For Better, For Worse

  By Jane Isaac

  The DC Beth Chamberlain series

  The Other Woman

  For Better, For Worse

  FOR BETTER,

  FOR WORSE

  Jane Isaac

  AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

  www.ariafiction.com

  This edition first published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Jane Isaac, 2020

  The moral right of Federica Bosco to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781838934729

  Cover design © Charlotte Abrams-Simpson

  Aria

  c/o Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue: August 1996

  Chapter 1: October 2017

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Become an Aria Addict

  This book is dedicated to the members of the emergency services who risk their lives daily to keep us all safe.

  Prologue

  August 1996

  The sound of the lock snapping into place amplified in the darkness as she closed the door. She froze, checked her watch: 11.48 p.m.

  She pulled her jacket across her chest and hurried down the lane under the obliging light of a crescent moon and a million stars, like prying eyes, squinting down at her through slits in the blanket of darkness.

  Close to the bottom of the lane, she heard a rustle nearby. She looked over her shoulder, stepped back into the shadows and held her breath. A crow, disturbed on its roost, cawed and flapped before silence prevailed.

  11.53 p.m. Edges of grass poked through the gaps in her sandals, spiking her feet as she continued across the bridge and past the ivy-covered mill ruins. The track at the bottom of Mill Lane was a well-trodden route leading to Isham Rec, an area of natural beauty, frequented by dog walkers and joggers in the daytime; families with blankets and picnic baskets in summer. But tonight, the air was clear and still. And belonged to her.

  A quick check back. The last houses of the village were boxes in the distance.

  She pressed deeper, the light fading, broad leaf branches reaching across, intertwining their fingers to form a natural tunnel, allowing only stipples of moonlight to penetrate the canopy. A breeze gushed through, brushing away the last heat of the day. She tugged at her collar, quickened her step.

  11.55 p.m. At the end of the track, a railway bridge led to the picnic area and river beyond. She paused to search for the letters scratched into the bricked arch beneath the bridge. The pads of her fingers sank into the grooves when she found them: J&D. A tear pricked her eye as she recalled the hours it had taken to carve out the stone; the intense, passionate moments afterwards.

  11.57 p.m. Her feet clattered up the metal steps of the bridge, breaths quickening hard and fast as she climbed. By the time she reached the top, her lungs were burning. Heat gripped her cheekbones. But it didn’t stall the shiver of anticipation that rattled down her spine.

  She looked back at the steps, moved to the middle of the bridge. Scoured each side. Under the silvery light, the rooftop peaks of the housing estate in the distance were eerie.

  11.58 p.m. Another glance around. She bit her lip.

  The soft rumble of an engine in the distance.

  She turned back to the bridge, focused on the track. The train rounded the corner, its light on full beam dazzling her. She blinked twice. For a second it felt surreal, like a fairground ride. She leaned forward, held out her arms wide like an angel, waiting for the rush of air to hit her as it approached, as she had so many times before.

  11.59 p.m. Almost there. She stepped up onto the bridge to gain the full extent of the blast. Placed a foot out. Felt the movement of the air. And jumped.

  1

  October 2017

  The spray from the wheels of a lorry splashed across Stuart Ingram’s windscreen, temporarily blinding him. He switched up his wipers, resisted the temptation to depress the brake, a movement that would send him sliding across the dual carriageway, and squinted, battling for a clear view of the road through the darkness and the rain pummelling his windscreen.

  He overtook the lorry and pulled off at the next junction into Rothwell, a small market town on the fringes of the Northamptonshire border. The streets were deserted, dull hues behind tightly drawn curtains the only sign of life in the old terraces that lined the roadside. After a week of unnaturally high October temperatures and the Met Office predicting a possible autumn drought, the rain had arrived with a vengeance, swamping everything in sight and leaving a slick residue as the hard-baked ground failed to cope with the sudden onslaught.

  The streetlights bobbed and flickered through the blurred car windows, casting shadows on the buildings nearby. He approached the quaint shops and restaurants that marked the edge of the town centre, turned right at the roundabout and parked up in the market square.

  The sixteenth-century Market House sat tall and proud, its limestone structure gleaming, newly polished by the downpour. Stuart skirted around the edge of it, scurried across the road and was relieved to see the welcoming neon sign lit on the door of the takeaway. It wasn’t the glossiest shopfront – the stringy nets had covered those windows for eighteen years – and the inside was plain and functional. But, hell, it served the best curries in the area and was well worth the detour.

  Ten minutes later, he left the shop carrying a white plastic bag with filled pots inside. The smell of the food wafted into the air, tickling his senses as he rushed back to the car. In fifteen minutes he’d be home, tucking into his curry with his trusted spaniel, Oscar, at his feet and his wife, Gina, moaning about his weekly indulgence. His stomach growled in anticip
ation. He flipped up his collar, halted beside the zebra crossing to allow a white van to pass. The headlights of another vehicle in the distance flickered on the wet surface. At least a hundred yards away, he guessed. Plenty of time to stop. He stepped onto the zebra crossing.

  The engine roared. The car picked up speed. He looked back. Shielded his eyes from the dazzling headlights. Hurried across. He was almost on the other side, toes touching the kerb when it swerved, partially mounted the pavement and ploughed into him. The thump splintered his eardrums and hurled him into the air. The bag he’d clutched so fervently flew from his grasp. A shower of lights filled his vision, until he was tossed into a well of darkness.

  The Jaguar’s wheels screeched across the tarmac as it sped off, leaving splatters of food and broken pots scattered across the pavement and swirls of steam curling up into the damp night air.

  2

  DC Beth Chamberlain shouldered the door to her locker closed, pulled on her jacket and heaved a weary sigh. She was about to start the last shift of her tour and it couldn’t have come sooner. She never minded working into the night on the Homicide and Major Incident Team, especially when there was a new case running; the work was generally fast moving in those dark hours. This was different. The county detective night car was on hand to take initial action on the serious jobs of the evening: rapes, murders, robberies. All the detectives in the area covered the night car on a rota basis, which meant she was required to do her stint only two or three times a year. It was a twelve-hour run, tough on the body clock and, to top it off, the last few nights had been sluggish at best.

  ‘Bet you a fiver we’ll have hit the drive-through by midnight,’ a voice piped up behind her.

  ‘I reckon we can last until 1 a.m.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  Beth turned and gave her colleague an awkward nod. Tonight, she was crewed up with her homicide sergeant, Nick Geary. While she didn’t wish crime on the innocent residents of Northamptonshire, she also didn’t relish the idea of a night parked up in a layby, desperately trying to make light conversation with someone she’d broken off a relationship with a little over a month earlier.

  They checked their pepper spray then fastened their belts. Nick pressed his phone to his ear, logging them on to duty. Beth pushed her stab vest into her holdall and wrestled with the zip, cursing the health and safety regulations requiring them to take all their protective equipment with them in the night car. She stood, tied back her dark curls into a loose half ponytail and watched her colleague’s face tighten. She shifted from foot to foot as the call lingered, straining to hear his side of the conversation.

  Finally, he lowered the phone and slipped it into his pocket. ‘You win. Looks like we’ve already got the first job,’ he said, grabbing his bag and moving off.

  She hauled up her own bag and followed him as he trotted down the back stairs. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Major incident in Bridge Street, Rothwell.’ They’d reached the door now. He grimaced at the rain outside, lifting a hood over his short dark hair. ‘Possible suspicious death.’

  *

  A kaleidoscope of blazing lights greeted them at the roundabout that marked the intersection between Rothwell’s Bridge Street and High Street. Beth tugged up her hood, climbed out of the car and approached the four by four marked with bold police livery blocking the road. The earlier downpour had abated, leaving a slow unrelenting drizzle in its wake and thick globules dripped off the trees and streetlamps as they passed.

  A uniformed officer she didn’t recognise stood beside the police vehicle, blowing into his hands. He was clearly positioned to guard the scene from the end of the road and divert any incoming traffic through the side streets, although there was little traffic passing through that evening. Beth and Nick flashed their badges. The officer exchanged pleasantries, cursed the weather and directed them to a figure, beyond the inner cordon.

  Dick Ramsay, the incident response shift sergeant, looked up as they approached. ‘I’m glad you guys are here.’

  ‘What have we got?’ Nick asked as they stepped over a splatter of rice on the pavement.

  ‘Hit and run. Looks deliberate. The victim left the curry house across the road, seconds before, and crossed at the zebra crossing.’

  ‘How do we know it was deliberate?’ Beth asked. It wouldn’t have been the first case she’d attended where the driver wasn’t paying attention, hit a pedestrian and sped off in a panic.

  ‘The assistant at the takeaway saw it happen.’ He paused and nodded at a lit shopfront on the corner of the road opposite. ‘Apparently the crossing was clear when he stepped onto it. The car veered across onto the pavement on the opposite side of the road to catch him.’

  Beth strained her eyes to see through the net curtain of the takeaway. The layout was plain: a counter for ordering, a red bench beside the window for customer seating. But it did have a clear view of the crossing through the glass door, especially for someone stood at the counter.

  ‘The witness said it knocked the victim twenty feet or so into the air,’ the sergeant continued. He moved off, motioning for them to follow, and halted beside a lump covered with a foil blanket on the ground, close to the centre of the market square. ‘This is where he landed. The informant called an ambulance before they called us, more in hope than expectation, I reckon. The paramedics pronounced him dead at the scene at 10.23 p.m.’

  Beth checked back to the crossing, gauging the distance from the point of impact. It must have been at least fifteen yards.

  ‘The hypothermic blanket was the only thing I had in the boot to cover him with until the CSIs arrive,’ Ramsay continued. ‘At least it’ll save him from the weather and—’ he looked up ‘—the prying eyes.’

  Several cars were dotted nearby. When there was no market operating, the square doubled up as the town centre car park. It was lined with cafes and shopfronts on two sides, all encased in darkness, and flanked by the Holy Trinity Church on another. Along the bottom sat a row of residential terraces. Beth followed Ramsay’s eyeline to a house in the middle of the terrace where the silhouette of a woman stood at an upstairs window, blatantly staring down at them.

  Ramsay pulled back the blanket. Covering bodies risked contaminating potential evidence and was generally avoided. But, given the wet conditions, she doubted there would be much left for the CSIs at this scene. The body was twisted, contorted from the fall. An arm was thrust out at an awkward angle, a leg folded beneath him. She crouched down. One side of his face was pressed into the tarmac, the head misshapen and split open at the top. But the facial features, on this side at least, were fairly intact. She peered in closer. There was something familiar about him. ‘Do we know who he is?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ve been through his pockets. No wallet, ID, or car keys on him. It’s possible they dropped out of his clothes when he was thrown through the air.’

  ‘We’ll get a search team out,’ Nick said. ‘What about the takeaway owner?’

  ‘He paid in cash,’ the sergeant said. ‘They didn’t know him by name. Said he comes by every Thursday around this time.’

  ‘A regular?’ That indicated a routine, a habit. If this was deliberate, it also meant someone knew his movements.

  ‘So they say.’

  ‘Can they give a description?’ Beth asked.

  ‘Dark hair, medium build, middle-aged.’

  ‘Some regular,’ Nick muttered beside her.

  She ignored his sarcasm, although it was understandable. The description was vague at best. ‘What about the car he drove?’

  Ramsay shook his head. ‘The witness was a woman working the desk. She’s only been there a few weeks. It was the owner who told her he was a regular. He knew from the order. Apparently, the victim always ordered chicken curry – without onions.’

  Beth scanned the area. Some rooms were lit above the cafes and shops where they’d been converted to flats. She saw a curtain twitch, and another. She looked back at the line of terraces at t
he bottom. The woman had retreated from the window and disappeared from view. Any of these spying eyes may have seen something. ‘I take it you’ve started house to house here, and along the main road too?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ve had to draft in extra officers to assist. I’ve called in the Collision Investigation Team, and forensics too.’ He glanced skyward. ‘Don’t fancy their chances much though.’

  ‘Let’s do a PNC trace on all the cars parked here,’ Nick said to Beth. ‘If he travelled by car, one of them could belong to him.’

  A familiar voice turned her head. ‘You beat me to it.’

  Nick stifled a laugh as Beth spotted Detective Chief Inspector Lee Freeman. He was wearing a long wax-cotton raincoat that hung off his rotund stomach. A matching sou’wester hat covered his balding scalp. At only five foot seven inches he stood shoulder to shoulder with Beth and looked more like a local farmer than a senior investigating officer in the police.

  ‘Evening.’ She pushed back her hood and passed on the details they already knew.

  ‘We were about to establish the route the killer took out of the town,’ Nick said.

  ‘Straight out of Bridge Street towards the Glendon Road.’ Ramsay thrust out an arm and pointed out the direction. ‘We’ve got another roadblock positioned past the pub for now. I’ve asked the night shift to check, but they’re mostly country roads. There are certainly no police cameras that way. According to the witness at the takeaway, the driver made off at speed. Our best bet is witness sightings along the route, especially if they were driving erratically.’

  Freeman stretched a latex glove over his right hand, crouched down and rested the other hand on his knee to steady himself. He pulled back the sheet and inspected the injuries.

  ‘Could the witness at least provide any details on the car?’ Beth asked Ramsay.

  ‘White Jaguar.’ He flipped back a page in his notebook. ‘Saloon. The takeaway assistant’s into cars, reckons it was an XJ. The car made off before she could get anything else.’