SPECIAL DELIVERY

  CASE FILES: POCKET-SIZED MURDER MYSTERIES

  RACHEL AMPHLETT

  Copyright © 2022 by Rachel Amphlett

  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

  Reading Order & Checklist

  Special Delivery

  About the Author

  Missed a book? Download the FREE Official Reading Order and Checklist to Rachel Amphlett’s books here

  Audiobook format also available

  SPECIAL DELIVERY

  The van travelled through the silenced suburbs of the Somerset town.

  Not too fast. Not too slow.

  A solitary crisp packet tumbled across the road in front of the van, then stuck fast against the kerb and fluttered desperately against the wind that held it there.

  Half past two in the morning.

  November rain.

  A faint mist clung to the urban sprawl, the unseasonal warmth giving up in the face of a drenching that increased in ferocity.

  Dull orange sodium streetlights flashed off the roof of the panel van as it twisted and turned along a circuitous route.

  It wasn’t entirely alone.

  A single decker bus, windows fogged up from the inside, trundled past in the opposite lane, the driver’s face illuminated by the bright overhead lights, his expression grim with concentration.

  Braking at the end of the road, the van turned left onto a street lined with terraced houses crammed next to each other, a mixture of exposed brick and painted plasterwork. Low stone walls provided a border between the homes and the pavement, a modicum of protection from the outside world.

  The van continued onwards, past a Chinese takeaway with faded gold lettering above its door, past a laundrette that had long been abandoned, then under a railway bridge covered with graffiti tags that clung to the steel girders.

  Wiper blades beat a steady rhythm across the rain-drenched windscreen, the rear lights from the vehicle in front reduced to red splats of colour by the next onslaught of water.

  Jackson Dark reached out, twisted the plastic knob for the heating control, and notched it up a couple of degrees. The radio murmured in the background, some sort of late night political discussion that helped to silence the voices in his head.

  He didn’t listen to the programme.

  Didn’t care.

  He flexed his fingers around the steering wheel, easing his foot off the accelerator a little as the van attempted to aquaplane through a deep puddle before correcting itself on the other side.

  There was no rush now.

  As long as the package was delivered before daybreak, that was all that mattered.

  The mobile phone lit up in its cradle on the dashboard a split second before a familiar rock music track tore through the cab, evoking memories of a train journey to London fifteen years ago and a lack of hearing for several days afterwards.

  He pressed a button on the steering wheel.

  “I’ll be home in an hour or so.”

  Margie sighed. “The weather’s atrocious out there. Be careful.”

  “I will. Stop worrying. Go back to sleep.”

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “You’re not working at this hour, are you?”

  “I thought I’d sit up and do the paperwork while you were out. Means we both get a day off tomorrow.”

  The smile in her voice wrapped itself around him, and he turned down the radio.

  “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t. The invoicing will wait.”

  “You can’t do it all yourself, Jackson. It’s all very well running your own business but I can help if you’d let me. You’ve got to learn to delegate.”

  He chuckled.

  She would never understand that there were some jobs that could never be delegated.

  “I’ve got to go, love. I’m nearly there.”

  He ended the call and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as the rock music track continued in his head, the road undulating gently under the van, large semi-detached houses with manicured gardens now lining each side of the avenue as he passed.

  A sudden flash of brown and white escaped from a garden and shot across the tarmac, the shape hunkered low to the ground.

  Jackson clenched his teeth, and swerved across the dotted white line in the middle of the street, thankful no traffic was coming the other way.

  A scraping sound reached his ears from the back of the van and he swore under his breath as he braked.

  The fox leapt between the steel bars of a garden gate on the opposite side of the road, its tail giving a warning flick as it disappeared from sight.

  His heart racing, Jackson exhaled and steadied the vehicle as the street changed from residential to up-market commercial, wiping sweat from his forehead.

  He checked his mirrors, and his heart missed a beat.

  Blue flashing lights exploded from the dark behind, the police patrol car accelerating to catch up.

  Jackson exhaled, indicated left and pulled to a standstill at the kerb outside the darkened forecourt of a sports car dealership.

  He had no interest in the gleaming silver specimen on display behind the reinforced glass though.

  Reaching out for the button to lower the window, he blinked as horizontal rain struck him in the face and needled his eyes.

  The police car had parked behind his, and now one of the occupants – he assumed there were two – climbed from the driver’s side and jogged towards him. The officer’s waterproof jacket did little to offset the fresh torrent that chose that exact moment to descend from the heavens.

  Jackson managed to wipe the smirk off his face before the flashlight shone into his eyes, and raised his hand to ward off the glare.

  “Evening, officer.”

  “Were you aware your offside brake light isn’t working?” said the police officer, lowering the beam so it fell to the dashboard.

  “Isn’t it?” Jackson rubbed his chin, fighting down the urge to panic. “Sorry – must’ve blown a bulb when I braked for that fox. It was working fine this morning.”

  The policeman’s mouth thinned, and Jackson’s heart sank.

  “Mind if I take a look in the back of the van, sir?”

  “What for?”

  “Routine check. You’ve got a brake light out. Let’s make sure there’s nothing else wrong with the vehicle before we let you go. Last thing we want is to find you in a ditch later tonight, do we? Turn off the engine and get out of the vehicle, please sir.”

  “Hang on.”

  He turned away and reached out for the waxed jacket he’d discarded on the passenger seat, shrugged it over his shoulders and then pulled out a baseball cap he kept for emergencies from the glove compartment.

  By the time he turned off the engine and climbed out, the police officer was wet through and glaring at him.

  “The side door, sir?” he said through gritted teeth, and indicated with the torch beam that Jackson should lead the way.

  “Sure.”

  Sliding open the panel, Jackson took a cursory glance around the interior and then stood to one side to let the policeman pass.

  The torch beam swept left and right, up the welded panels and across the fitted shelving Jackson had built near the driver’s end of the vehicle.

  On the floor, discarded boxes covered the surface, broken open and flattened and favouring the left-hand side where he’d swerved to avoid the fox.

  “What is it you do, sir?”

  “I’m a courier. Self-employed.”

  “Where do you get most of your work from?”

  “Online businesses. The usual suspects.” He jerked his chin at the empty packaging. “All this will go to the Council recycling place tomorrow before I start my rounds. Costs a small fortune in fees.”

  The torch beam swung over the flattened boxes, then stopped.

  “Is there a storage compartment under here, sir?”

  Jackson swallowed. “Yes.”

  “Care to open it up?”

  He heaved himself into the back of the van, using his foot to clear away the packaging from the clips holding the floor panel in place.

  Climbing out, he released the panel and slid it to one side.

  The policeman stepped forward, his jaw tight as the torch beam illuminated the dark chasm under the floor.

  “Flowers?”

  “For my wife.” Jackson held up his hands. “It’s the only place I can hide the bouquet so she doesn’t find them. It’s our anniversary tomorrow. I want it to be a surprise.”

  The policeman grunted, then switched off the torch. “All right, close it up. Get back inside but don’t start the engine.”

  Jackson did as he was told, then sat with the window down as the policeman took his details and began to write out the fixed penalty notice for the brake light.

  Jackson glanced at his watch.

  “Need to be somewhere, sir?” The policeman paused his note-taking and raised an eyebrow.

  “No, it’s just that the missus will be worried about me,” he said. “It’s been a long day.”

  � �Indeed it has, sir.” The policeman finished writing with a flourish of his pen, then tore off the carbon copy of the infringement notice and held it out. “Make sure you get that fixed as soon as possible. It’s not the weather for driving around in faulty vehicles.”

  Jackson folded the notice and tucked it into his jacket pocket, then buttoned the flap to keep it safe. “Okay if I go?”

  “Certainly, sir. Drive safely now.”

  Jackson wound up the window. Relieved that all the warmth hadn’t been sapped from the vehicle, he flipped the switch to reheat the seats and blew on his hands to try to get the circulation working again.

  In the door mirror, he saw the police car’s indicator flash bright orange and then pull away from the kerb. He executed a mock salute at the occupants as they accelerated past.

  The brake lights flared once at the end of the road, and then they were gone, lost to the rabbit warren of criss-crossing streets.

  Jackson let his head fall back against the headrest for a moment, before reaching out and slipping the van into gear, his heart rate slowly returning to some semblance of normal.

  After half a mile, he slowed to negotiate a roundabout offering three directions from which to choose, decided upon the third exit, then accelerated beyond the town’s speed limit, ploughing onwards into the night.

  The van slowed as the road began to climb upwards, the engine churning before finding momentum and surging ahead.

  Jackson began to relax as the dark countryside wrapped itself around him, the van’s headlights reflecting off butchered hedgerows that had been cut back at the end of October.

  He flicked off the headlights, content to rely on the van’s side lights and rested his foot on the brake pedal, gently easing the van to a slow crawl before turning right.

  He didn’t indicate.

  The van purred past a large brick house on the corner of the junction, its front windows dark and its occupants oblivious to the night’s activities.

  Jackson fought down envy at the thought of warm blankets and central heating. He groaned as the wheels crashed into a deep pothole he mistook for a puddle, ruing the damage to the suspension that would eat into his profit, and hoping the noise would be shrouded by the pouring rain.

  Naked horse chestnut trees and ancient oak nestled on either side of the lane, which deteriorated with every twist and turn.

  He braked the van to a slow crawl as he approached two ramshackle corrugated iron machinery sheds on the opposite side of the lane to a house behind a low fence.

  The lane widened before straightening out, and he checked the clock on the dashboard as the van passed a T-junction, a white signpost flashing by the passenger window.

  Plenty of time yet and no need to hurry, despite what he had told the policeman.

  He jumped at movement out the corner of his eye at the side of the road, then swore as he realised the faces belonged to sheep who peered out from behind the wire fence that kept them corralled in the field.

  It always happened like this.

  The closer he got, the more nervous he became.

  After another minute, the lane dropped below a railway bridge, the Victorian brick structure providing a split second’s respite from the rain before spitting him out the other side.

  He could see it then, or at least sense it.

  The side lights no longer picked out a hedgerow but instead a black expanse that disappeared into the night.

  The reservoir clung to the landscape, its depths ice cold, remorseless.

  Jackson swallowed as the headlights picking out the flash of a red post box next to the turning for the Norman church, uncomfortable at the close proximity of something so holy to something so—

  He pushed the thought aside.

  Nearly there.

  Half a mile, and he turned the van to the left, bouncing it through soft gravel that sucked at the tyres and hampered his progress.

  When the sidelights picked out the dark water’s edge, he stopped and applied the handbrake.

  His fingers found the zip of his waxed jacket and he pulled it up to his chin, tugging the baseball cap firmly onto his head before releasing the door handle.

  The wind buffeted him against the side of the van, and he threw out his arms to regain his balance, shocked by the assault. He steadied himself and made his way around to the side of the vehicle, then reached out and released the side door once more.

  Climbing in, he began to gather up the flattened boxes and stack them against the far side, clearing the floor of the van. Once finished, he lowered himself back to the ground.

  He ignored the compartment he’d opened for the policeman and instead peeled back the black rubber waterproof lining.

  Jackson let out an exasperated sigh.

  The sudden swerve he’d executed to avoid the fox had sent the package flying across the floor of the van, exactly as he’d suspected.

  At the far end of the recess between the wheel arches, he could just make out the black plastic wrapped around the lifeless form, the bin liners secured in place with duct tape.

  He groaned as he eased himself up into the van, ruing the backache that plagued him on a regular basis, slipped his hand into the cavity, and reached out for the body.

  The client had assured him that the package wasn’t big, and he wasn’t wrong.

  The problem was the bricks that had been included. They added several kilogrammes, which shifted with every movement.

  Sweating under the thick coat, Jackson dragged the package from the recess until he’d managed to get the bulk of it exposed, then climbed out and slung the body over his shoulders in a fireman’s grip before staggering towards the reservoir’s shoreline, grunting as he waded in.

  Ice cold water slapped at his rubber boots and he squinted in the faint beam from the van’s sidelights, keen to avoid going too deep. He knew these waters well – a steep shelf cleaved away from a gentle slope only a metre or so from where he stood.

  Once he was sure he had the right position, he heaved the body into the water and took a step back, panting.

  The package began to sink straight away, the bricks carrying it beneath the depths, the water obliterating any trace of the person inside.

  He didn’t know who it was.

  Didn’t care.

  Bubbles popped to the surface, a final gurgle escaping from the parcel before it sank completely.

  Jackson turned away and made his way back to the van.

  He needed to get those flowers in some water before they started to dehydrate.

  She’d be delighted he remembered.

  As he slid the side panel closed, his hand brushed the liveried paintwork that covered the side of the vehicle, the black stencilling underneath the courier logo stark against the white paint.

  Special deliveries our speciality.

  * * *

  THE END

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Rachel Amphlett is a USA Today bestselling author of crime fiction and spy thrillers, many of which have been translated worldwide.

  Her novels are available in eBook, print, and audiobook formats from libraries and retailers as well as her website shop.

  A keen traveller, Rachel has both Australian and British citizenship.

  Find out more about Rachel’s books at: www.rachelamphlett.com.

 

 

  Rachel Amphlett, Special Delivery

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