The Eleventh Grave E-Book

Rachel Amphlett

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

When Detective Mark Turpin is assigned the task of investigating the death of a local businessman, the case is first thought to be one of accidental drowning.

Until a bullet hole is found where the victim fell into the River Thames.

Then a number of graves are unearthed at a disused airfield site being redeveloped by the dead man, exposing a horrific secret and plunging Mark into one of the darkest investigations of his career.

After two more bodies are discovered amongst the burnt-out ruins of a building on a nearby industrial estate, Mark realises that a serial killer is at large.

Except as the police draw closer, the killer already has their next victim in their sights – and both have disappeared without a trace…

The Eleventh Grave is the sixth book in the Detective Mark Turpin series from USA Today bestselling author Rachel Amphlett, and perfect for fans of fast paced twisty mysteries.

Leseprobe

THE ELEVENTH GRAVE

A DETECTIVE MARK TURPIN CRIME THRILLER

RACHEL AMPHLETT

The Eleventh Grave © 2024 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

CHAPTERONE

It was a perfect Sunday morning.

A fine mist clung to the banks of the River Thames, hugging the reeds and long grass that swallowed the footpath winding its way out of Sutton Courtenay and on towards Abingdon. It curled into the air as the sun’s warmth gradually seeped into the day and created a hazy softness to the landscape that blurred the edges of the horizon.

In the distance, the village church bells rang out across Culham, casting a melody that carried over the undulating landscape. Somewhere, beyond the riverbank, a tractor bumbled back and forth in a field, its engine thrumming amidst the rattle of a seed drill.

A group of four ducks paddled downstream, followed at a distance by a pair of swans that dipped graceful necks into the water, their pace languid while they kept a watchful eye on their surroundings.

Then there was a split-second flash of turquoise and orange to the left-hand side of the river before a soft plop preceded a series of ripples as a kingfisher darted beneath the surface. It reappeared moments later, exploding from the water with a small fish in its beak before disappearing into a small hole burrowed into the muddy bank.

A magpie chuckled its approval from the upper boughs of a blossoming tree, and then launched itself across the river, the emerging sunshine catching the purple-blue hue of its wings.

Helen Maddison rested her paddle on her lap and tilted her chin upwards with a faint smile on her lips, letting the sunlight warm her face while the kayak coasted under the propulsion of her last stroke.

Jason, her husband of eight years, kept a steady pace in front of her. The dip and splash of his paddle broke the water at even intervals, and she could hear him humming under his breath.

And then he laughed.

‘If you keep doing that, you’re going to be moaning you can’t keep up with me again.’

She opened her eyes to see him looking over his shoulder at her, and grinned. ‘I can’t help it. It’s the first time this year it’s been warm enough to do this without having to wear loads of layers.’

‘You’ll be complaining about having to top up your sunscreen next.’

‘Very funny. The Easter weekend is meant to be rubbish, even if it is late this year.’

He paused and rolled the paddle shaft from his wrist to his elbows before lobbing it into the air and catching it. A contented sigh escaped his lips as he caught it. ‘This is perfect. I was worried there’d be more people out this morning.’

‘Me too.’ She dug her paddle into the water and brought her kayak alongside his as the river widened. ‘There was only one other car in the car park though, and it looked like it had fishing stuff in it.’

‘Depends what else is on this morning, I suppose.’

‘There’s a craft market in Abingdon today, isn’t there?’

He wrinkled his nose. ‘That means the pub’ll be busy. I knew I should’ve booked a table for lunch.’

‘We can always sit outside if it’s too crowded inside.’ She squinted against the light. ‘It’s meant to be like this all day.’

She turned at the sound of a dog bark to see a couple with a Golden Retriever walking along the footpath towards them, the animal bounding left and right as it sought out sounds and smells. A squirrel flashed up a towering oak tree, the mammal’s outline silhouetted amongst the fledgling leaves, and the dog’s eyes followed it with interest as it passed underneath.

‘Morning,’ Helen called.

The man held up a hand in reply, his other around his partner’s waist while she smiled at the passing kayakers. The dog paused to watch them with curiosity before the man called to him and it went tearing off after the couple.

‘I thought he was going to jump in then,’ said Jason.

‘I was wondering that.’ Helen grinned. ‘I don’t think they would’ve thanked us – did you see the mud up his paws already?’

After a few more paddle strokes they were passing gaps in the hedgerows where thin beech and alder saplings had been planted the previous spring. Beyond these, Helen could see freshly tilled arable soil with its grey texture common to the South Oxfordshire landscape, while the sound of gulls now accompanied the tractor in the distance.

Rooks circled overhead, keeping a wary eye on the world below, their caws accompanying lazy spirals as they drifted up and down on the air.

‘There’s that fisherman.’

Jason’s voice turned her attention back to the river ahead, and she squinted. ‘Where?’

‘He’s crouched next to the water, just before the bridge – see him? Must’ve lost a line or something. You’d better go in front of me and keep close to this bank, otherwise he might moan that we’re scaring the fish away.’

‘Right-o.’ She watched as the man rose to his feet and eyed their approach before turning his back.

As they drew alongside, she noticed he wore a thick navy sweatshirt over muddied jeans. He kept his back turned, his head lowered, and she realised he was looking at his phone.

‘Morning,’ she said.

He glanced up, his features rugged as if he spent a lot of his time outside, then looked away without replying and moved towards the bridge.

Jason caught her bemused eye-roll and grinned before they passed beneath the bridge. ‘Friendly.’

‘Shhh,’ she said, smiling, her voice echoing off the wood and metal structure. She shivered as the shadows claimed her, then breathed a sigh of relief when they emerged the other side, sunlight bathing her shoulders once more. ‘So… what do you think? Paddle up to the weir at Abingdon, then turn back and find a spot for lunch?’

‘Yeah, I reckon that’s our best bet. What time do we have to pick up the kids from your mum’s?’

‘Seven thirty. She said she’ll feed them before we get there. I suppose if we––’

A strangled cry pierced the air, followed by a splash from behind.

Heart racing, Helen twisted in the cockpit of the kayak to see small waves breaking the surface of the water below the bridge.

Jason stabbed his paddle in the river, spinning around to face the other way. ‘What the…?’

Then a hand broke the surface, fingers clawing desperately before a man’s head appeared.

‘It’s that fisherman,’ Helen said. She started paddling back towards him. ‘He’ll never be able to swim to the bank in this current.’

The man’s eyes widened in panic as the cold water started to drag him down, his mouth opening in an “o” of shock while his arms thrashed.

Then he was under the water again, leaving behind concentric ripples that spread out until they lapped at the roots of bullrushes and long grass on either side of the waterway.

Helen gritted her teeth, dug the paddle blade in faster, and slewed the kayak around as she drew level with the man’s last position.

Tightening the sash of her life vest, she leaned out with the paddle as the drowning man resurfaced. ‘Grab this!’

He gasped, swallowed a mouthful of water, and then spat it out, eyes widening in realisation. He thrashed his arms in an attempt to swim closer, burdened by his clothing and weakening by the second in the frigid river.

She swore under her breath as her kayak began to drift away from him in the current, unwilling to take her gaze away and lose sight of him.

Then there was a soft thud on the opposite side of her kayak, and she glanced over her shoulder to see that Jason was using his paddle to push her gently towards the man, his jaw set in concentration.

Turning back, she leaned out farther.

‘Come on,’ she urged. ‘Just grab hold of the paddle and we’ll tow you back to the bank.’

The man tried again, but his hand slipped down the aluminium shaft. He cried out, spluttered as he took in more water, and then started to slide beneath the river’s surface once more.

‘No…’ Helen ignored the hard edge of the kayak’s cockpit sticking into her hip and stretched the paddle out as far as she could. ‘Try again. You can do it.’

The man attempted a feeble breast stroke, then cried out in frustration as his sweatshirt billowed around his shoulders, thwarting his efforts.

Helen glanced at her clothing, then the water. ‘I’m going in. It’ll be easier for me to swim ashore with him.’

‘No – the water’s too cold and he could pull you under with him,’ said Jason. He nudged the kayaks closer, and the man snatched at air before his fingers found Helen’s outstretched paddle.

This time, he didn’t let go.

‘Got him,’ she gasped and started dragging him towards her kayak, her shoulders and arm muscles protesting against his weight.

‘Hold onto the bow,’ she called out, keeping her voice calm. ‘Hang on, and we’ll paddle back to the bank with you.’

The man gave a weak nod, his sodden hair clinging to his forehead trailing traces of weed that lent a green sheen to his pale skin.

When she got him alongside, he reached out with one hand to touch the pointed prow of the kayak, then with one final spurt of energy he wrapped his arms around the bow.

She pulled in the paddle and started to turn her kayak.

‘Hang on, mate,’ said Jason, waiting while she twisted in her seat and grabbed onto the sides of his kayak. ‘Helen will keep an eye on you while I paddle us to the bank. It’s not far, but it’s deep here. We’ve got dry clothes for you, and we’ll get onto emergency services.’

Helen could hear the man’s breath coming in shallow gasps, a wracking cough seizing him as his lungs ejected the water he’d inhaled. He groaned, a deep agonising sound that sent a shiver across her shoulders despite the warm light that now bathed the stretch of water as the sun reached its zenith.

Turning away from him for a moment, she saw that Jason had almost managed to get them to the bank.

Just another two metres and they could get the man out of his wet clothes and phone for an ambulance…

The hull of her kayak bumped against mud and a soft judder passed through the vessel as they reached land.

‘Here, hold them steady while I help him out.’ Jason didn’t wait for an answer, and tossed both of their paddles onto the bank before hurrying to where the man was trying to crawl out of the water.

He placed his hands under the man’s armpits and staggered backwards, dragging him away from the swirling depths and through the long grass and rushes to the path.

Helen watched while Jason lay him on his side, crouching beside him while keeping his voice calm, reassuring him before he started pulling the man’s sodden clothing off. Rubbing at the man’s limbs to get the circulation going, he peered over his shoulder at her. ‘There are dry clothes in my bag. I reckon they’ll fit him.’

Rolling over, she stumbled over to the kayaks and dragged them to the far side of the path. She popped open the front hatch on Jason’s and pulled out his dry bag. Rummaging through the contents, her fingers found the thick fleece he had packed in case the weather turned foul and a pair of shorts left over from the summer that had somehow never made it to the washing machine.

She tossed them over to him, then turned her attention to her own kayak and pulled her mobile phone from her dry bag.

Once she was certain the emergency responders had the correct GPS location for them, she ended the call and pulled off her own fleece.

‘Here, we’ll use this over your legs,’ she said to the man. She wrapped the top across his legs, tucking it in. ‘I’m Helen, by the way. And this is my husband, Jason.’

The man opened his mouth to speak, his teeth chattering. ‘B-B-Barry.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Jason said. ‘Shame about the circumstances though.’

That raised a small smile. ‘No kidding.’

‘Where’s all your fishing gear?’ said Helen. ‘Do you want us to fetch it for you?’

The smile changed to confusion. ‘What?’

‘I thought I saw you fishing. Before we went under the bridge.’

Barry shook his head. ‘No. No fishing gear.’

‘Oh. Okay.’ She noticed his hands were still icy cold and started massaging the skin while Jason did the same to the man’s feet and ankles. ‘Is there anyone we can call for you? To let them know what’s happened?’

‘No. Don’t worry.’ His body trembled, and he emitted a loud sigh. ‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t go to sleep,’ Jason commanded, his voice a notch louder. ‘The ambulance will be here soon.’

‘With lots of warm blankets,’ added Helen. She peered over her shoulder at voices to see the dog walkers returning, their faces full of concern.

‘We saw a commotion up here,’ said the woman when they drew closer. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘It is now. Thank you.’

‘Can we call an ambulance for you?’

‘Already done, but if you’ve got some spare clothing we could use to keep him warm, that’d be good.’

The couple called their dog to heel, clipped on his lead and promptly shrugged off coats and sweatshirts, passing them over to Jason, who draped them over the man.

‘I’ll wait on the bridge to spot the ambulance,’ said the woman. ‘They’ll probably use the track leading to the hydro place to get here.’

‘Thanks.’

Helen could hear the sirens in the distance now, and sent a silent prayer of thanks for an ambulance being in the vicinity.

Five minutes later, two paramedics were hurrying across the bridge towards them, and then she and Jason were gently pushed aside while Barry became their central focus.

She watched as they kept up a steady stream of conversation with Barry, constantly reassuring him while checking his vital signs and manoeuvring him onto the stretcher. Blankets were wrapped around him, swaddling him into warmth, and then they were ready.

‘Let me have your details,’ said the younger paramedic, taking out his phone. ‘Just in case the police want to talk to you.’

‘The police?’ Helen’s heart lurched. ‘Why would the police want to talk to us?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s only a formality, in case there’s an enquiry about how he fell off the bridge.’

‘Insurance companies,’ Jason said, the scorn in his voice tangible. ‘Always the case, right?’

The paramedic gave a polite smile. ‘Phone numbers will be enough.’

That done, the emergency responders began packing away their kit and preparing to leave with their patient, praising the Maddisons for their quick thinking.

Helen blushed under the scrutiny of the dog walkers as Barry reached out to shake her hand, his grip weak.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘Good job these two knew what to do to get you out of the water.’ The older paramedic smiled and patted him on the shoulder before taking his share of the stretcher weight. ‘You’re a lucky one, mate.’

Barry coughed, then shuddered, his voice a mere rasp. ‘This time.’

CHAPTERTWO

Two days later

There was a palpable frost to the air in the incident room by eleven o’clock that morning.

Despite the bright early April sunshine splintering the window blinds and casting zigzags across the threadbare carpet, the air conditioning had broken over the weekend. The vents in the ceiling were now discharging an icy breath across the necks of a dozen or so officers who huddled at their desks, some still wearing their outer garments over their uniforms or shirts.

Two whiteboards took up the far right-hand wall, one bare – for now – and the other criss-crossed with different-coloured text that was being erased with an old tea towel by a junior constable. A steady squeak accompanied her work while the smell of an alcohol-based solution wafted across the frigid air, mixing with the tangible odour of stale coffee beans.

A steady hum of conversation filled the room, desk phones shrilled across the open plan space, and the whirr and spit of two large printers against the far wall carried over to where a group of detectives of varying rank congregated around a man in his mid-thirties, their faces a mixture of concern and bemusement.

Detective Sergeant Mark Turpin sat with his right hand cradling a steaming mug of coffee while his left held an ice pack to a bruised eye socket that was an angry shade of red.

He cursed under his breath, the welt obscuring his vision on one side.

‘I told you I thought she might take a swing at you.’ Detective Constable January West looked at him over her computer screen, her green eyes narrowing. ‘And you said––’

‘––that she wouldn’t be so stupid. I know.’

She sighed, adjusted the ponytail holding her light brown hair back from her face and huffed her fringe from her forehead. ‘Well maybe you’ll listen to me next time, Sarge. Might save me doing all this paperwork for a start.’

Mark aimed a mock snarl her way, then looked at DC Caroline Roberts. ‘Any news from the court?’

‘The woman has been taken into custody, and her husband’s been returned to HMP Bullingdon.’ The DC cocked an eyebrow. ‘And that looks painful, Sarge. Maybe we need to get you some martial arts training or something.’

‘Very funny.’

‘I’m serious,’ she said. ‘At least you’d learn how to duck.’

‘Get out.’

She grinned and held up a small white plastic bubble pack. ‘I found some painkillers in Alex’s desk. Want them?’

‘Please.’ He popped two into his mouth and swigged the coffee as Alex McClellan wandered over. The younger DC’s eyes were wide.

‘Woah. I heard the missus was arrested,’ he said. ‘What did you do?’

‘Nothing,’ Mark protested, pushing the empty coffee mug away. ‘She walked past with her husband’s lawyer, calm as anything. Next thing I knew, she’d lashed out. I didn’t have time to react.’

‘Did she say anything?’

‘It’s not repeatable.’

‘Martial arts,’ said Caroline, wagging her forefinger at him.

‘Like I have time. Besides, it’s not as if I could––’

‘I need you two to head over to the morgue in Oxford.’

Mark turned at the sound of the voice to see Detective Inspector Ewan Kennedy advancing towards them, a flimsy manila file in his hand and his face one of determination. ‘What’s up, guv?’

‘I just got off the phone with Gillian Appleworth.’

West frowned. ‘We’re not expecting any post mortem results this week, are we?’

The DI sidled past Alex and leaned against the younger detective’s desk before opening the file. ‘We aren’t, but she’s done one this morning that’s causing her some consternation, and she’s asked us to make some enquiries. I’ve assigned it a new reference number in HOLMES2 and I want you two to lead the investigation.’

Mark raised his eyebrows, then winced as a fresh jolt of pain tore across his face. Blinking to offset the effect, he tried to refocus. ‘What’re the circumstances?’

‘A bloke by the name of Barry Windlesham fell into the Thames at Culham on Sunday morning. He was pulled out by a couple of kayakers and ambulance’d to the John Radcliffe. Everyone was saying how lucky he was given the water temperature’s still bloody cold, but he died a few hours later.’

‘What from?’ said West, pulling her notebook closer and turning to a fresh page.

‘Delayed drowning,’ said Kennedy. ‘Gillian says she found traces of water-induced inflammation to his lungs when she opened him up this morning. According to the hospital records, he developed breathing difficulties at around two in the morning yesterday, and deteriorated pretty quickly after that.’

Mark put the makeshift icepack beside his keyboard and pocketed the remaining painkillers. ‘How did he fall in?’

‘That’s unknown. The kayakers told the ambulance crew that they only heard him cry out when he hit the water before they turned around and rescued him.’

‘What did he tell the hospital staff?’

Kennedy’s mouth downturned. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘According to them, he refused to talk about the incident at all, other than to say he fell off the bridge.’

West frowned. ‘I know the bridge – Scott and I have often walked along that stretch of the river with the boys. It’s got guardrails so it’d take some doing to fall in.’

The DI leaned forward and tapped the file against her arm. ‘So why are you both still sitting there?’

‘On our way.’ Mark took the file and pushed back his chair, shoved his mobile phone into his pocket and waited while West swung her bag over her shoulder. ‘You okay to drive? I’ll make some phone calls and see if there are some contact details for the kayakers on the way.’

He saw her cast a sideways glance at Alex before she swept a set of keys from the younger detective’s desk.

‘No problem,’ she said.

‘Give me a call once you’ve spoken with her and the kayakers,’ said Kennedy. ‘We’ll make a decision then whether to open a new case for this one, or whether it can be passed over to the coroner’s office for a ruling.’

‘Understood, guv.’ Mark hurried after West, then held open the incident room door for her.

‘First a punch-up, then the morgue,’ she said as they headed for the stairs. ‘You’re on a roll today, Sarge.’

CHAPTERTHREE

A cool breeze feathered against the bruise on Mark’s eye socket when he pushed open the exit door at the rear of the police station.

The wind carried with it the honk and rumble of traffic on the other side of the building and that from the A34 to the west of the town, a distinct white noise that accompanied the incessant drilling from a sewage works crew on the industrial estate across the street.

There was blossom on the brambles that tangled through the wire mesh fence on the right-hand side of the car park, and the pink and white petals were a welcome splash of colour after weeks of grey skies and drizzling rain.

He had noticed the subtle changes along the tow path where he and his girlfriend, Lucy O’Brien, moored their narrowboat as well. There was less frost in the mornings, making for a pleasant dog walk to start the working day, and catkins had made way for the first tentative buds on oak trees and alder. Wild garlic filled the tow path with a heady scent accompanied by the sweeter aroma from an early sprinkling of bluebells, while in the town centre there were refreshed hanging baskets outside many of the pubs and boutique shops in anticipation of warmer weather.

Clouds scuttled here and there across an otherwise azure sky, the sun warming his back as he followed West past the parking bays assigned to senior officers and visiting VIPs.

Mark flicked through the scant contents of the manila file while he walked. ‘Looks like Kennedy did us a favour – he’s done a quick online search about Barry Windlesham at least.’

‘Oh? What do the notes say?’

‘Apparently he was the director of a medium-sized construction company. His driving licence has an address on it out near Chalgrove.’ Mark turned the single page in the folder and sighed before closing it. ‘And that’s it.’

‘Okay, well I’m sure Alex and Caroline will make a start on doing a wider social media search while we’re talking to Gillian.’

As they rounded the corner of the red bricked building, a trail of blue smoke emanated from a recess beside a fire exit moments before the telltale whiff of nicotine-laden air filled Mark’s nostrils and tickled his throat. A pair of administrative assistants paused in their conversation with three men he recognised from Force Control, the small group eyeing him warily as he passed.

West jangled the keys in her hand, then turned and led the way towards a pool car parked off to the far left of the staff parking area.

It was an unassuming silver hatchback, only five years old but with a higher than average mileage and a spectacular dent in the front wing that was showing signs of rust around the creased edges.

Its one saving grace was a 1.8 litre engine that belied the car’s worn exterior, offered exceptional handling, and often caused consternation within the Thames Valley accounting team once they caught sight of the petrol receipts.

It was the last of its kind from a time when the perception of speed overrode any budgetary common sense, such that each week the tight-knit group of Abingdon detectives fought for the prize of who would get the keys, leaving the others to drive newer vehicles with smaller engines.

Mark glanced across and saw West wearing a smug smile as she started the car. He fastened his seatbelt then frowned and peered across the surrounding bays. ‘Hang on. I thought we were assigned the poky little car over there this week.’

‘We were, until this morning.’

‘Who did you bribe to get this then?’

‘I didn’t bribe anyone. Alex lost a bet.’

‘A bet? How come I didn’t hear about an office sweepstake? What was that about?’

She didn’t answer, and instead concentrated on the barrier across the exit while it lifted before she accelerated into the traffic approaching the roundabout on Marcham Road.

‘Jan?’

‘It was just a bit of fun, all right, Sarge? I didn’t expect to win or anything.’

‘So, what was the bet?’

West waited until they were on the A34 heading north to Oxford, then sighed and risked a sideways glance his way. ‘I bet him that given half a chance, that bloke’s wife would try to have a go at you outside court.’

His jaw dropped. ‘Seriously?’

‘We didn’t think she’d actually do it, Sarge.’ She had the decency to blush. ‘It’s just that she’s got a bit of a reputation as a hothead, and you kept going on about how you thought she would dob in her husband for all the other stolen goods we think he’s selling via their mobile phone shop. They’ve been married since they were eighteen. She’s too loyal to him.’

Mark brushed his fingertips against his face and winced. ‘You could’ve warned me.’

‘I tried, remember? I said this morning that I reckoned we wouldn’t see the back of that pair once he was sentenced.’ She accelerated past a German-registered truck laden with two twenty-foot shipping containers, unable to conceal her smile as the car’s engine purred. ‘Besides, we get this for a week now.’

‘Oh, that makes it all worthwhile then.’

CHAPTERFOUR

Twenty minutes later, West pushed open one of the double doors that led into the mortuary building, the sound of an ambulance siren becoming muffled as it swished shut behind them.

The reception area was gloomy compared with the fresh spring morning outside, and a distinct smell of bleach hung in the air.

There were stock photographs of various landscapes hanging from three of the walls, and Mark noted the familiar hues of a Scottish loch displayed above a metal rack containing various brochures about funeral arrangements and bereavement counselling.

The floor tiles were chipped in places, the polished surface reflecting the strip lighting in the ceiling that gave the whole room a harshness. A bunch of lilies thrust into a white ceramic vase on the wooden desk in the corner did little to lift the sombre atmosphere.

A reception desk was in one corner of the room, behind which a tall slim man in his early thirties watched them with sombre eyes, his mouth downturned.

‘Morning, Clive,’ said Mark. ‘Busy?’

‘Always.’ The man pushed across a visitor register then picked at something between his uneven teeth while they signed in. ‘Mind you, it helps we’ve had nothing from you these past few weeks.’

‘Be grateful for small mercies,’ West murmured, handing him back his pen. ‘Gives us a chance to catch up with all the other cases on our desks.’

Mark turned at the sound of a door opening on creaky hinges to see a woman bundled head to toe in blood-spattered protective overalls looking at them.

‘I heard there was an altercation outside the court house this morning. I might’ve known you’d be involved.’ Gillian Appleworth’s cool grey eyes peered over her mask before she lowered it, her mouth quirked into a sympathetic smile. ‘I hope it was worth it.’

‘Almost. Although whether his wife assaulting a police officer on his behalf will make any difference to his sentencing next month remains to be seen, given the list of offences he’s going down for. I wouldn’t mind, but I think she was planning it all along. Certainly felt like it.’

‘I’ll bet.’ Gillan gestured to her overalls. ‘Get yourselves a coffee while I’m changing out of these and have a shower – I’ll be about twenty minutes given how long the hot water’s taking to warm up this week.’

‘The system’s on the blink,’ Clive explained after she had disappeared back through the door and Mark and West had armed themselves with coffee from the vending machine. His eyes wore a baleful expression as he shuffled a sheaf of paperwork into an already overstuffed envelope and sealed it shut with a flourish of sticky tape. ‘We called a plumber yesterday but he was bloody useless. Kept saying it’s on a different supply to the rest of the hospital, so now we’re waiting for someone else to get in touch.’

‘Could be worse. It might’ve happened in the winter,’ said West cheerfully before taking a sip of her drink.

Clive visibly shuddered. ‘Perish the thought. Can you imagine what she’d have been like if it had gone wrong then?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Mark. ‘You forget, I used to be married to her sister.’

West choked on her coffee and patted her chest before glaring at him. ‘You really need to warn me before making comments like that.’

‘Sorry.’ He grinned, then led the way upstairs.

Gillian’s office was tucked at the end of a corridor that overlooked the car park. Sunlight cut through the grime on the windows and bathed the thin carpet tiles lining the passageway, lending a warmth that soon disappeared the moment he opened the door for West.

The office consisted of a wide mahogany desk that was hidden beneath stacks of manila folders of varying thickness on one side and a large computer screen on the other. A three-tier black plastic tray behind the folders was pushed precariously close to the edge of the desk and West gave it a gentle nudge to safety as she sank into one of the visitor’s chairs.

Mark shrugged off his jacket and placed it on the back of the remaining chair before sitting, while West cradled her coffee cup to her chest, closing her eyes for a moment.

‘Late night?’ he said.

‘The boys had their karate grading and did really well so we ended up getting pizza to celebrate, and then watched a film. Then I forgot they didn’t have any clean trousers for school this morning because we were at Scott’s mum’s over the weekend so…’ She shrugged, then blinked. ‘I was ironing at midnight.’

‘Ouch.’

‘I know. I live such a rock ’n’ roll life don’t I, Sarge?’

Mark looked up at the sound of footsteps in the corridor, before the pathologist swept into the room accompanied by the faint scent of a jasmine-based perfume, and eased into the leather chair behind her desk.

‘Right, I’ve got a colleague from Bicester conducting the next two PMs,’ she said, ‘so let’s take a look at Mr Windlesham while he’s doing that, shall we?’

Without waiting for them to answer, she reached out for a manila folder on the top of the pile, flipped it open and unclipped a series of photographs from a typed report.

‘Kennedy mentioned delayed drowning,’ said Mark, taking a slurp of coffee. ‘How did it happen?’

‘According to the hospital records he was brought in by ambulance late Sunday morning after being pulled from the Thames,’ Gillian said, shuffling the photographs into an order she favoured. ‘Two kayakers heard him fall in and luckily for him – well, at the time anyway – managed to paddle back and get him to the riverbank before calling triple nine. They kept him warm until the first responders got there. When he was admitted into Accident and Emergency he was showing the usual signs we’d expect to see for someone who’d been in cold water for a length of time but he stabilised quickly.’

‘So, what went wrong?’ said West. She looked around for a space to put down her empty mug then gave up and slid it under her chair. ‘Did he have a heart attack or something?’

‘Well, eventually but only because he developed breathing difficulties first.’ Gillian slid across the photographs. ‘These are copies of the X-rays I took of his lungs before the post mortem. As you can see here, there’s a lot of activity here, and here. That’s indicative of water inflammation, the sort I’d expect to see from a case like this. When I opened him up, that was easily confirmed by the traces of weed he’d ingested – both in his lungs and in his intestinal tract.’

Mark frowned. ‘But is that inflammation enough to cause a drowning death?’

‘Absolutely, yes.’

‘And a heart attack?’

‘In my opinion, yes.’ Gillian tapped the report. ‘You can take this with you, and I’ll email you a copy of course but during the PM I also checked for any indication Mr Windlesham might have suffered from any heart disease or other conditions I’d normally find in a heart attack victim. There wasn’t anything.’

‘Have next of kin been informed?’ said Jan.

‘There’s a sister in Cardiff who was contacted when his health deteriorated, but she and her husband were unable to get here in time. I believe they’re travelling over here on Friday – the contact details are in the file. Clive’s been in touch with the appointed funeral director to explain that there’ll now need to be a coroner’s enquiry.’ Gillian handed over the folder and waited while Mark added the photographs. ‘Hence why you’re here. Do you know the stretch of river by the hydro station?’

‘Not very well – we haven’t had a chance to take the boat that way yet, and I usually walk Hamish through Abbey Meadows or out towards Nuneham Courtenay.’

‘Jan?’

‘Not for years,’ said West. ‘If we take the boys there, it’s usually so they can swim in the shallower waters beyond the weirs. I know the bridge, though – but I remember that it had railings.’

‘Okay.’ Gillian clasped her hands together. ‘So, here’s what’s troubling me. From what the kayakers told the first responders, they saw Mr Windlesham at the water’s edge a few minutes before he fell in. After they heard him enter the water, they assumed that he’d fallen from the bridge connecting two footpaths to the riverbank. I know that walk – Alistair and I were last there over the summer. There’s no way someone could have fallen from the bridge by accident. The guard rail’s simply too high.’

West nudged Mark’s arm, and held out her hand for the folder before she started flicking through it. ‘It says here that he told his doctor he was familiar with that stretch of river, and according to his GP he had no medical history of depression or anxiety or anything else that might suggest he was suicidal.’

‘Exactly,’ said Gillian. ‘So, why did he end up in the water?’

CHAPTERFIVE

Jan unclipped the photographs, running her thumbs over the smooth surfaces as she flicked through them.

The ceiling lights cast a reflection across each, and she turned them this way and that to better see the details. Any qualms about looking at a dead man’s image were swept aside by an intrigue that nibbled away at her thoughts.

There was still a faint smell of disinfectant mixed with printer toner emanating from the photographs, and as she worked her way through the sequence, she could see how Clive had started taking them at a distance before homing in on any specific details that Gillian had identified.

She slowed, taking her time as she passed through the motley collection once more.

To the left of her, on the wall, a clock ticked past the seconds, a silence stretching out between the pathologist and her colleague while they watched her.

Glancing up, she saw Gillian eyeing her keenly. ‘Was there anything to suggest he slipped or fell?’

‘No, only what his rescuers – the kayakers – told the emergency services. That they saw him standing on the bank to their left as they paddled past, and then that they heard a splash after they’d gone some way past the bridge.’

‘What about this wound on his right hip that’s been stitched up?’ Jan turned the photograph and held it out to Turpin. ‘What might’ve caused that?’

‘His clothes were sent over at my request before I conducted the post mortem,’ said Gillian. ‘There was blood on the inside of his shorts that matches the position of that wound, but no tears to the material. I’ve sent the clothes over to the lab for testing, but I’m sure we’ll find that it’s Mr Windlesham’s blood.’

‘Shorts? In this weather?’

‘Maybe he was out for a run – the nursing staff said he wasn’t very talkative, so who knows what he was doing.’

‘Were there any bruises that might’ve suggested a struggle?’

‘There weren’t, no.’

‘Anything in this wound when they patched him up?’

‘Only some mud from where he was landed on the riverbank after being pulled out.’

‘So he might’ve knocked against something on his way into the water.’ Turpin frowned. ‘Maybe he bumped into something sticking out from the bridge, or caught himself on something under the water?’

‘Could be.’ Gillian gestured to the copied hospital records in the open folder. ‘The treating team noted it as a fresh injury, quite deep. It appeared to pass from the front of his hip to the back – it’s about three centimetres in length.’

‘Any sign of infection?’

‘Not in his notes, no. In fact, I believe if Mr Windlesham hadn’t died as a result of the inflammation in his lungs caused by delayed drowning, he would’ve healed up quite nicely.’

‘Was he drunk?’ said Turpin.

‘He tested negative for alcohol and drug testing when he was admitted on Sunday lunchtime.’

‘When did his breathing difficulties start, Gillian?’ said Jan. ‘It says here he died at two in the morning yesterday.’

‘At about ten o’clock on Sunday night, so approximately eleven or twelve hours after he was rescued. He’d been heard clearing his throat on and off once he was transferred to a ward, but according to the nursing staff, he assured them he felt okay. That throat clearing escalated quickly such that by ten they had him on oxygen and were keeping an eye on his vitals.’ Gillian shook her head. ‘Unfortunately once that inflammation took hold it proved impossible to reverse the damage to his lungs and he slipped in and out of consciousness for the next few hours, until he died.’

‘Poor bastard,’ Turpin murmured. ‘To go through all that, to think he was safe…’

‘Sadly, although it’s unusual in adults, it’s very common in infant drownings,’ said Gillian. ‘More often than I’d like to acknowledge.’

Jan gathered together the photographs and closed the folder before turning her attention to Turpin. ‘How do you want to approach this, Sarge?’

He scratched his chin for a moment, then straightened. ‘Gill, I presume you’ve requested some additional toxicology tests to rule out anything beyond the usual drug and alcohol ones?’

‘I have. I put a rush order on them too so hopefully we’ll get those back in the morning – Thursday latest.’

‘Okay, thanks. I think, then, that we need to take a look at the place where he fell in while it’s still light enough to get a feel for the situation. After that, we’ll see if we can speak to the kayakers this evening and get a formal statement from them – the coroner’s going to want that anyway.’

Jan nodded, pulled out her notebook and started a list. ‘What about his next of kin? That sister who lives in Cardiff. We could arrange for someone to speak with her tomorrow over the phone perhaps?’

‘Sounds good.’

‘I’ll also ask Caroline and Alex to include his construction business in their search parameters and start organising interviews once we track down employees, neighbours and the like.’

‘Do that. Also, let’s see about any CCTV cameras around the area, just to confirm when he might’ve arrived at the river – we’re assuming he drove at the moment, aren’t we?’

Jan nodded. ‘I think so. What about house-to-house enquiries in the village?’

‘Let’s wait until we know about the vehicle situation, otherwise Kennedy’ll have my nuts for spending too much of his budget chasing our tail. At the moment, this is still a drowning incident, nothing more.’ Turpin rose and waited while she tucked away her notebook and shoved the manila folder in her bag. ‘I’ll drive, and then you can try to get a hold of the kayakers to see if they’re available later.’

Gillian chuckled. ‘Didn’t I see you pooled the racing car this week?’

‘We hadn’t,’ he said. ‘Until Jan decided to start a sweepstake about whether I’d get into a fight this morning or not.’

‘Hence why he wants to drive,’ said Jan, pouting.

Turpin grinned as she tossed the keys to him. ‘You owe me.’