An Unfamiliar Murder Read online

  An Unfamiliar Murder

  Jane Isaac

  Rainstorm Press

  PO

  BOX 391038 Anza, Ca 92539

  www.RainstormPress.com

  The characters depicted in this story are completely fictitious, and any similarities to actual events, locations or people, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, in whole or in part, without written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in reviews. For information regarding permissions please contact the publisher

  [email protected]

  An Unfamiliar Murder

  Rainstorm Press http://www.RainstormPress.com

  Copyright © 2011 by Rainstorm Press

  Text copyright © 2011 Jane Lobb

  All rights reserved.

  Interior book design by –

  The Mad Formatter

  www.TheMadFormatter.com

  Cover Design and model: © Eloise J. Knapp

  Photo by: © Alexa Newsom

  Praise for

  An Unfamiliar Murder

  “A wonderful ride into a world of murder. An Unfamiliar Murder will keep you hooked ‘til the last page is turned.”

  - Mandy Tinics, author of Darkness of Night

  “A brilliant debut novel! Jane Isaac's characters shine in An Unfamiliar Murder. You will be kept guessing until the very end. I absolutely cannot wait for the sequel.”

  - Susan J. Dorsey, author of A Discriminating Death

  An Unfamiliar Murder is a mysterious tale of a murder. The characters practically pop with realism as you struggle to figure out who ‘did it’ and why.

  Within these pages you’ll find a story of separation, secrets, mistrust, uncertainty, struggle, love, and reunion. You’ll also find a twisted villain, seeking to kill as many people as possible to make others hurt.

  Right up ‘til the end you wonder what’s going to happen next. The story is well written, full of depth, and steeped in. . .mystery, just the way you’ll like it!

  - Rebecca Besser, author of Undead Drive-Thru

  To David and Ella

  You are my world

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks go to Chris Lowe, former Divisional Officer of Northants Fire Service, who assisted in house fire research. I am so grateful for him for imparting his wealth of knowledge – any deviation or errors in the book are purely mine.

  I would like to thank Esther Newton for all her honest feedback on my fiction (good and bad) and Tim Glister for believing in the book initially, and helping me to develop my ideas.

  Thanks to Lyle Perez-Tinics and all at Rainstorm Press for taking me off their slush pile and allowing me to be so involved in the publishing process, particularly Eloise J Knapp, a very talented lady, who assisted in editorial and produced the beautiful cover we see today.

  Gratitude goes to my Dad and Stepmother, David and Lynne, for painstakingly reading early chapters and also to Joanna Lambton for her persistence and encouragement in the early stages, and especially my dear friend, Jean Bouch, who gave up her precious time to proof read my work.

  I am blessed with fabulous friends in Bekki Mae Bucky, Stephanie Daniels, Mary Knight and Emma Thompson. Thanks to them for their help and support as reading buddies and with cover art ideas.

  Most importantly, love and thanks always to my wonderful husband, David, and daughter, Ella, for their constant love and support, and for living with my characters these past few years. I couldn’t have done this without them.

  Chapter One

  Is this what it feels like to be buried alive? Anna’s chest tightened.

  A loud, chilling wail rose up from beyond. She closed her eyes and pressed her palms to her ears to shut out the intermittent screams.

  “Shut it!” yelled a voice in the distance.

  “Can it!” growled another, “Before I make you.”

  “Like to see that,” responded the first one. Raucous laughter filled the air.

  Anna sat on the hard bench and shuddered, hugging her knees into her stomach, as if coiling her body would protect it. As the last decibels of laughter abated, her eyes focused on the graffiti scratched onto the wall beside her. ‘Read this and weep.’ She stared at it for a moment then slowly, gradually, her body started to rock, forwards and backwards.

  The sound of a door banging in a distant corridor reverberated around the building, breaking her abstraction. Her eyes darted around, surveying the windowless room: the empty, off white walls, the grey metal door, the plastic covered, dazzling light bulb in the middle of the ceiling that made her eyes ache; the grey flecked ‘easy clean’ flooring. A smell of bleach pervaded the air.

  She felt a pang in her bladder as her eyes focused on the small cubicle in the corner. She quivered, wrinkling her nose, squashing her eyes together. The thought of using what was inside didn’t appeal.

  Footsteps and the jingle of metal brought her attention back to the door, her nemesis and barrier to the outside world. She held her breath as they halted for a second, before moving on, fading into the distance. It wasn’t her turn yet.

  Anna massaged her shin bones gently through the navy jogging suit which hung off her. She wriggled uncomfortably as the folds of material rubbed against bare skin beneath, resenting being ordered to wear it, like a young child whose mother chooses their wardrobe.

  Thoughts of her own mum made her shudder. She closed her eyes and imagined the scene at her parent’s home right now. This was supposed to be their special evening, their 30th wedding anniversary celebration. The invitations had been sent out weeks ago. She could see their friends arriving all smiles and congratulations, only to be turned away, only to be disappointed . . .

  The camera in the far corner of the room faced her disconcertingly. Her bladder bounced in her stomach again and she scowled at the thought of them watching over her, clenching her teeth in an effort to fight away the tears, cursing her tendency to cry when angry. Were they watching her body language?

  Another distant noise in the corridor outside. Thud, thud, thud, at regular intervals. She clutched her stomach. She really needed the toilet. The footsteps were measured, precise and getting louder. She listened intently, trying to block out the other noises: the whir of the camera, the jangle of metal, the voices in the background, which all conspired to block her hearing. There it was, the sound of a key being inserted into the lock. The door opened to reveal a man in black uniform looking slightly disheveled. His hair was in dire need of a cut, his nose flattened as if, in the distant past, it had been on the receiving end of a good, hard punch.

  “Anna Cottrell?” he asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Your solicitor is on the phone for you.” He handed out a cordless telephone and she jumped off the bed, tripping over her own feet in her haste to reach it. He raised his eyebrows as she took it from him, a smile tickling his lips.

  “Will, Will is that you?” Anna cried out.

  “It’s me. Are you OK, Anna?”

  “No. I need help. Can you get me out of here?” She failed to draw breath, speaking quickly, as if the call would be ended at any moment.

  “I’m on my way. Do you need anything?” he asked gently.

  “Just you to get me out of here.”

  “Sit tight. I’ll be there in twenty minutes . . .”

  * * *

  Two hours earlier, Anna switched to second gear as she freewheeled down the hill and past the wrought iron sign indicating the entrance to Little Hampstead, completing her three mile journey home from work in the nearby midlands city of Hampton.

  Due to its close proximity to the city, the small village of Little Hampstead was rapidly losing its sense of community.
As long standing residents died or moved into care, their properties were snatched up at over-inflated prices by professional people seeking the refuge of a rural, countryside setting.

  The result was a loss of facilities. The school had closed two years ago, the post office six months later, even the old village shop building was covered in tarpaulin, as builders worked steadfastly to turn it into the next hot residential property. What was left was a ghost village, the presence of the majority of its 400 inhabitants only noticeable by their wheely bins on collection day. This suited Anna, she much preferred this environment to the goldfish bowl community where her parents lived.

  Dark rain clouds, swept along by a bustling wind, threatened the November sky. Thankful for the assistance of bright street lighting as she entered the village, she slowed at the crossroads, turning right into

  Flax Street. The familiar hum of her mobile phone started as she arrived outside number 22, and she slowed to a gentle stop, reaching into her pocket to retrieve it. ‘Mum’ flashed on the screen.

  Maneuvering herself off her bike, she sighed and pressed the answer button, raising the phone to her ear.

  “Hi, Mum.”

  “Anna. Where are you?” she asked, her voice brittle with panic.

  “Calm down, I’m outside the flat. I just need to get changed and I’ll be over,” Anna answered calmly.

  “Did you pick up the serviettes?”

  “Yes, I have them. I’ll see you in an hour.”

  “Make it half an hour . . .” she said and the call was ended, leaving only silence to fill Anna’s ear. Anna sighed again and raised her eyes to the sky. She put her phone back in her pocket and wheeled her bicycle towards the opening that divided the cluster of terraces that had been sympathetically renovated into apartments, and stopped, waiting expectantly.

  “Damn that light,” she muttered under her breath and then gave up the wait, proceeding to wheel her bicycle through the aperture between the houses which was bathed in darkness.

  As she reached the rear of the property she was grateful for the slice of natural light the moon supplied, as it broke out between the clouds, enabling her to see clearly enough to climb the steps to the entrance of her home. Using all the might in her slender, athletic body she lifted her bicycle, carrying it up to the door of Flat 22a.

  It wasn’t until she reached the top stair, placed her bike down against the wall and fumbled in her bag for her keys, that she realized something was wrong. The door was already ajar.

  Anna stared at the open door for a moment, nonplussed. Did I close it this morning? She thought to herself. She couldn’t remember locking it. Surely, I didn’t leave it open? Aware of the habitual rush that dictated her morning routine, she let her mind ponder these questions as her eyes searched around.

  And then they found it, as they would a small crack in a windscreen; splinters down the side of the door, close to the Yale lock, chips that exposed the bare wood underneath the red paint, indicating that the door had been forced. Her body froze. A shiver rolled down the back of her head, gathering momentum as it descended earthward bound, like an icy, cold waterfall.

  She stood for a moment, glued to the spot, glancing around at the neighboring terraces, praying for some sign of life.

  Her senses heightened and she became aware of her own shallow breathing, the noise exacerbated by the growing darkness, and the realization that she was all alone. On this side of the door at least.

  With a sudden movement, she pushed the door with her fingertips delicately, as if expecting it to fall from its hinges. “Who’s there?” she called out, trying to hide the panic that was attempting to break her pitch. Her voice disappeared into the silence of the night.

  Breathe. Anna sucked a deep breath and closed her eyes for a second as she held it, a gesture intended to steel any remaining courage. Then she pushed the door open further to expose an empty hallway. Relief squashed the air out of her lungs. This part of the house, in any event, was unoccupied. Her shoulders relaxed and she reached around the left hand side of the doorframe, fingertips searching for the light switch. Finally they found it and with a short click, bathed the hallway in the poor, limited light of a low energy light bulb.

  The light revealed very little: a small shoe rack containing a pair of black, ankle boots next to muddy trainers to the left; four coat hooks above, upon which hung a single, black fleece jacket; a quarry tiled floor, covered for the most part by her favorite, colorful Turkish rug, which her parents had brought her back from a holiday.

  Anna paused for a moment, her dark eyes darting around. There were only two doors off the hallway. The first on the right led to the kitchen and was ajar, the second directly opposite led initially to the lounge, following on to a double bedroom and small bathroom. This door was closed. The main entrance provided the only access point to the flat which occupied the first floor of the old house. The only access point, she thought to herself. Whoever had forced this door would have also left by this point. If they have left. Her body tensed. Are they still here?

  As her mind percolated this thought her body started to tremble. Her hands shook as she parked her bicycle outside against the wall, removed her rucksack and rummaged in her pocket for her mobile phone. One bar of charge showed up on the lit panel. She gently pressed the button which switched the sound to silent, dialed three nines consecutively and placed it back in her pocket, her thumb perched over the call button, before stepping into the hallway.

  Silence saturated the flat and she stood still for some time listening for any little sound which might indicate a presence, before gingerly placing her hand against the kitchen door. Deftly, she put one foot inside and peered behind the doorway. Relief again flooded her veins. It was clear.

  Bizarrely, Anna felt an adrenalin rush at this point. This extraordinary turn of events felt like an out of body experience, the scene of a film set, where her alter-ego was on an escapade of discovery. It was the kind of story that one would relate later at dinner parties to rapt friends, who would hang on every word. But this is no film, no story, thought Anna. Another shiver. It shot down her back this time, making her tremble again. This is right here, right now. This is real.

  Reaching for the second drawer on the left, the kitchen light still off, she opened it and slowly felt around, eventually drawing out a long, sharp carving knife. Armed with mobile phone and knife, her confidence rose as she approached the lounge door. A strong metallic smell filled the air.

  Holding the knife firmly between her thumb and forefinger, she released her spare fingers and flicked the handle, pushing the door hard. It swung open to reveal a large room, which the small streak of light seeping through from the hallway had little effect on illuminating. Just as she was cursing her laziness at leaving the long, heavily lined curtains drawn that same morning, she stopped. What was that? She thought to herself. She shrank back into the hallway and stood very still. There it is again. Tap, tap, tap. Very gently, so quiet she could barely hear it. She allowed only very short, controlled breaths – as if it would impede her hearing. Nothing. Were her ears playing tricks on her? No, there it is again.

  Anna strained her ears in an effort to source the noise. Is it coming from the lounge? She tilted her head slightly. No. She retreated through the hallway and turned around, her eyes following the sound. There it was – the chain on the back of the door was hanging down, tapping against the back of the wood in the wind. She sighed heavily, relaxed her shoulders and turned back towards the lounge.

  She repeated her earlier actions, this time reaching around the right hand side of the doorframe, a few fingers freed from the knife to search for the switch. Finally, they were successful and in the flick of a switch the room was immersed in light. But her fingers felt soft and sticky this time and, as she drew her hand back into view, she noticed they were covered in a red liquid. It was then that she lifted her eyes.

  As she gasped and dropped the knife, panic surged throughout her body like a tidal wave
. Her right hand clasped the doorframe tightly to prevent herself from falling as her legs weakened. She felt like she was drowning, fiercely battling against a weight of water that was rapidly pushing her down. The room started to spin, mixing up colors, until everything felt like a blur. The heat in her head rose as she fought the urge to faint.

  Acid rose in her throat and for a moment Anna stood there, head hung, sickly tears running down her face before taking a deep breath, trying to gather her thoughts.

  She turned back to face the horror of the room’s contents and opened her mouth but her voice caught, suppressing any sound as she pressed the ring button on her mobile phone.

  Chapter Two

  Detective Chief Inspector Helen Lavery was standing beside the toilet, watching her fifteen year old son retch and cast out the poisoned contents of his stomach like an overflowing drainage pipe, when her mobile phone rang.

  “Damn! Hold on a minute, Matthew,” she said, patting his shoulder before walking out of the room. He looked up helplessly. The truth was that he couldn’t hold on even if he had wanted to.

  She reached into her pocket as she crossed the landing, answering on the fifth ring, just before the voicemail kicked in.

  “Yes?”

  “Ma'am, this is Inspector Henton. I’m sorry to bother you this evening, but you are the duty SIO.” It was a statement more than a question, as if he sensed her irritation, the intrusion into her evening.

  “Yes, I believe so,” she replied, reaching down to grab a notebook and pen from her bedside table. “What do you have for me?”

  “Uniform were called to a flat in Little Hampstead at 6pm this evening, where they found a body with multiple stab wounds. Paramedics have certified it dead and the Duty DI is on the scene.” The control room Inspector’s voice was rushed, keen to pass on this information, as if the end of his shift were approaching.