The Dying Season E-Book

Rachel Amphlett

• Herausgeber: Saxon Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

When a man is shot at point blank range outside an isolated country pub, Kay Hunter is thrust into one of the most dangerous cases of her career.

As personal and political disputes threaten to undermine her efforts to track down the killer, Kay’s investigation is complicated further when her superiors elect to coordinate the subsequent manhunt themselves.

Uncovering a covert trade in outlawed weapons and faced with witnesses too scared to talk, Kay will have to do everything in her power to stop the killer and prevent another tragedy.

Except this time, one of her team is in the direct line of fire…

The Dying Season is the 12th book in the Detective Kay Hunter series by USA Today bestselling author Rachel Amphlett, and perfect for readers who love fast-paced crime thrillers.

Leseprobe

THE DYING SEASON

A DETECTIVE KAY HUNTER CRIME THRILLER

RACHEL AMPHLETT

The Dying Season © 2022 by Rachel Amphlett

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

All rights reserved.

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.

This is a work of fiction. While the locations in this book are a mixture of real and imagined, the characters are totally fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead is entirely coincidental.

CONTENTS

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

About the Author

ONE

Martin Terry took a sip of Heineken, smacked his lips, and cast his gaze around the cramped battered interior of the remote pub.

Half past ten, a Wednesday night and – apart from a handful of people he didn’t know by sight – the rest of the clientele comprised the usual suspects. That was normal for the time of year – summer brought the grockles, the tourists who swarmed through the Kentish villages and clogged the narrow lanes, leaving discordance and litter in their wake.

Here, now, in the cooler aftermath of late September that cloaked the North Downs, a more sedate atmosphere had descended on the hamlet and surrounding houses.

Martin leaned his elbow on the pockmarked wooden bar, then wrinkled his nose and tugged his shirt sleeve away from the sticky patch of spilt drink that pooled across the surface.

The drip trays under the lager taps in front of him stank, a tangy bitter stench of stale beer mixing with the aroma of someone’s cheese and onion crisps from the table behind him turning his stomach.

In the background, a slot machine pinged and brayed while a pair of women in their twenties cackled and poked coins into it, the loose change clattering over the low voices around him.

Conversations were muted, a respectful distance being kept between the different groups gathered within the cramped space.

Talk here could mean anything from asking a favour to covering up for someone, and as Martin casually eyed the group of four elderly pensioners dressed in muted colours at the far end of the bar, he reckoned at least one of them was the poacher rumoured to have wrecked the barbed wire fencing over at the Parrys’ property last week.

It had taken two days to locate their daughter’s Shetland pony, and all because someone decided to drag a deer carcass across a field to avoid getting caught.

Nothing had been said in the pub, though.

The regulars were used to turning a blind eye, and the strangers who did venture inside on occasion rarely returned, such was the closed atmosphere that clung to the place.

The landlord, Len, nodded to him in passing, and Martin raised his half-empty glass in salute before watching the other man wrench open a low door behind the bar and disappear down the cellar steps in a hurry.

The sixty-year-old was adept at keeping his customers happy and the local police at bay, a skillset honed by the army.

So the rumour went, anyway.

Martin knew better than to ask.

A rush of cool air swept across his ankles as the solid oak door swung outwards. As always, the regulars paused their conversations to see who entered, then relaxed as a familiar pair of smokers ambled towards the bar reeking of nicotine, their habit satiated for the moment.

Lydia brushed past him, her dark hair tied into a top knot and her face flushed while she dashed towards a waiting middle-aged couple with two pints of ale.

‘Why does everything run out at the same time?’ she hissed under her breath.

‘Stops you getting bored,’ he replied, grinning when his wife rolled her eyes.

‘That’s what I tell her, but she don’t listen,’ Len grumbled, emerging from the cellar and wiping his hands on the tea-towel slung over his shoulder.

‘About time, Len,’ said one of the pensioners at the far end of the bar, an empty pint glass held out in hope. ‘I’m dying of thirst here.’

‘I should be so lucky, Geoff,’ the landlord shot back, smirking as the old man’s friends berated him. ‘I’m almost done. Just let me check it first.’

Martin watched as the man reached up to the shelving suspended above the fifteenth-century bar and selected a half pint glass, wrapped his hand around the pump and eased it back.

The familiar golden hue of locally brewed ale flowed into the glass, sloshing against the sides and forming a thin foam.

Holding it to the light, he then took a sip, savouring the flavours.

When he turned around, Geoff Abbott and his three friends were staring at him, almost salivating.

‘I’m not sure,’ Len said, lowering the glass and frowning. ‘Barrel might be off.’

‘What?’ Geoff’s mouth dropped open, his bushy eyebrows flying upwards. ‘You’re joking.’

Len grinned. ‘Four pints, is it?’

‘You bastard. Get on and pour them before you ring the bell for last orders.’

Martin smiled at the familiar banter, thankful that for once the place was calm.

Too many times, Lydia had returned home telling him stories of punch-ups in the car park, threats that may or may not have been carried out, and more.

The one thing Len wouldn’t stand for was drugs, so at least there was that.

It was why, for the most part, the police were never called – or better yet, didn’t show up unannounced and uninvited.

There wasn’t much that the landlord couldn’t sort out himself, despite his age.

The scars that criss-crossed his sun-damaged features stood testament to the number of times Len had thrown himself into the middle of a brawl, often welcoming the same people back into the pub after only a week of being banned.

It was the way it was in here.

As far as Len was concerned, said Lydia, if people didn’t like it then they could drink at the posh place down the road and pay more for their drinks.

Which was why this place stayed popular amongst the stalwarts. It was cheap, and the tourists took one look at the ramshackle exterior as they drove by, then kept going.

Martin shook his head and turned in his seat to stretch his legs out, grateful for the chance to relax after a nine-hour shift stacking shelves.

There were about twelve people dotted around the tables spread throughout the pub, plus the four pensioners who sat anchored at the bar.

Two separate tables were taken by couples, heads bowed over their drinks as they spoke in low voices, the occasional giggle from one of the women carrying across to where he stood.

He ran his eyes over two men sitting beside the stone hearth, the grate filled with a dried flower arrangement Lydia had put together as a focal point during the summer months, most of it now scattered around the base of the vase, remnant twigs poking upwards in defiance.

He frowned.

Whatever it was the two men were discussing was proving problematic, the younger jabbing his finger at the other. His face was in shadow, and the other man had his back to Martin so he couldn’t make out whether he knew him.

He looked away, checked the rest of the room for any trouble and then caught Lydia’s eye and waved her over from where she had been standing by the till sipping a lemonade.

‘Do you know the two blokes over by the fireplace?’ he murmured.

She drained her drink, crossed to the dishwasher under the bar to his left and then returned, shaking her head.

‘Never seen either of them before,’ she said. ‘Trouble?’

He wrinkled his nose. ‘Heated conversation.’

‘I’ll give Len a heads-up.’ She glanced over her shoulder towards the clock on the wall. ‘Time’s up, anyway. They won’t be our problem for much longer.’

The clang of the large brass bell above the till was followed moments later by Len’s baritone soaring across the heads of those at the bar calling for last orders, and Martin watched as a steady stream of drinkers made their way towards Lydia for a final pint.

It wasn’t quite a Friday night stampede, but it was busy enough and the next ten minutes were filled with the sound of last minute arrangements, muttered agreements that would never be spoken of beyond the four walls of the bar, and underneath it all the sound of the till ringing in the cash that passed across Len’s fingers.

Twenty-first century or not, the landlord still refused to accept plastic and the associated paperwork trail that came with it.

Eventually, chairs scraped back, and the front door swung on its hinges as the pub emptied and people made their way home.

At the other end of the bar, Geoff drained the last of his pint, slapped the empty glass on a sodden cardboard coaster and pulled a navy wool hat over his thinning hair, despite the warm night outside. He grinned at Len, aimed his thumb towards one of his companions, and removed a pipe from his jacket pocket.

‘I’ve got a lift home, so I’ll see you tomorrow night.’

‘Cheers, Geoff.’ Len lowered the front of the dishwasher and wafted the air with a tea-towel as steam rose into the air. ‘Watch how you go.’

He reached in for the first of the glasses, moving to one side as Lydia joined him, and swore loudly as the hot surface scalded his fingers.

While the pair of them worked, Martin scanned the room, noting the two men who had been arguing were now making their way towards the exit.

‘Thanks, gents. Have a safe trip home,’ Len called.

Neither acknowledged his words.

The older of the two gave the front door a shove, not waiting to hold it open for the younger man who hurried after him, his voice raised.

‘I wonder what that was all about?’ Lydia said, reaching up to hang wine glasses by their stems as she dried them.

‘No idea,’ said Len, unruffled. ‘What time did they come in?’

‘Just after you went upstairs to get more change for the till. They ordered a couple of pints of IPA, didn’t say much, and then moved across to that table.’

Len shrugged. ‘Probably wanted somewhere private to talk, rather than their local. You know how it is.’

He draped the tea-towel over his shoulder then turned his attention to the till, programming in the closing sequence for the day and removing the coin tray to take upstairs to the office after he locked up. ‘Do you want to do the Sunday lunchtime shift? Rose has got her daughter and family visiting so she’s asked for the day off.’

‘That all right?’ Lydia turned and cocked an eyebrow at Martin. ‘We could do with the money, after all.’

‘Go on then. Just the lunchtime, mind. We promised your mum we’d––’

When the first shot echoed through the walls, Lydia’s eyes widened like a fox caught in headlights.

‘What the fuck?’ Martin spun to face the door, the bar stool tumbling to the floor.

‘What’s going on?’ said Lydia, edging to his side, shaking.

Len spun away from the bar. ‘Gunfire. Get down.’

Taking one look at the other man’s face, Martin did as he was told, dragging Lydia with him.

‘Martin…’ she whimpered.

‘Stay still.’

A second shot exploded out of the night, the report filling his ears and turning his stomach. He cringed lower to the floor, wondering if he could reach the door to lock it before the gunman turned his attention to those remaining inside, then saw Len shake his head, features pale.

‘Stay where you are,’ he hissed, before holding up a hand.

Martin strained his ears, willing his heartbeat to cease its pounding so he could hear if someone was approaching, but there was nothing.

Nothing but a stunned silence.

TWO

Detective Inspector Kay Hunter eased her car to a standstill behind a faded grey panel van, eyes widening at the scene beyond her windscreen.

Flashing blue lights strobed across the night sky from three Kent Police vehicles splayed across the gravel, their rooftop LEDs reflecting off the branches of a horse chestnut tree that leaned at a precarious angle in one corner of the car park and then filtered across the façade of the downtrodden pub.

Shadows merged as one between the lights – lumbering figures in protective coveralls with heads bowed at the perimeter of the property, and taller silhouettes that weaved between them while gripping assault rifles.

The radio clipped to the plastic dashboard holder beside Kay squawked with activity as commands were issued back and forth, devoid of all emotion, while her superiors coordinated the manhunt from their Northfleet headquarters.

Access along the lane behind her had been blocked by uniformed constables and as she climbed from her car, a tactical officer in full body armour crossed to where a liveried armed response vehicle had been abandoned in haste.

His colleagues moved out of the shadows and towards an inner cordon, the blue and white tape stretched across the car park separating the vehicles from the pub’s weather-beaten front door.

Light pooled out from the opening, the people milling about inside visible through the grime-laden windowpanes.

The tactical officer’s gloved hands cradled his semi-automatic rifle with a casualness belying the uniformed presence around her, and he nodded in recognition as she loosened a cotton elastic over her wristwatch and tied back her hair.

‘Evening, guv.’

‘Are you okay for me to proceed?’

‘We declared the scene safe twenty minutes ago, and we’ve allowed forensics access to the body. We’re all done here. The shooter made a run for it, and the bloke who copped it isn’t going anywhere. Not now.’

She bit back a grimace. ‘How bad is it?’

‘Put it this way, he ain’t going to be winning any beauty contests.’

‘What’s the latest on the shooter?’

‘There are roadblocks being established on all major routes, but that’s all I know at the moment. We’ve checked the immediate area and confirmed he’s nowhere to be found. All of the outbuildings and nearby houses are clear.’

‘Who’s in charge of the scene here?’

He jerked his head towards the cordon. ‘Paul Disher. He’s the tall bloke standing over there next to the pathologist.’

‘Thanks.’

Raising her hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the strobing lights, Kay hurried across the uneven gravel, unwilling to waste another second.

She paused when she reached the first cordon.

A crumpled form lay beyond the plastic tape, a man’s body splayed out across the dirt and stones on his stomach with his face turned away from her, his arms outstretched as if trying to break his fall.

As the emergency lights ebbed around him, his dark-coloured clothing alternating in hue, the questions already started to form in her mind.

‘Detective Inspector Hunter?’

Kay turned her attention away from the victim to see a tall sergeant in his forties heading towards her. ‘You must be Paul Disher.’

He nodded in response, the bulk of his armoured vest hiding his uniform. ‘I’m leading the tactical team. Your colleague got here a moment ago – he headed straight inside the pub.’

‘Sounds like Barnes to me.’ Kay gave a faint smile, then jerked her chin towards the broken man on the floor. ‘What can you tell me so far?’

Disher took a set of protective coveralls from a junior officer before passing them to Kay, reaching out to steady her with his hand while she tugged on the matching booties.

‘The landlord, Len Simpson, said this bloke and an older one were in the pub before the shooting,’ he explained, lifting the cordon while she ducked underneath. ‘He says he’s never seen either of them before, and that they were arguing. Not loudly, but enough that anyone close by could see it wasn’t a friendly conversation.’

‘Was there a fight?’ Kay fell into step beside Disher and followed him across to where the man’s body lay.

‘Not inside the pub. Simpson says the two men were among the last to leave, along with a group of four of his regulars and a local couple. With Simpson at the time was Lydia Terry, who works for him, and her husband Martin. The first shot was fired between five and ten minutes after all the customers had left.’

Kay circled the dead man, her gaze sweeping over the fingernails, bitten to the quick and crusted with dirt, the worn shoe soles, and then––

‘Jesus.’

She blinked, then forced herself to move closer.

What was left of the man’s face was little more than a pair of eyebrows that seemed surprised to find the rest of his features missing.

A bloody mass replaced what had been eyes, a mouth and nose, and when she lowered her gaze to his chest, another gaping wound glistened in the poor light.

‘Don’t ask which one was first, I won’t know for sure until I get him back to mine.’

She straightened at the voice to see the Home Office pathologist Lucas Anderson returning to the cordon, his face grim.

‘Suffice to say, he was trying to run away when he was shot – those are the exit wounds you’re looking at,’ he added.

A pair of younger men unfolded a gurney and rolled it to one side out of the way, awaiting further orders.

‘One in his spine to stop him, the head shot next?’ she suggested.

Lucas waggled a gloved finger at her. ‘Possibly, but that’s all you’re getting out of me at the moment. I’ll get the post mortem done within the next forty-eight hours for you.’

She gave him a curt nod, then turned back to the sergeant.

‘Any identification?’

‘There wasn’t anything in his pockets, but there’s a cheap-looking watch on his left wrist. He isn’t wearing a wedding ring, either.’

‘There’s no sign of any rings having been removed from his fingers,’ said Lucas, crouching beside the dead man and sweeping his torch over his hands.

‘What about the clothing?’ said Kay. ‘Does that match what the younger bloke was wearing who Len Simpson saw earlier?’

‘Barnes showed him some photos on his phone, and he reckons it’s the same bloke,’ said Disher.

Kay straightened, patted Lucas on the back before he turned to his two assistants, then walked with the sergeant back to the cordon.

‘All right, thanks Paul. Good work getting this under control tonight. I’ll take over the scene now so you can catch up with the rest of your team in case the shooter’s located. Do you think you could attend the briefing tomorrow? I’d like you to be on hand to help me coordinate any arrest once we’ve identified who the shooter is.’

‘Will do, guv.’

‘Thanks.’

Stripping off the protective suit, gasping for fresh air as she tore away the hood from her hair, Kay scrunched the whole lot up and shoved it into a biohazard bin set up by the CSIs at the perimeter, then turned at a familiar shout.

Detective Sergeant Ian Barnes hurried towards her, suit jacket flapping under his arms as he side-stepped a pair of constables to reach her.

‘Evening, guv.’ He wrinkled his nose when he peered over her shoulder. ‘Did you take a look?’

‘I did, yes. Not pretty, is it?’

‘I can’t remember the last time we had a shooting incident to deal with.’

‘It’s been a while.’ Turning her attention to the pub, she saw three pale faces at one of the lower windows, their features blurred by the grime across the panes. ‘And I suppose nobody saw anything?’

Her sergeant managed a wan smile. ‘Even so, I’m sure you’ll want a word.’

Kay set her shoulders, then nodded. ‘Damn right I do.’

THREE

Kay’s first impression of Len Simpson was that he was only a handful of cigarettes away from a heart attack.

The man buffered himself against the smooth worn surface of the bar by way of a sizeable belly, layers of skin under his eyes riffling while he watched what was happening beyond his windows.

He picked absently at a ragged fingernail as her officers hurried back and forth from the bar, his thick lips downturned in perpetual disappointment, his brow furrowed as if he were trying to fathom how he was going to salvage his reputation after the night’s events.

His pub seemed to be hanging on to trade with the same grim determination as its owner.

All around her were the telltale signs of a business in decline, no doubt aided and abetted by a clientele who appreciated the privacy rather than the latest culinary trends.

Dust covered the surface of every shelf, cobwebs hugging the knick-knacks that cluttered the spaces between flickering light fittings, and a dirty hearth to Kay’s right looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned since the previous winter.

‘Mr Simpson, this is Detective Inspector Kay Hunter,’ said Barnes.

Simpson removed a toothpick from between his lips and leered at her, a limp hand outstretched in greeting. ‘Well, you’re an improvement at least.’

Kay ignored his hand, and kept her gaze passive as she swept her eyes over the middle-aged couple huddled at the far end of the bar. ‘Can we have a chat in private, Mr Simpson?’

‘I’ve already given matey boy here my statement.’

Barnes raised an eyebrow at the man’s turn of phrase, but said nothing.

‘I’m sure you have,’ Kay said, then beckoned to him. ‘Come on. It won’t take long.’

She led the way over the dusty parquet flooring to a rectangular oak table with four chairs around it, and dragged one of them around to the end for Simpson, settling into another as far away from the landlord as was feasible. She leaned her elbow on the table, then grimaced and lifted it once more, her sleeve departing with a faint sucking noise as old drink stains relinquished their hold.

To her left, a pair of CSIs were processing a round oak table set for two people, and she nodded towards it as Simpson settled into his seat with an ill-disguised sigh.

‘Is that where the two men were earlier tonight?’ she said. ‘Including the victim?’

‘Yeah. We’d only just started clearing the tables after last orders when the first gunshot went off.’

‘What about the glasses they were using? Did you hang on to those?’

He grimaced. ‘Sorry – they went through the washer just before it all kicked off.’

Kay bit back the first word that threatened to slip from her lips, and sighed. ‘Okay. Take me back to when they first arrived. What time was that?’

‘I dunno.’ Simpson tugged his earlobe. ‘About half nine, quarter to ten perhaps. Late. They weren’t here long before closing.’

‘Who ordered the drinks?’

‘The older of the two. Didn’t talk much.’

‘Did you serve him, or…?’

‘Lydia served him. Two pints of bitter.’

‘Just the one round?’

‘Yeah.’ His top lip curled. ‘Glad they ain’t regulars. Took ’em over an hour to drink that one.’

‘Have you seen either of them before?’

‘No.’

‘What about accents? Did they sound local?’

He shrugged. ‘Anywhere south of the estuary.’

‘You told my colleague that they were arguing. Did you hear what that was about?’

‘No. Too busy serving.’

‘What happened when they left?’

‘They got up and walked out after I rang the bell for last orders. I told them to have a good night, but neither of them took any notice.’ Simpson ran a fat hand over his chins. ‘A group of regulars walked out a couple of minutes later and I heard one or two car engines start. Me and Lydia were about to start wiping down tables when we heard the first shot. We all got down on the floor.’

Kay leaned back and peered past Simpson to where Barnes waited beside the bar, his head bowed while he listened to one of the CSIs at his shoulder. She waved him over.

‘Mr Simpson, what time would you estimate you heard the first shot?’

‘I dunno. Pub was empty, so maybe ten past eleven, something like that?’

‘And the next?’

‘Within seconds of the first.’

Kay glanced up at Barnes. ‘What time was the triple nine call received?’

‘Eleven forty, guv.’

When she turned her attention back to the landlord, he was chewing his lip, his eyes darting back and forth over the surface of the table.

‘Anything you’re not telling me, Mr Simpson?’

His gaze snapped to hers. ‘No.’

‘Are you sure? You seem nervous.’

‘Some bloke’s just had his brains blown out in me car park.’ He glared at her. ‘So, excuse me if I seem out of sorts.’

‘I understand that. What I don’t understand is why you waited so long to dial triple nine.’ She pointed to where Lydia Terry was standing next to her husband, pecking at her mobile phone. ‘What were you all doing?’

‘Keeping our bloody heads down. What do you think we were doing?’

‘We’ll need a list of everyone who was in here tonight, both before those two men arrived and after. Names, phone numbers…’

‘Yeah, figured you might.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Me and Lydia started writing them down before you turned up.’

‘Good.’ Kay pushed back her chair. ‘Please give that to my colleague when you’re finished.’

She ignored the bitter snort that emanated from the man and led Barnes over to an internal doorway leading from the bar to a box-like kitchen.

Turning her back to the grease-slicked stainless steel surfaces of the worktops and gas hob, she folded her arms.

‘What do you think, Ian?’

‘He’s worried about something.’ Her colleague tucked his notebook into his jacket pocket. ‘I thought that when I first got here and spoke to him.’

‘What did Lydia and her husband have to say for themselves?’

‘Martin – he’s the husband – confirms what you just heard from Simpson. Lydia’s obviously shaken up, so I couldn’t get much out of her. I was going to suggest we talk to them both again tomorrow morning. At home, rather than here.’

‘Away from Simpson, you mean?’

‘Exactly.’

‘What about that list of people who were in earlier?’

‘She’s got phone numbers for some of them, so I’ll have Laura go through those.’ He checked over his shoulder before lowering his voice. ‘I recognised a couple of the names, but we’ll need to run the others through the system too.’

‘They’ve got previous convictions, you mean?’

He nodded. ‘Sounds like this place is living up to its reputation.’

‘I thought I recognised the name when I got the call earlier.’ Kay moved back towards the bar. ‘It’s not exactly going to win a Pub of the Year award any time soon, is it?’

‘Not this year, that’s for sure.’

FOUR

After making arrangements to visit Lydia Terry and her husband the following morning, Kay allowed the couple to leave the pub and turned her attention to a group of CSIs working within the taped-off area of the car park.

Heads bowed, their protective suits stark against the temporary lights that had been erected around them, they moved methodically from one side to the other, their gait unhurried.

She glanced down as her mobile phone started to ring, a familiar name displayed across the screen.

Gavin Piper had been a regular member of her tight-knit team for a number of years now, and possessed a sixth sense when it came to anticipating her requirements.

‘Gav – any more news about the gunman?’ she said while she watched the forensics team.

‘Nothing yet, guv,’ came the reply. ‘No one driving erratically has been spotted on any CCTV in the immediate area, and there haven’t been any reports of unusual activity around houses or farms yet.’

‘Okay, well the tactical firearms team have handed over the scene to us here now, so I’ll let you know if we find anything to help you. Have you got arrest teams on standby?’

‘Yes, and your request for additional manpower has been escalated. I’ll keep you posted about that, guv.’

She ended the call and turned to Barnes. ‘This isn’t going to be easy, is it?’

‘Lydia and Martin say they can’t recall hearing a car drive off so although we’ve got roadblocks in place, there’s also the possibility the gunman escaped on foot.’ He scrolled through a new text message, his phone screen illuminating his clenched jaw. ‘Uniform are making house-to-house calls at the moment to warn people in the immediate vicinity, but we’re screwed without a better description of the older bloke they say was with the victim earlier.’

‘Christ.’ Kay frowned and eyed three vehicles parked at the fringes of the gravelled area. ‘Whose are those, then?’

‘The old four-by-four belongs to Len Simpson, the green hatchback is Martin Terry’s, and the other two belong to locals who had too much to drink tonight and decided to walk home.’

‘Have you got a note of their names?’

‘Yes, and addresses. I’ll pass them on to uniform when I leave here so they can interview them and make sure they’re not still over the limit when they come back for their cars tomorrow.’

‘Did you find anything on the system about Len Simpson?’

‘He’s been a licensee since being dishonourably discharged from the army almost thirty years ago. I can’t find anything that says why he left – I was going to suggest you might like a word with Sharp to see if he can find anything out for us.’

DCI Devon Sharp had been in the military police for a number of years prior to joining the civilian police force in Kent, and still kept in contact with many of his old colleagues.

‘I’ll make a note to speak to him after the briefing tomorrow. As soon as the call came in earlier, he went over to headquarters to coordinate at that end. With any luck, we’ll have some more manpower by the morning too,’ she said, then watched as Lucas’s assistants rolled their now-laden gurney towards the grey van, the dead man’s body encased within a body bag.

Barnes raised his hand to shield his eyes from a set of headlights as one of the patrol cars exited the car park in the van’s wake. ‘There have been plenty of complaints about this place over the years, not to mention rumours about what goes on here, but there’s never been enough to bring Simpson in front of a magistrates’ court. Somehow, he’s always managed to avoid that.’

‘How long has he been the licensee here?’

‘Six years now. It’s a free house, so that’s probably why he’s been here so long – he doesn’t have to worry about what a head office might think about the way he runs the place like he would if a pub company owned it.’

‘It’ll be interesting to hear what Lydia Terry has to say about it all when we speak to her tomorrow, out of earshot of him.’ She turned away from the pub, her attention returning to the painstaking search being undertaken by the gathered CSIs. ‘Let’s find out if they can tell us anything yet, so at least we can bring the team up to speed at the briefing.’

A familiar figure lowered a mask from her face and hurried towards them as they reached the cordon, pushing away her hood, her green eyes keen.

Kay lifted the tape for her. ‘Harriet – I didn’t know you were back from holiday.’

The other woman gave a grim smile, her protective suit crackling as she shifted a tablet computer in her grip. ‘We got back from Cancún yesterday. I have to admit, I already wish I was back on the beach…’

‘Has your team managed to find anything to give us a head start with this one?’

‘There wasn’t a wallet or mobile phone on him, and I’ve currently got some of my team searching the area with the help of uniform to try to find those. We’ve taken fingerprints and those have been sent for processing,’ said Harriet. ‘And we’ve got the two shell casings that were discharged.’

She beckoned to one of her assistants, who hurried over and held out an evidence bag. The lead CSI opened it, and Barnes shone his phone screen over the contents.

Inside, nestled within a plastic swab container and packed with polythene to stop it moving around during transit, Kay saw a gleaming brass casing and gave an involuntary shudder. ‘It’s bigger than I thought it would be.’

‘I’ll get my ballistics expert to confirm the calibre.’ Harriet closed the bag and handed it back. ‘I’m not promising anything, but we’ll obviously test both for traces of DNA. We’re currently trying to find the remains of the rounds that went through the victim, which is proving to be bloody difficult in this light.’

‘So a rifle, rather than a shotgun?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Those didn’t lodge inside him?’ said Barnes.

‘We can’t assume anything until Lucas has done the post mortem,’ Harriet explained. ‘Given the state of him, you’d think they went straight through but we have to process the area anyway. I’ll warn you now, though – we’ll be here well until daybreak.’

Kay bit her lip. ‘The second shot at the victim – why do that? I mean, that shot in his back was enough to kill him.’

‘Spite, perhaps?’

‘Or he didn’t want us to be able to identify him easily.’ Harriet glanced over her shoulder as one of her team members approached the cordon and beckoned to her. ‘I’m needed. I’ll let you two work out why this happened. In the meantime, I’ll make sure you get my report as to how it happened as soon as possible.’

‘Thanks,’ said Kay, and sighed as she watched the CSI manager walk away.

‘Okay, Ian – I’ll take it from here. Get yourself home and I’ll see you at seven tomorrow.’

‘Are you sure, guv? I don’t mind staying if you are.’

She managed a smile. ‘Thanks, but you’re going to have enough to do as it is. You’d better get your head down for a few hours.’

‘What are you going to do?’

Kay ran her eyes over the scene before her, then checked her wristwatch.

Almost one o’clock.

‘I’m going to make sure Gavin’s got someone processing those fingerprints from the victim, and then I think I’d better risk finding out what Len Simpson’s coffee is like.’

FIVE

Bleary-eyed, hair still damp from a hurried shower prior to running up the stairs to the incident room, Kay surveyed the crowd of officers milling about the space.

The morning commute was already underway beyond the windows overlooking Palace Avenue, the honk and shove of nose-to-tail traffic a constant white noise under the fraught conversations that filled the room while she turned her attention to the agenda in her hand.

A cacophony of telephones ringing swarmed around them while Kay logged into her computer and glared at the stack of files already overflowing from the in-tray on the corner of her desk.

She raised her voice over the throng.

‘Debbie? Which ones of these are urgent, and what can wait a day or so?’

A uniformed constable elbowed her way past two sergeants who towered over her and ran a practised eye over the folders. ‘Those three on top are the authorisations I need for overtime, cross-departmental agreements and budget schedules,’ she said, handing them over. ‘The rest of these you can ignore, but only until Monday. After that, I’m going to be chasing you.’

‘Deal, thanks.’ Kay signed the documentation where indicated with a flourish, and handed everything back before making her way over to where Gavin Piper stood at the far end of the room. ‘Gavin? What admin support have we been given?’

The detective constable stepped away from the whiteboard, eyeing the notes he’d been writing for the imminent meeting, his normally spiky hair subdued after a recent cut and dark circles under his eyes from working overnight.

‘Ten,’ he said, and pointed the end of the pen towards the back of the room. ‘Plus we’ve been told to expect four more probationary constables to help with the legwork from tomorrow. We’re putting those in the conference room next door. Sharp arrived twenty minutes ago – I put him in his old office. I think he’s talking to headquarters at the moment, but he’s taken over the search and arrest side of things so I can support you here.’

‘Okay, good.’ Kay ran her thumb down the list of items generated from the HOLMES2 database, relieved that her old mentor was on hand.

Detective Chief Inspector Sharp had been based at Northfleet these past two years and she only now realised how much she had missed his guidance and support.

With a press release emailed to all local journalists in the past half an hour, her team had swelled to accommodate additional help from other stations in the division and now all of those faces turned to her as she called for their attention.

‘Those phones behind you are going to start ringing within the next thirty minutes, so let’s make a start,’ she said, gesturing to the whiteboard as Gavin moved to a spare seat at the front of the group. ‘Given the nature of last night’s murder, you can expect that we’re going to be receiving a lot of attention from both headquarters and the public, who will all want a fast result. Most of you have worked a major incident before, so I won’t waste time this morning on procedure. I’ll give you your points of contact and you can liaise with them rather than me for the duration of this investigation. Ian? Can you start us off with a review of where we’re up to with regard to our victim?’

She stepped aside as Barnes joined her, his face grim.