taking his turn at the weekly supermarket trip. But he isn’t. Shirl is dead certain he isn’t.

For a start, his basket of goodies contains five of the most frequently stolen supermarket items in the country, with prepacked meat – easy to sell in the pub – being a long-running number one, followed by razor blades – stupidly expensive and small enough to conceal – then alcohol, cheese and batteries.

The next suspicious sign is that the kiddies’ clothes – always in the top ten – include a winter coat for a 14-year-old and a three-pack of rompers for a newborn. That’s odd. In Shirl’s experience, most families have kids close together. Ten-year age gaps are most unusual, even if not unheard of. Fourteen years and more, though? Well, they’re as rare as flying unicorns.

Then there’s the real clincher.

This bloke doesn’t look lost. Or confused. Or fed up. Or desperate to get out. And he’s not once touched his phone. No call home to say he can’t find something that’s on the list, to check if a substitute will be okay. Oh no, this bloke’s dodgy all right.

Shirl’s sure she knows exactly what his game is.

That knee-length overcoat is unzipped and wide open. She’s willing to bet her next bonus cheque that it has an easy-access false lining, into which the packs of meat will be slipped on the right-hand side, with the brandy bottle and razor blades going into a slit on the left.

He’ll park his trolley near as many shoppers as possible, then perform the ‘anorak drop’ on the turn. All the people milling about will mask his move from the cameras. Then he’ll head straight to the checkout.

Sure enough, Mr Family Man does exactly as she thought.

The meat and the whisky have disappeared.

This sly young fox is on the move.

Shirl weaves her way past some dawdling pensioners, excuses herself as she splits up nattering mums and tucks into the till queue, two people back from her target. Once he’s passed the payment barrier and is through the exit doors, she’ll nab him.

A few aisles away, someone knocks a display over. Bottles crash and splinter.

Probably daft Brenda, the new shelf-stacker. Rod will have her guts for garters.

Then someone screams. There’s a lot of screaming. People running.

A burning pain erupts in the middle of Shirl’s back.

Damned sciatica!

No. This is worse than that.

Much worse.

She falls to her knees. Feels coldness wash through her. Sees blood seeping through her blouse.

Even now, Shirl, the constant professional, looks for the shoplifter.

He’s flat out in front of her. His skull leaking greys and reds and bone and tissue. If Tessa had been quicker on the till, he’d have already been through the queue, and she’d be outside the store, nicking him.

Crime Scene Three

11.32 am

Seadean, Brighton

On days like this – the worst in their lives – Jack and Lisa Thornton wish they’d never quit their city jobs and moved to the country.

Married for ten years, they’d tired of the London rat race, the long Tube journeys to work and the ludicrous cost of living. So, when Jack’s grandfather died and left him 80 hectares of land, a flock of the world’s cutest sheep and a sprawling stone farmhouse, they jumped at the chance to embrace rural life.

If they’d known what awaited them, they’d have stayed put.

A week of record rainfall and widespread flooding have forced them to fill the winter barns much earlier than planned. And as usual, several sheep have run off. Hence today’s recovery expedition and their latest stretch of bad luck.

‘They’re down the hill,’ Lisa cries, as Bess the sheepdog heads across the sodden fields towards a white woollen blur in the distance.

‘I need windscreen wipers for my eyes,’ Jack says, struggling to focus on the horizon.

The descent is steep, and slippery enough to force them off the public footpath and down the side of the field, frozen fingers clutching the ancient stone wall dividing their land from their neighbour’s.

‘Look! One of those idiots has fallen into a flooded ditch,’ Jack declares as they get near enough to see the runaways the collie has now herded together.

‘Poor thing.’ Lisa doesn’t let on that she’s given names to many of the animals and thinks the errant ewe is one of her favourites.

‘It’s alive, but stuck.’ Jack wades into the boggy area, mud sucking at his wellies with every step. ‘Grab a leg: we’ll haul her out.’

Lisa steps forward and slips. ‘Shit!’ She gets up as fast as she can. Hands and knees soaked. Freezing water flooding her Hunters. Nevertheless, she reaches out to the distressed animal – Demelza, after the heroine in Poldark – and secures a back leg.

Jack grabs the other: ‘Okay, heave!’

They pull together, slipping and sliding, as the animal thrashes, spraying muddy water in their faces. Through the murk, they somehow manage to grin at each other. This is still better than the nightly commute on a rattling underground train filled with soulless strangers.

The bleating sheep finally finds her footing and twists free of the bog.

‘Thank God!’ Jack falls backwards, and instantly Demelza dodges around him, only to be cornered by Bess.

‘Bloody sheep,’ he exclaims, getting to his feet, ‘Why couldn’t Grandad have kept cows?’

Lisa doesn’t laugh.

She screams.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ she shouts, covering her face in horror.

Now Jack sees why.

It’s floating in the watery hole that Demelza escaped from.

A skeleton.

An unmistakably human head and torso.

Chapter 1

12.30 pm

Brighton

The tourists have long gone, taking with them all traces of the glorious summer that blessed this famous seaside town. The fairground at the end of the pier is shuttered. The promenade, once teeming with lobster-coloured ice cream seekers, is now populated only by raincoated dog walkers and a solitary, out-of-shape jogger, her new trainers slapping through the puddles.

26-year-old Kate Darroch is running into the stinging rain of a savage November squall as she passes the blackened skeleton of the old pier, left in the sea like a stolen supermarket trolley.

Great, she thinks, just back from two weeks in the Caribbean where it was almost 30 degrees, and this is what I get.

If Kate had her way, she and husband Steve would move abroad. At least to Spain. Maybe even further into the sun.

California, where there seems to be only one season – the sensible one – summer.

Warmth!

That’s what Kate wants for Christmas. Perpetual warmth, not freezing cold conditions for six months, especially at a time when energy bills are so high and her tight-wad hubby says they can’t have the heating on until December.

Effing December!

Kate says ‘effing’ a lot: that’s because Steve disapproves of the actual F-word but has reluctantly accepted ‘effing’as a compromise.

The rain is now reaching what her dad calls ‘biblical proportions’, and if the truth be known, right now, Kate would rather be building an ark than enduring the agony of training for the fast-approaching Hove half-marathon. If it wasn’t for the money she’s already raised for charity – and to prove a cackle of colleagues wrong – she wouldn’t be pounding the pavement impersonating a drowned cat locked out by sadistic owners.

Halting at the gates of her workplace, she swipes her ID card through the electronic reader and enters the featureless multi-storey building.

OMG – that can’t be right!

She really can’t believe it.

A glance at her sports watch has broken her heart.

I’m getting slower, not faster. And my legs are aching more, not less.Surely this running malarkey should be easier by now? After all, this is the third time in two months that I’ve managed a full three miles.

After showering and changing in the basement gym, she moans her way up the stairs to the long, open-plan room housing Serious Crimes. Everyone is either on the phone or rushing from desk to desk. Even Gareth the Sloth – he who only moves when he needs to pee, eat or go home.

Something has happened.

Something big.

Her hunch is corroborated by evidence that no one is drinking tea or larking about. There are no bowed heads texting extra-marital partners, no video games being covertly played on computer screens.

Settling at her desk, opposite her BFAW, DC Wendy Lynch, who’s on the phone waiting to speak to someone, Kate mouths the question, ‘What’s gone off?’

Wendy shields the phone with a hand and tells her, ‘A fuckwit with a gun gone crazy in a supermarket in Oldhaven – and a skellybob in a field at Seadean. What’ve you done to your face?’

Kate thought the bruising on her cheek had almost gone, believed she’d expertly covered it with concealer and blusher. ‘Made an arse of myself on a water slide,’ she confesses. ‘Slipped getting on the chute and howled all the way down.’

Wendy laughs.

‘Darroch!’ The shout comes from several metres away, and Kate doesn’t have to turn to know it came from DCI Jacqui Ross.

The two have history – and none of it good. For a start, Kate’s not great at reporting upwards, or form filling, or sticking rigidly to all the service’s rules and guidelines. Conversely, Ross most definitely is. In fact, the 50-year-old former military policewoman literally wrote many of those rules, during her time at Hendon Police College.

‘Yes, ma’am, on my way.’ The DS scurries to the end of the room where ‘Behemoth’, as she calls her, is impatiently lurking. ‘The body in the field or the shooting in the supermarket, ma’am?’

‘Neither.’ She holds out an assignment sheet. ‘Robbery with violence in the North Laine.’

Kate takes it but doesn’t look at it. ‘Isn’t there a DC we can send, ma’am? They usually pull these straws – the short ones, that is.’

‘No, there isn’t. We’ve got an elderly shop owner, unconscious and on his way to hospital. His female assistant was bound and blindfolded. She only managed to get loose and 999 us after the bastards had legged it.’

‘Was she injured?’ Kate asks.

‘Shaken but not hurt. Get her statement and be back here ASAP.’

‘She sounds like a Martini, ma’am – you know, shaken but not stirred ...’

‘Not funny, Darroch.’ Ross squints at her. ‘What happened to your face? Let me guess – blind drunk on holiday, like last time?’

‘Slipped, ma’am. On a water slide. Sober, not sloshed.’

The DCI gives her a despairing look. ‘Water slides are the work of the devil, Darroch. You should have known better. No slip-ups today. Off you go.’

Chapter 2

La Galerie des Senteurs Secrètes,

Brighton

The shop is in darkness. Kate rings the bell for the second time and waits impatiently in the rain. Lights flicker on. A small, red-haired woman, dressed in a cream silk top and black flared trousers, appears at the front door.

Kate presses her warrant card to the glass. ‘Police – DS Kate Darroch – I left a message on the answerphone.’

The door opens, and an unmistakably Irish voice says, ‘Please come on in and get yourself out of that rain.’ She steps aside so that the officer can enter.

‘I’m guessing you’re Ciara,’ Kate says, ‘and it was you who rang us?’ She collapses her umbrella and shakes it dry.

‘Yes, that’s right, I’m Ciara O’Cleary.’

‘I need to take a statement while everything’s fresh in your mind.’ She squeezes past into the warm, dry shop and Ciara relocks the door.

‘Are you okay?’ Kate asks, seeing the distress on her face. ‘Do you need me to call a doctor or anyone?’

‘Chocolate, coffee, cigarettes,’ says Ciara, looking pained by each word. ‘Chocolate, coffee, cigarettes,’ she repeats, showing even more anguish.

‘What? I don’t understand.’

‘Chocolate, coffee, cigarettes.’ This time Ciara shuts her eyes and turns away.

‘Hey, hey – relax, you’re safe now.’ Kate guesses the outburst is a release of trauma. ‘It’s all over. They’re gone, and everything’s going to be all right.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Ciara sounds almost breathless. ‘Whenever I’m stressed, I have to vocalize what’s troubling me. I’ve got to say it three times – that’s what my therapist told me. “Say it three times, Ciara, and the mind will move on rather than dwell on what it perceives as a danger.”That’s what he said. If I do that, then I don’t have a fit. Strange as it sounds, it does work.’

Kate’s confused. ‘And chocolate, coffee and cigarettes are troubling you right now?’

‘No – well, yes, they are a little.’ Ciara looks flustered. ‘What I’m trying to say is that the robbery is what’s made me anxious – but the three things I said, well, they’re what your breath and clothes smell of.’

‘What I smell of?’ Kate feels a little insulted.

‘Yes, when you passed me in the doorway, your odours – they sort of took me by surprise and – well – frankly, they made me feel a bit sick.’

Kate’s eyes widen in surprise. ‘How I smell makes you sick?’

‘Oh dear, that sounds really rude. I’m sorry.’ Ciara grows flustered. ‘Let me explain. I have a medical condition called hyperosmia and strong odours flash up in my mind like scent bottle labels:

CHOCOLATE

COFFEE

TOBACCO

Apparently, I have smell receptors in my nose that are about a hundred times more sensitive than yours, or almost anyone else’s for that matter. So I can tell that you’ve recently eaten something chocolatey, drunk really strong coffee and smoked a cigarette – full strength, not menthol. The tobacco note is the most noticeable, but then that’s tobacco – it always lingers.’

Kate’s head is in a spin. ‘I still don’t quite understand what you’re saying, but you are right – I had black coffee and a chocolate muffin at the Starbucks just around the corner from here, and I sneaked a cigarette about an hour ago. My husband thinks I’ve given up, so I’ll have to grab some mints on the way home.’

‘Please don’t worry about what I said,’ Ciara pleads. ‘Unless someone’s a bit of a freak like me, you can be sure they won’t smell anything on you.’ She glances at her watch. ‘Will you need me for long? Only, I’d like to go to the hospital, to be with Monsieur Moreau.’

‘Hopefully not.’ Kate looks around the shop. ‘Is there somewhere we can sit, so I can take the statement?’

‘There’s a table and chairs in the stockroom. But – well – it’s not particularly pleasant in there. One of the fellas did something when he was back there.’

‘What was that?’

‘Pissed. He pissed in the corner and on some of the boxes. Stank of ammonia it did. Fella must have been badly dehydrated.’

‘You could smell that?’ Kate answers her own question: ‘Yes, of course you could, or else you wouldn’t have said it. Unfortunately, burglars and robbers often get stressed out during their crimes, and they need to go. Maybe we could just bring some chairs in here?’

Ciara nods and heads to the back room.

The policewoman scans the shop.

The cowardly shitheads have broken whatever they haven’t stolen. Smashed mirrors, glass counters and shelves. Maybe there wasn’t much cash in here, and that drove them crazy.

‘I won’t be a minute. Sorry!’ Ciara shouts, holding open the door from the stockroom.

‘No problem.’

Near the front window with its toppled displays, Kate bends low to examine spatters and smears of blood.

This must be where Moreau was attacked.

She takes out her mobile phone and photographs what looks like a bloody handprint on the underside of the main counter.

The old chap must have grabbed it to get himself upright.

Kate snaps additional wide shots and close-ups of blood that’s puddled and dried nearby.

This is most likely where he passed out. Fucking animals, beating up an old man. I hope the dog patrol catch them and bite their bollocks off.

Ciara reappears and cringes at the sight of her boss’s blood, her nose picking up smells of copper, rust and iron in the dried gore. ‘Are you wanting these chairs side by side?’ she asks. ‘Or opposite each other? Is opposite the best for you? Or do you want me to sit next to you, so I can read what you write and help correct it if necessary?’

‘Whatever you’re most comfortable with,’ Kate answers, finishing her photography.

‘Then opposite is best. Best for me that is. Forgive the selfishness.’ She places the plastic seats quite far apart. ‘You see, when I’m having difficulties, I don’t like people to be too close to me. If it’s acceptable, then opposite and quite distanced is how I’d prefer it.’

‘That’s fine. Totally fine.’ Kate opens her notebook and sits down. ‘We can stop any time you like. I just need you to run through what happened, in your own words, in your own time.’

Ciara sits. Back straight, shoulders square, knees together, hands folded on lap. All the things she was taught. Everything as right and proper as a young lady in company should be.

Suddenly, she stands up. ‘I forgot, I’m sorry. You’ll be wanting to see a videotape of the event; I know you will. I have it on my tablet in the back. It fell between some boxes when one of the men pushed me; otherwise, I expect he’d have stolen that as well. Is it okay if I get it?’

‘Please do.’ Kate’s still thinking about the man urinating. It’s hard but not impossible to get DNA from piss. I’m told it degrades in urine more quickly than in faeces. A shame the bastard didn’t need a shit.

Ciara returns and hands over the computer tablet. ‘Our CCTV footage is saved automatically in the Cloud via the app that’s open on the screen. I’ve paused it at the moment the fella entered the shop. I’m not in it, because I was already in the back room by then.’

The video frame shows two men, hoods up, heads down, standing like statues in front of the fallen shopkeeper. Kate hits play and grimaces as she watches the brief but brutal attack. With François Moreau on the floor, straddled by one robber, the second one opens a large, black holdall and pulls out three similar bags. ‘They’re both wearing balaclavas under the hoods,’ she says, as she watches them stealing the stock. ‘It makes identification difficult. Are there any cameras outside the shop?’

‘Unfortunately not.’

‘Any in the other room, where you were?’ She winces as she sees Moreau try to get to his feet, only to be knocked down again.

Fucking animals.

‘Yes. The stockroom cameras are on a second video file, just scroll down and you’ll see it.’

Kate finds it and watches. At first, only one of the men appears. Ciara has her back to him and is unaware he’s there, until he pushes her into a rack of shelves and shouts, ‘Don’t fucking turn around. So much as look at me and I’ll fuck you up.’

The voice is accentless, maybe local – hard to tell these days with Brighton being so cosmopolitan.

On-screen, the robber pulls Ciara’s hands behind her back and wraps heavy-duty black tape around them. He does the same around her head, covering her mouth and eyes.

Painful to get that sticky stuff off. I’m surprised she’s still got any eyebrows.

He then pushes her down onto her knees in the corner of the room, face to the wall. Content she’s not moving, not going to give him any trouble, he steps away and scoops more stock into the bags.

The second man comes into shot. Says something to his friend that Kate can’t hear. He steps away, then alongside Ciara, unzips and pees everywhere.

Wonder you didn’t wet yourself, mate – that looked a close call to me.

Finally, both men go out of the frame. Kate stops the video and asks, ‘Do you have any idea what was taken from these shelves? What their values are?’

‘Most of our 100 ml perfumes retail at between £200 and £300, some at more than £500.’

‘That sounds expensive.’

‘It is, but some of Monsieur Moreau’s creations cost significantly more than that.’

‘How much more?’

‘Upwards of £3,000.’

‘My days! I have a car worth less than that.’

Ciara smiles. ‘My boss is a genius in the perfume world – what we call a “nose” – a creator of original scents. He’s got celebrity clients on every continent.’

Kate waves a hand at the general mess around them. ‘So, what would you say, in total value, has been broken or taken from here?’

‘In total? Hell’s teeth, I really can’t say.’

‘Ballpark?’

‘I’d only started working out what’d been stolen when you turned up – I’d say more than a quarter of a million pounds.’

‘A quarter of a million? £250,000?’

‘At least.’

For the first time, Kate wonders if small, vulnerable Ciara, with her charming Irish accent, is actually pulling a fast one.

This could be an insurance job – the owner of a struggling local business hires two yobs to give him a bit of a working over and ‘steal’ stuff that he can’t sell. Then he has his nervous assistant give us a hugely inflated estimate of what’s missing. Once the insurance is paid out, he gets his stock back and the yobs each trouser a nice wodge of cash. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time such a stunt’s been pulled.

‘Please don’t take this wrongly,’ Kate says, leaning a little closer and locking eyes, ‘but this shop isn’t that big – and even at three grand for some sets, how can you have so much valuable stock in here?’

‘Use the tablet I just gave you and Google “world’s most expensive perfumes”,’ Ciara nods at the iPad. ‘You’ll see a Moreau creation called Intouchable listed there, and you’ll see the price as well.’ While Kate searches, Ciara adds, ‘The source oil for the scent was in the safe.’

‘This is crazy,’ Kate says, reading the web page. ‘According to this, Untouchable is not even in the top five most expensive perfumes. There’s even one worth more than a million quid!’

Ciara corrects her: ‘In-touchable,not Un-touchable. Some of those top five fragrances are so expensive because the bottles are bejewelled, or coated in gold or other precious metals, but a few, like Monsieur’s, contain “novel molecules” that have been patented. Intouchable’s comes from a bisexual form of jasmine containing a molecule that can’t be synthetically made. Lord knows, the Chinese have tried hard enough. Monsieur filed patents, creating what the perfume business calls a captive.’

‘What does “captive” mean,’ Kate asks, ‘in this context?’

‘It means it is exclusive to us – we have captured it. No one else can copy, produce or exploit it.’

‘And how much of that was in the safe?’

‘Half a litre: that’s 17.6 fluid ounces, and its retail value is just over £14,000 per ounce, so I calculate that to be worth about £246,000.’

No shit, Sherlock! Kate thinks,this is either a far bigger robbery, or a much more intricate scam, than I imagined.

The DS gets to her feet and takes out her phone. ‘Excuse me, I need to call my boss.’

‘Would you like me to wait in the back, or outside?’

‘Neither is necessary, thanks.’

Kate’s call connects.

‘DCI Ross.’

‘Ma’am, it’s Darroch. This shop robbery isn’t what we thought –’

Her boss cuts her off: ‘I know. We’ve just heard from the hospital: the owner, François Moreau, died in ICU. You’re best placed to break the news to his assistant, so do that and get back here as fast as you can.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Damn it, you’re going to have to act as SIO for the moment, so don’t let me – or yourself – down.’

CHapter 3

‘If only I’d not been doing the stocktaking,’ Ciara tells Kate and another officer in the interview room – a tall man whose name she can’t remember – ‘he’d still be alive.’

‘Or you’d also have been injured – or killed,’ says Lewis Morgan, an officer in his mid-twenties who’s just passed his sergeant’s exam. ‘You’re not to blame in any way: that’s on the men who robbed you and no one else.’

Kate senses a basic kindness about Ciara. She seems to have a genuine affection for her boss. ‘Do you know if Mr Moreau had any relatives we should contact?’

‘Not in this country. There’s a brother in France, but they haven’t spoken for years. He runs a vineyard.’

‘Any idea where?’

‘Châteauneuf-du-Pape. It was the family business and passed to him when their parents died.’

‘But Mr Moreau had no partner, or any other dependants in this country?’

‘No, none. And could we please call him monsieur, not mister? “Mister” seems disrespectful to his Frenchness.’

‘Of course,’ says Kate.

‘Thank you.’ Ciara falls silent, then adds, ‘Oh, my lord, I’d forgotten about Tanguy.’

‘A relative?’ Lewis asks.

‘No, his cat. He needs feeding – and his tray will be stinking to high heaven by now.’

‘We can have Tanguy looked after,’ Kate replies, ‘or we can arrange for him to come to you, if you prefer?’

Ciara nods. She’d like that. Now she thinks of a bigger worry: ‘And Monsieur – his body?’ She feels an awkward, emotional tug. ‘I don’t know what to do – I mean about his funeral. He wasn’t religious, but there’ll still be arrangements to make, won’t there?’

‘There will,’ says Kate, ‘but because of the way he died there will have to be an inquest, and that means the coroner’s office currently controls what happens next. As to any other arrangements, well, we can either put you in contact with funeral companies who can help, or –’

‘I want to do it – I think he would expect me to do that for him.’

‘Then we’ll support you as best we can,’ Kate says.

‘Ciara,’ Lewis speaks in a gentle tone, ‘the CCTV footage doesn’t show the offenders’ faces. We’re going to search for their images on street cameras, hopefully catch them before they put on their balaclavas. Meanwhile, is there anything you can tell us that might help identify them? Did you get a glimpse of their shoes, maybe a tattoo on a hand or anything like that?’

She shakes her head. ‘No. I’m very sorry, I didn’t see a thing.’

Kate interjects: ‘She was attacked from behind, Lewis, and they taped up her eyes and mouth.’

‘Have we got that tape?’ he asks.

‘We have,’ Kate confirms, irritated that he thinks she might not be doing her job properly.

‘There is something I can tell you,’ Ciara says, ‘but it’s not about how they looked. It’s that their clothes smelled strongly of nail salons and coffee.’

‘Nail salons?’ Lewis queries. ‘Not the usual habitat of violent robbers.’

‘No, that’s not what I meant. Back in Ireland, I did some charity work with drug addicts, and when cocaine and baking soda are mixed together and heated up, they produce a sweetish scent, like the polishes you smell when you walk into a nail salon.’

‘And coffee?’ he asks. ‘You mentioned coffee.’

‘Yes. A light, very light smell of coffee – not good coffee like Kate drinks.’

‘Coffee is often mixed with cocaine by dealers; it pads out the volume and increases profits on the drug.’ Lewis adds, ‘How on earth did you manage to pick that out?’

‘Well, one of the reasons I work in perfumes is that I have a very acute sense of smell. It’s partly the result of an underlying condition I’ve had since birth, and partly because of the training Monsieur Moreau is kindly giving me.’ She grimaces as she notices her mistake. ‘Was giving me.’

‘The pain will ease in time.’ Kate pours her a glass of water from a jug on the interview room table.

‘Thank you.’ Ciara takes a sip and tries to clear her mind, but now all she can remember is the robber pushing her into the wall.

He was at his closest then, pressing his body against mine, gripping my wrists and pulling them behind my back, his gloves all over my mouth and eyes, so close to my nose.

The gloves ...

‘They smelled of a launderette,’ she tells the two police officers. ‘I noticed it first on the man who tied me up, and then on the other one.’

‘And what does laundry smell like?’ Lewis asks.

‘Not laundry, a launderette,’ Ciara snaps. ‘They’re very different. Domestic laundry is unique to each home. It’s determined by the type of water – hard or soft – in the area, what soap powder is used and whether scented fabric conditioners are added. Industrial launderettes – they’re different. Because so many people use the same machines, you end up with an aggregated smell in the drum, in the metal, in the bacteria, in the air.’

‘And both men had this same smell?’ Kate asks, starting to follow Ciara’s train of thought.

‘They did. Launderettes have specific industrial odours, they have unique base and mid-notes – bleach, chlorine, starch, detergent. And all these smells are produced at or close to boiling point, meaning they become steam – vapour – and that drifts and smells everywhere.’

‘Maybe I’ve got this wrong,’ Lewis says, ‘but are you suggesting our robbers worked in a launderette? Because that sounds a bit far-fetched.’

‘I’m not saying that at all.’ Ciara can’t help but sound offended – she’s struggled all her life with people not understanding her affliction. ‘What I am saying is that at some point today, they had either been together in the same launderette for quite a long time or been somewhere very, very close to the launderette.’

‘Like in a nearby flat or house?’ Kate suggests. ‘Would that be possible?’

Ciara thinks of Monsieur’s perfume factory in France and the subtle honey-scented clouds she watched endlessly emanating from steam distillation vats filled with Centifolia roses. ‘Yes, yes, that would be very possible,’ she replies.

‘I get that you have this condition,’ Lewis continues, ‘and that your business is perfumes and smelling them and whatnot, but are you certain – absolutely certain – that what you’re telling us is accurate? Because if you’re not, if these are just wild guesses – or you’re making it up for some odd reason – then you could seriously mislead our inquiries.’

‘I never make things up – and I certainly never guess,’ Ciara snaps back. ‘Monsieur Moreau told me that the day he caught me guessing elements of a scent would be the day he fired me.’

‘That sounds harsh,’ Kate says.

‘On the contrary. He was educating and nurturing my sense of smell and teaching me scent articulation. He was –’ Ciara runs out of words and tears well in her eyes.

‘Would you like to stop for a while?’ Kate asks. ‘We know this must be difficult for you.’

Ciara doesn’t hear the offer. Her mind is drifting again. This time back to the beginning of it all, to the moment her life changed forever.

Chapter 4

Six years ago

It started in London.

Ciara had arrived from Dublin on her twenty-second birthday, not to celebrate it, but to make a fresh start, to get away from her past. She was soon making ends meet, by working nights in bars and days in any Oxford Street department store that found itself short-handed.

During a cover shift on a perfume counter, she learned of a vacancy for a trainee artisan perfumer in Brighton. The position was proving hard to fill because the French owner was notoriously difficult to work with. ‘He’s a right fussy bastard,’ a sales rep told her.

Ciara didn’t send a written application, or telephone to check her suitability for the position. The morning after learning of the opening, she simply put on her one good dress, boarded the 5.59 train, crossed her fingers and went.

Just over an hour later, she made the eight-minute walk from Brighton railway station to La Galerie des Senteurs Secrètesin the North Laine district, arriving almost two hours before it normally opened. Fortuitously, the owner was a man with only work in his life, and she watched him set about unlocking the front door a few minutes after 8 am.

Nerves jangling, she strode over to him and bravely tried out her schoolgirl French: ‘Bonjour, Monsieur Moreau, je suis venue pour le travail.’

‘S’il vous plaît – ne me parlez pas en français,’ he replied, without looking up from the door lock. ‘Your accent is too painful for my ears this early in the morning.’

‘I’m sorry, I thought you might think better of me if I spoke French.’

‘I would – if it were French,’ he replied curtly, finally glancing at the small figure beside him. ‘Exactly what accent are you afflicted with?’

‘Irish, sir. I was raised in Dublin, and with all due respect, I don’t see it as an affliction.’

‘You are correct. It is not an affliction, it is an offence.’

‘Sir, I have come from London, about the vacancy you have for a trainee.’

Moreau gave her a second look, sighed and said, ‘Come inside.’

‘Thank you.’ She shuffled through the door and past him as he disabled the alarm, accidentally inhaling the cologne he’d applied no more than half an hour ago. It was enough to trigger both physical and psychological reactions. Physical in the form of a piercing headache. Psychological in her already well-practised diversion therapy of vocalization. ‘Jasmine,’ she whispered.

‘Pardon?’ He shot her an uncomfortable glance.

‘Jasmine,’ she repeated, and then embarrassingly said it again: ‘Jasmine.’ She was certain she’d ruined her big pitch before she had even made it. ‘I’m nervous, and when I get anxious, I say out loud what I smell, and ... well ... I know it’s rude ... but I kind of fixated on your cologne.’

‘And you said jasmine.’ He looked vaguely amused. ‘Do you know what type of jasmine?’

She felt her face turn red. ‘I didn’t know there were types. I thought there was just jasmine.’

He looked aghast. ‘There are more than two hundred different species. You detected Jasminumsieboldianum. What else is in the cologne?’

‘Rose?’

‘And?’

Ciara struggled to go further. ‘Maybe vanilla?’

‘“Maybe”? That is not a word we use in perfumery. At least not in my perfumery. Was there vanilla, or not?’

Scarlet faced, she answered: ‘There was.’ She sneaked a surreptitious sniff. ‘And – something else.’

‘Oh.“Something else.”’ He shrugged and looked bored. ‘Is that what you would suggest to a client who commissions us to create for him a bespoke, signature scent? “Would you like maybe vanilla and maybe something else, monsieur?” Is that what he is to compensate us for – a unique blend of maybes and somethings?’

Ciara felt she had no answer, except perhaps to die on the spot, which she considered almost preferable to his interrogation.

‘Do you have a degree in chemistry, mademoiselle? Most of them do – the ones the agency sends – little scientists with littler imaginations.’

She thought about correcting his English, but instead conceded, ‘No. I don’t even have that.’

Pointedly, he examined the vintage Patek Philippe leather-strapped watch around his wrist, the only thing his multi-millionaire father had left him in his will. ‘It is time, I think, for you to leave so I may prepare for today’s opening.’

Ciara started her walk of shame to the door, then, on a whim, detoured to one of the displays, picked up a tester and sprayed it. ‘Patchouli and coumarin.’ More confidently, she moved on to the next tester. ‘Lime and tea rose.’ As she picked up the third, she knew she had his full attention. ‘Rum and –’

‘And what?’

She struggled. Right at her big moment, she couldn’t name the other ingredient. The only words on the tip of her tongue were ‘something’ or ‘maybe’...

‘Go on,’ urged the master perfumer, with a knowing smile. ‘Soyez brave.’

Ciara closed her eyes, shut out his challenging stare and said the only things she could think of. ‘Sweet and dry, raisins – it smells of rum and raisin ice cream.’ She braced herself for the inevitable verbal evisceration.

Moreau erupted in a peal of laughter. ‘Oui, oui! Précisément. It is rum and raisin.’ Such was his joy that his whole body seemed to shake. ‘This is good, very good. The chemists who come here, they cannot do this. They know their formulas and their measures, but they could not smell their own skin if it were on fire. Useless. They waste my time – and at my age, time is not an ingredient to be squandered. Now, let me look at you.’

Ciara stood awkwardly, while for the first time, he took a serious, considered look at her.

‘This garment, hanging from neck to ankles,’he said critically. ‘It is for a corpse. No – correction – it is too dreary for the dead. Why did you come in this?’

Ciara reddened with both fury and embarrassment. ‘This is the best dress I own. I mean, I have only two, but I promise you this is the newest and most expensive.’

‘My dear girl, it is not expense nor newness that matters. It is taste. A female client will not trust your taste in perfume if she sees you can’t dress yourself avecbrio. And the male client – he will not trust you to recommend a scent to make him desirable if he sees you cannot dress yourself in a desirable way. Desirable for yourself, I must stress, not for him. Fashion that appeals must excite your own eyes, just as perfume must first excite your own nose.You understand?’

‘Yes, I think I do.’

He shook his head disapprovingly. ‘No, no, do not say “I think” – this is another of your maybes or somethings. You must be précise. Now, did you understand what I just said, mademoiselle?’

‘Yes,’ she answered firmly, then bravely added, ‘but I have to tell you, back in Ireland we have an old saying that I think has a lot of truth in it: Cuir síoda ar ghabhar agus is gabhar i gcónaí é – it means you can put all the silk in the world on a goat, but it’ll still only be a goat.’

‘Aha!’ He laughed. ‘This is funny – and yes, it is true. But our business is to make the goats smell like lions and lionesses, like the kings and queens of the jungle.’ He paused and smiled. ‘You have a strong nose, this is a rich gift, but you have a poor scent lexicon – in perfume terms, you are a pensioner with the vocabulary of a child.’

‘I can learn. My French is poor, I admit that, but I’m fluent in Italian and Latin,’ Ciara announced defensively. ‘I can learn the language of perfumery; I promise I can.’

He studied the hope in her young eyes, then said, ‘The job of trainee artisan perfumer – this is a prize not so easily won. But – I will give you a chance to claim this position. I propose a trial period of a month – after that, we will talk of permanency. To you, is that acceptable?’

‘Starting today?’ she asked hopefully.

He nodded. ‘Why not? I am of an age when doing something today is far wiser than delaying it until tomorrow.’

Chapter 5

Present day, 8 am

South East Coast Police Headquarters,

Brighton

It’s the morning after one of the busiest operational days in the history of the South East Coast Police Force. Only the infamous IRA bombing of the Conservative Party Conference in 1984, when five people were killed and more than thirty injured, exceeded yesterday’s sad toll.

DS Kate Darroch sits alongside DI Dave Paver, a friendly giant in his late thirties, renowned for drinking at least his own weight in IPA and whisky. Next to him is the officer Kate most wants to be reincarnated as: DI Amita Khan, head of Firearms, a trained hostage negotiator, Cambridge psychology graduateand the proud owner of the finest cheekbones known to humanity.

The three are gathered around a small conference table in DCI Ross’s office, updating their overworked boss on respective operations.

‘Five dead, ma’am – a store detective, a till assistant, a man in his late twenties and an elderly couple doing their weekly shop,’ Amita reports. ‘A further two – both men in their thirties – are still in ICU. Seven other shoppers, including a young mother and her 18-month-old child, remain in hospital being treated for non-critical wounds.’

‘And the gunman?’ Ross asks.

‘14-year-old Sam Rankin was arrested without being injured. Surrendered as soon as we identified ourselves. Dropped his weapon, and said, “I’m going to be more famous than me dad now, innit?”’

‘Add crimes against the English language to his sheet,’ Dave Paver says. ‘The little toerag is Tommy Rankin’s youngest.’

‘Sam, Tommy and three brothers are indeed recidivists,’ Amita continues, irritated by Dave’s know-it-all intervention. ‘Their extended family includes the Peterson gang, which deals in guns, drugs and sex workers. It seems truanting Sam and two of his mates partook of his father’s cocaine stash, which inspired young Rankin to punish the local supermarket for refusing to serve him with alcohol and banning him from the store. He threw several guns and boxes of ammunition into a rucksack and – in his own words – set off “to teach the fuckers a lesson”.’

‘He’s given a statement?’ Ross asks.

‘No, ma’am. He said that at the scene, and it’s been corroborated by officers and his two friends – both of whom are anxious to distance themselves from what happened.’

‘Did they comment under caution and in the presence of adults?’

‘Yes, ma’am – both boys had a parent and solicitor present.’

‘Expect those testimonies to disappear if this goes to trial,’ Dave warns. ‘Sam’s old man isn’t opposed to witness nobbling.’

‘It wouldn’t affect our chances of conviction,’ Amita asserts. ‘There was 360-degree CCTV in the store, and half the town was in there shopping at the time, along with forensics on the guns. We’ll have no trouble convicting if he pleads not guilty.’

‘Have you alerted the CPS?’ Ross asks. ‘Given he’s a juvenile, there’ll be endless red tape and reporting restrictions. And Amita, you must make sure no one from your team says anything to the media that identifies him.’

‘Fully understood. I’ve already briefed them to that end, and I’ve taken the liberty of drafting an internal memo for you to consider for station-wide distribution. I emailed it to your office early this morning.’

‘Thank you, I’ll review it after this meeting. Dave, where are we on the Seadean case?’

‘Two bodies, not just one as originally reported. They were found by a young couple who’ve just taken over the reins at Brook Farm. They were searching for stray sheep in a flooded field and found one of the skeletons in a ditch. When the pathologist removed it, he found another body underneath.’

‘And we’re sure it’s only two?’ Ross asks.

‘Yes, ma’am. Radar boys did a double sweep. One site, two bodies.’

‘Anything from the pathologist on how they died?’

‘It’s Hugo Black.’ Dave looks to the heavens. ‘You know how tight-lipped he is before he’s done his PMs.’

‘Sadly, I do.’ Ross wonders when she is going to catch a break. Had her detective chief super not recently taken early retirement and another boss not gone down with Covid, she’d be on holiday right now, hiking around Loch Ness, cursing the steep climbs of the Great Glen Way before spending starry nights investigating local whiskies.

‘He confirmed the two victims were fully formed adult females,’ Dave adds, ‘child-bearing ages, but he wouldn’t be more specific on how old they were. Reckoned from decomp they’d both been buried for years rather than months.’

‘Could they be Tobin’s?’ Ross asks. ‘You know that’s the first thing the media will ask us.’

‘Please, God, not.’ Dave Paver lets out a painful sigh. ‘Peter bloody Tobin – I can’t count how many days’ leave I’ve lost checking out bogus tips on bodies he’s supposed to have buried while he lived here in Brighton.’

Ross smiles sympathetically. ‘But he was a serial sex offender who buried two young females in a garden.’

‘I know, ma’am. And Tobin’s victim range was 14 to 23 years of age, so our ladies might fall within that. But real connections will depend on when ourbodies were buried. They’d have to be pre-94 when he was jailed for rape. Or between 2004 and 2007 when he was freed.’

‘Okay, let’s forget Tobin for the moment,’ Ross urges. ‘That’s a rabbit hole we really don’t want to go down unless we have to – not publicity-wise and certainly not budget-wise.’

‘Couldn’t agree more, ma’am. At this stage, we can’t even be certain the two women were murdered.’

‘Why so?’

‘Well, recently there have been cases in the north of England where illegal immigrants who died of natural causes have been buried in forests and moors by other illegals. They do it to avoid burial costs and the risks associated with getting the authorities involved.’

‘Point taken,’ the DCI concedes. ‘I can see how people living outside the “system” also die outside of it – it’s just a sign of the times.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, ma’am, I’d probably bet my house – well, what is now my ex-wife’s house – that this is murder. That someone did such a good job of disposing of the first victim that they thought the spot would be ideal for another. But – and it’s a big but – I’m hoping that’s wrong because if not, we have a serial killer on our patch.’

‘God forbid,’ exclaims Ross. ‘Where are you at re victim DNA for their identifications?’

‘Black’s sent samples for profiling. I’ve got two DCs searching mispers in and around the county before going national, and there’s a uniform search team out in Seadean. We’ve just started house-to-house interviews as well, and of course, I’ve briefed everyone not to mention the second body. Local radio was running news bulletins last night mentioning only one, and I imagined you wanted to keep it like that as long as possible?’

‘You imagined right,’ she confirms. ‘I’ve got to brief the chief and deputy straight after this, then we all have the joy of a meeting with the police and crime commissioner before a midday media conference. Anything else, Dave?’

‘No, boss.’

‘Okay. Kate, update us on your case – a robbery that turned out to be a murder, and quite a haul of perfume I understand.’

‘Yes, ma’am. About a quarter of a million quid’s worth and the murder of 73-year-old François Moreau, the owner of La Galerie des Senteurs Secrètes. He was beaten up by two men wearing balaclavas and died from what I’ve been told unofficially was either a brain bleed from a blow to the head, or heart failure. I heard two different versions from the ICU last night, and there hasn’t been a PM report as yet. His assistant, Ciara O’Cleary, was tied up and blindfolded, and though she didn’t see the men’s faces, she did give us quite extraordinary descriptions of how they smelled.’

‘How they smelled?’ Ross repeats sceptically.

‘Yes, ma’am, she’s a trained perfumer with a very advanced sense of smell, and says she detected odours of a laundromat and recent drug use on the assailants.’

Dave Paver lets out a chuckle. ‘Sorry for the flippancy,