FEAR ON THE FENS a gripping crime thriller with a huge twist (DI Nikki Galena Series Book 13), page 1
FEAR ON
THE FENS
A gripping crime thriller with a huge twist
JOY ELLIS
Detective Nikki Galena Book 13
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
First published in Great Britain in 2021
© Joy Ellis 2021
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Joy Ellis to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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ISBN: 978-1-78931-975-0
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
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GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH USAGE FOR US READERS
CHAPTER ONE
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It had been unusually quiet in Greenborough CID. Arrest rates were up, and crime rates were down. Even so, DI Nikki Galena noticed that with every passing week, her friend and superintendent, Cameron Walker, seemed to develop more worry lines and he’d lost his ready smile.
Today, as she and DS Joseph Easter sat in his office waiting for orders, the lines were more apparent than usual. ‘Okay, Cam, as it’s just us, your door is closed and as far as I know, your office isn’t bugged, what’s eating you?’
‘Straight to the point, as ever!’ said Joseph, rolling his eyes.
Cam gave him a weak smile. ‘Well, she’s never been one to mince her words.’
‘Then an answer would put us all out of our misery, wouldn’t it?’ Nikki looked at him hopefully. She liked Cam. He had been a good friend over the years and was now a good boss, and he was clearly troubled.
Cam sat back and gave a long sigh. ‘Just the usual, really. Sometimes all the red tape gets to me. I miss the days of being active and actually doing something, rather than organising and delegating. But,’ he threw his hands in the air, ‘that’s my job now. I suppose someone has to do it, so it might as well be me.’
‘Point taken and we do commiserate.’ Nikki stared harder at him. ‘But what’s the real reason for the long face?’
‘Okay, Galena, you win.’ He leaned forward, elbows on his desk. ‘We’ve inherited a bit of a tricky problem and it might need kid gloves.’
‘That lets me out,’ muttered Nikki.
‘Sorry, but you might have to hone a new skill and develop diplomacy for this one.’ Cam pulled a face, clearly not expecting too much by the way of success in that quarter. ‘Do either of you recall the name Hopwood-Byrd?’
Nikki and Joseph both nodded, although Nikki was struggling to recall the context.
‘British scientist, said to have worked with the CIA on some secret project,’ said Joseph.
‘Ah, and got himself killed, right?’ Nikki suddenly recalled the headlines from the time. ‘Yes, he got topped in a psychiatric hospital.’
Cam nodded. ‘Julian Hopwood-Byrd was seconded to the CIA in the early 1990s to work on a classified project. When he returned home to London, it became instantly apparent that he was not the man he was when he left England.’ Cam’s expression darkened. ‘Colleagues and friends expressed fears for his sanity, but evidently not enough was done, because in 1998, he murdered a man who worked for him. Following an assessment, he was taken, under section, to a psychiatric unit. After being convicted of murder, he was moved to a larger permanent secure facility in Surrey, where, as Nikki said, he was murdered by another patient.’
‘He had no connection with this neck of the woods though, did he?’ asked Joseph.
‘No,’ said Cam. ‘He lived in Highgate village in London, a nice old house in a quiet, leafy road.’
‘So, interesting as this is, what has it got to do with us, Cam?’ asked Nikki, with a hint of apprehension.
‘Quite a lot.’ He took a fat folder from his desk and pushed it towards them. ‘Bit of light reading for you — although maybe not so light. It gave me a mammoth headache, I can tell you!’ He let out a long sigh. ‘Not long ago, the CIA uploaded millions of declassified documents to its site. Some of them reveal the kind of thing that Julian Hopwood-Byrd was involved in. If I tell you that millions of dollars were spent on this programme, and that it ran from the mid-seventies and went under at least six different code names, it will give you an inkling of the scale of it. The scariest thing I noticed was that the participant consent form for this project read, “Potential for injury during some training cannot be conclusively ruled out.” As it was not an actual physical military exercise, that bothered me. Anyway, I’ll leave that for you to digest and tell you about our involvement.’
He handed Nikki a memo with some contact details written on it. ‘This morning you two are going to visit this gentleman — Harry Byrd. He’s Julian’s son and he’s staying at Corley Grange Hotel on Saltfleet Road. He’s expecting you at ten thirty. He’s an interesting man, and what he has to tell you could be a massive issue for us.’
Nikki still didn’t understand why they were required to read a dauntingly thick file on some defunct CIA project, but she decided to sort that out after they’d spoken to Harry Byrd. ‘Any clues, Cam, or do we walk in blind?’
‘Julian had two sons, Harry and Lucas. Lucas was a troubled child. He ran away from home at the age of thirteen. Harry hadn’t seen or heard from his brother in twenty years, but now he thinks he’s back, on our turf, and he has a propensity for killing.’
Joseph puffed out his cheeks and exhaled loudly. ‘Great. Just what we need.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Nikki breathed. ‘I was rather liking not having a killer stalking the streets of Greenborough for once.’ She groaned. ‘Proves you should never get complacent.’
‘Indeed,’ said Cam grimly. ‘I haven’t met Harry Byrd myself, just spoken to him on the phone. I’m certain this isn’t some sort of hoax, and naturally I’ve checked that he is who he says he is. He’s worried, Nikki, very worried. I’d like you to report to me the moment you’ve spoken to him, okay?’
Nikki nodded and glanced at Joseph.
‘Here we go again!’ Joseph gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Back on the roller coaster.’
That smile lifted her spirits. She couldn’t deny the tiny flutter of excitement. After all, that’s what they were there for — the roller coaster.
She gathered up the file. ‘Right. Corley Grange, here we come.’
* * *
Shelley House Arboretum was a little gem of a place. Maybe “arboretum” was a little ostentatious, but it was a beautiful, wooded oasis in the flatlands of the Fens. It had been the passion of a wealthy landowner back in the late 1800s, who had visited various grand parks and determined that his own estate would provide a similar setting for native and imported trees and shrubs. It had been a labour of love, often beset with problems, mainly deriving from the unrelenting and often brutal winds that hurtled across the fields from the east. But he persevered and, thanks to careful planting, the selection of varieties that had a chance of surviving, as well as the placing of windbreaks and protected areas, he succeeded in producing a relatively small but beautiful park, with a collection of magnificent specimens.
Sean Cotton had never worked anywhere else. He had arrived as a skinny teenager looking for a way to earn a bit of cash so he could take his girl out, and he had never left. Sean was now edging towards thirty-five, still skinny, but strong as an ox. He had weathered, tanned skin and strong, calloused hands that could wield an axe as well as they could handle a tiny sapling — without breaking a single delicate bud. H
This morning, Sean was heading out to one of his favourite areas of the garden, a spot that he called Sean’s Pinetum, a section dedicated entirely to conifers. This summer they were opening the gardens to the public, and he was both happy and worried in equal measure. It was something of an achievement, and he would be pleased to welcome truly interested people — people come to see and enjoy the results of years of hard work — but he dreaded the prospect of having to host bored kids with penknives in their pockets, vandals or litter louts.
As he walked, the sun streamed through a latticework of leaves, and Sean smiled to himself. His lot really was a happy one. All in all, they had had very little trouble here over the years. Once, some idiot joyriders in a stolen 4x4 had rammed the front gates, crashing through and then spinning off the drive and gouging up the lawn before being brought to a halt against the trunk of an ancient horse chestnut tree. Sean recalled tending its wounds like a mother bathing a child’s grazed knee, gently cutting away the damaged bark, talking to it as he worked. Sometimes the human race was beyond contempt, and he felt a sneaking pleasure that the tree stood firm, while the vehicle was a write-off.
The only other trouble had occurred last week. His face lost its smile. A group of young people had climbed the estate wall and made their way to a small, sheltered glade. From the number of cans of lager and stray items of clothing that he found the next day, the idea had clearly been to get rat-arsed and shag each other silly in the moonlight. Worse, some halfwit had decided that the night was chillier on his naked arse than he liked and had lit a fire.
At the back of the glade was an arched arbour with bench seats, where you could sit and look out into the clearing and enjoy the peace. It wasn’t the best spot to pick for a bonfire. Sean supposed that half a gallon of Triple X might have impaired their thinking somewhat. The result, on tinder-dry grass after a baking hot day, was a conflagration that probably warmed a lot more than the halfwit’s arse.
It was just lucky that Sean was a light sleeper and that the local fire station was in the next village, only a couple of miles down the road.
The damage could have been much worse, but even so, it pained Sean and his three helpers to see the destroyed arbour and the blackened and burnt vegetation surrounding it. The only serious casualty was a beautiful golden-foliaged robinia — a false acacia tree. Sadly, they had had to take it down.
It had taken the four of them two days to clean up, prune the damaged plants and make the site presentable again. Arthur Morton had ordered another arbour, and hopefully it would be delivered in time for the public opening.
He walked along the wide pathway towards the Pinetum, then paused at a narrower leafy lane that led to the clearing. Something had caught his attention.
He sniffed. A kind of cooking, barbecue smell. At nine in the morning? Out here?
Sean veered off the path and headed for the clearing. It wouldn’t hurt to just check the area and make sure all was ready for the new arbour.
Just before he reached the clearing, he stopped and stared. What was one of their large metal wheelbarrows doing there? He could have sworn everything had been cleared away days ago. They mainly used powered barrows these days — they made carrying the heavier loads a piece of cake and, with the distances they walked on the estate, they were invaluable. But this was one of their old traditional wheelbarrows. He squinted in the early sunlight. Was that smoke? Something was being burned in it!
Angry and puzzled, Sean marched up to it, then stopped short. He gave a choked cry of horror.
Hanging over the side of the barrow was a hand. At the base — the handle end — were two blackened sports shoes.
With his hand clasped over his mouth, Sean turned and ran until he was back on the main path. There, he pulled out his phone and with a shaking hand, dialled 999.
* * *
Corley Grange Hotel had a relaxed, old-fashioned air to it. Nikki could almost see croquet being played on the lawns, and bright young things sipping cocktails and listening to the latest tunes on a gramophone.
Harry Byrd met them in reception and suggested that they sit outside on the veranda since, at present, it was devoid of guests.
He was a rather ordinary-looking man of perhaps thirty-five years. He had light-brown wavy hair and greenish-brown eyes and was dressed in casual slacks, a pale check short-sleeved shirt and a light cotton sweater draped across his shoulders.
‘I took the liberty of ordering a pot of coffee, hope that’s okay?’ he said, smiling at them.
Before Nikki could answer, her phone rang. She apologised and checked the display. It was DC Cat Cullen. Cat knew where she was and wouldn’t have rung unless it was important, so Nikki apologised again and said she needed to take it. She would join them in a minute or two.
‘Boss? Sorry to interrupt, but we’ve got a murder.’
Why did she instantly connect it to the unremarkable young man who had just offered her coffee? She had no idea, but the thought stayed with her. ‘Okay, what do we know so far?’
‘Ben and I have attended, boss. We have one male, burnt beyond recognition, on the private estate of Arthur Morton. It’s called Shelley House Arboretum, not far from where you are now.’
Nikki nodded, frowning. She knew it. She knew Arthur Morton too. He was a staunch supporter of the local police and a good friend of the commissioner, and she made Cat aware of it. Cat was a great detective but did have a habit of telling it like it was. ‘We’ll do what we have to here, then come over. Will you be okay until then?’
‘All in hand, boss. Forensics are held up but should be here within the next thirty minutes. We’ve cordoned the site off, and uniform are with us, so we’re all cool.’
‘Unlike your victim,’ muttered Nikki. ‘Sure it’s not some freak accident? Remember the drunk that burned to death after dossing down in a skip for the night? He lit a cigarette after drinking too much cider and hadn’t realised the skip he’d chosen was full of something flammable, poor guy.’
‘It’s murder, no question.’
Nikki didn’t press the point. ‘Okay, we’ll see you as soon as.’
She hurried outside to where a waiter was placing three individual cafetières on the table. Well, that would make a change from the station vending machine. She had a personal coffee machine in her office, but it needed replacing and was often out of action.
They introduced themselves, then, coffee poured, Nikki asked Harry Byrd to explain his strange statement to Superintendent Walker.
‘We know a little about your father’s history,’ she said, ‘but only what the media tells us.’
‘Well, DI Galena, there is a whole lot more to my father than most people imagine.’ He stirred his coffee. ‘But my immediate worry is my brother, Lucas.’
‘Okay, from the top,’ said Nikki, helping herself to a shortbread biscuit.
He nodded. ‘I’ll try and keep it succinct, given the complexities. Firstly, I have to say that what you believe or do not believe about my father and what he did in the States is irrelevant. The only thing that matters is that my little brother had absolute faith in our father. Father was God to Lucas and when he died, Lucas, who’d been psychologically troubled all his life, was devastated. Six months after Dad’s murder, he ran away, and I’ve never seen him since.’ He looked at them apologetically. ‘Filling you in on all the background will take time, but it is relevant. If it would help, I’ll come to the station and give a full statement.’
