Open Grave Read online

  Open Grave

  A.M. Peacock

  Contents

  Also by A.M. Peacock

  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

  A Note from Bloodhound Books

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2018 A.M. Peacock

  The right of Adam Peacock to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Also by A.M. Peacock

  DCI Jack Lambert Series

  Grave Intent

  This book is dedicated to all of my friends and family, without whom none of this would have been possible.

  1

  It was precisely 11pm when he realised he was going to die.

  He knew this for two very different reasons. Firstly, the crowd he’d been running with was into something heavy. Something bigger than the usual robberies and low-level drug peddling he’d been used to. It had been two years since he’d first been offered the job; a one-off, they’d told him. That was many jobs ago. It was just his rotten luck that he’d ended up here, now.

  The second reason? He’d been tied to a chair and was staring down the barrel of a sawn-off shotgun.

  He could hear the faint sound of a distant clock as he made another futile attempt to prise his hands from the ropes that had been used to bind him. It was useless. He grimaced as the coarse material chafed away at the raw skin around his wrists. His heart slapped against his bruised ribcage, three beats for every tick.

  Although he couldn’t see his captor’s face, he could sense him smirking behind the balaclava. A shuffling sound to his left caught his attention. He couldn’t see who it was, but he knew they all answered to him. The invisible presence carried an aura of control. He’d seen it before. Probably wouldn’t see it again.

  ‘Look...’

  The hand that struck him was gloved, but it did nothing to dampen the impact on his face. Tears streamed from his swollen eyes as he settled back into silence, his vision jarred.

  ‘I want a name,’ a voice called out from the darkness.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he replied, fighting to keep the tremor hidden from his voice.

  ‘This is... unfortunate.’

  He didn’t recognise the voice, nor the accent. It sounded Eastern European but he couldn’t be sure. Like some kind of evil Bond villain. If he hadn’t been so sure he was about to die, he would have laughed. They must be ignorant, he felt. People in these parts knew not to mess with the crew he was running with. Once the boss found out about this there’d be hell to pay.

  Not that this lot seemed bothered though.

  The go-between had told him there would be minimal fuss. He’d gone straight to the pickup point at the Port of Tyne, just as he’d been ordered. He’d been on time and had done everything asked of him. Baz had seen them coming and nicked off in the van, the prick. Apart from Baz, who he’d never liked much, he’d miss the lads. But not as much as he’d miss Suzie. He’d promised her he’d be done after this last job. He’d sworn it. He’d even told the boss. Well, he’d asked. He’d found himself some other work. Less dangerous, they’d told him. Didn’t matter now.

  ‘The name,’ the voice said again, this time right next to his face.

  He could feel steel against his throat, pressure being slowly applied until he was sure they’d drawn blood. He felt the nausea creeping up through his stomach. There was no way out for him now.

  ‘I’ve given you everything I know!’

  ‘You’re lying,’ the European said. ‘I’m told you northerners are made of strong stuff. Let’s test that theory, shall we?’

  He screamed as the blade left his throat and began sawing through the bone of the baby finger on his left hand, just below the knuckle. He wasn’t afforded the luxury of passing out. On and on it seemed to go, his screams reverberating around the warehouse. Once it was over, he looked down at the bloodied stump where his finger had once been and threw up on himself, his sobs reverting to whimpers.

  ‘The name!’

  A single candle fluttered in between himself and the European who was now sitting opposite, pointing the gun. Other than that, there was only darkness.

  He knew there was no way out now. All he could do was protect Suzie. ‘Fuck the name. When the boss finds out about this your life won’t be worth spit.’

  The warehouse fell silent, the only sound the rustling of the European’s collar as he turned his head, staring back into the darkness.

  ‘Ankegren, bring me the pliers.’

  2

  In nearly ten years of police work, not a lot surprised Detective Chief Inspector Jack Lambert. When he’d received the call about two bodies being discovered, he’d had the same rush of adrenaline he’d encountered numerous times before. However, shocked he was not.

  Until now.

  Stamping a half-smoked menthol into the damp earth, he sighed, resting a palm on his throbbing forehead. Detective Sergeant Watkins paced up the hill towards him, pale faced, his shock of wiry, ginger hair bobbing up and down. Sheets of rain lashed the grassy knoll, mimicking the sombre mood of the crime scene. Jack had forgotten to bring a coat.

  ‘Yep, two of them,’ Watkins relayed. ‘One male, one female.’

  ‘What do we know?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ he replied, his voice rising in pitch as it often seemed to do when he was nervous.

  The wind was picking up now. Jack ground his teeth together in frustration; just one of the many things he’d inherited from his estranged father. Weather like this wasn’t going to make their job any easier. Still, South Shields wasn’t exactly known for its exotic climate.

  ‘Show me.’

  They followed the muddy path towards the hastily erected white tent. Navigating the uneven terrain proved difficult, the easiest route having been cordoned off due to the presence of potential tyre marks. A mixture of uniformed police and medical teams in white overalls darted about, trying to solve their latest mystery. South Shields’ famous foggy coastline was doing its job today, sending a thick, grey paste their way.

  Ducking into the tent, Jack was met wi
th the animated chatter of the investigating team. He squinted at the patchy grass, faint sets of footprints moving in short bursts from the centre.

  ‘Detective Lambert.’

  Even in drab white overalls it was hard not to be taken aback by the striking looks of pathologist Rosie Lynnes. Half the force would have killed for the chance to have a shot with the auburn-haired stunner. Jack Lambert had been the one cop to charm her, but then he’d managed to break her heart. Having had enough of living in denial, he had come clean about his sexuality nearly a year ago. Far from finding himself liberated from the mental prison he’d put himself in, he had retreated into his shell. The pathologist, for her part, seemed to have an unhealthy hatred for him now. He couldn’t say he blamed her. It didn’t help that he’d specifically requested that she attend the scene of these murders.

  ‘Rosie.’

  ‘Put these on,’ she said, casting a swift glance over his appearance, ‘and follow me.’

  While wishing he’d taken the time to shave that morning, he stepped awkwardly into the SOC suit, the material proving itchy as always. He’d gained a few pounds in the last year and, at a stocky six feet two inches, he found that most people took him for a bouncer rather than a police officer. They were only half wrong. He followed Rosie towards the centre of the tent as he wrestled with the zip. When he finally got to grips with it he focused on breathing through his mouth as the scent of rotting bodies hit him. It didn’t do much good. Death always had a way of overcoming such methods. Watkins started retching. It happened to the best of them. The young, newly-promoted DS certainly had potential. If he could keep his professionalism intact, he’d make a fine detective, Jack thought.

  He moved closer and kneeled over the corpses.

  ‘I’d estimate no more than around twelve to fourteen days since the time of death, but that’s a rough estimate. It’s not certain.’

  Even Rosie’s perfume couldn’t mask the stench.

  ‘Any good news?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Cause of death?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll need to conduct a proper examination.’

  ‘You must have some idea?’

  ‘If I were into guesswork,’ she said, cuttingly, ‘I would say strangulation.’

  ‘Both of them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Watkins appeared to Jack’s right, sweat beading down his face as he gasped for fresh air. They stared into the ditch that housed the two corpses. Both were in the early stages of decomposition and stripped naked. Jack noted the red hue that both bodies had taken on, which backed up the theory that it was days rather than weeks since they had died. Both of the bodies were on their side, with the woman’s arm wrapped around the bloated torso of the man. Odd that it should be that way round, he thought. Jack focused his mind, aware that even the tiniest detail at the time of discovery could prove vital to finding the killer. Although ages were difficult to determine, he guessed both of them to have been somewhere between twenty and thirty. Certainly younger than his own thirty-five years.

  ‘We’ll need an ID as quickly as possible,’ he said, dragging himself back up.

  ‘Should I start looking through the missing persons list?’ Watkins asked.

  ‘You don’t need me to tell you how to do everything, Watkins,’ Jack snapped. ‘Yes, of course, and get onto the lab.’

  They left the shelter of the tent and headed back out into the tree-lined area of Cleadon Hills. Although the cold air slapped him in the face, he was glad to be able to breathe normally again. The smell, on the other hand, would take days to wash out of his clothes.

  Gazing around the scene, he felt his hopes for a quick resolution dwindle. The area was remote and the chances of anybody having seen anything would be slim to none. Still, protocol existed for a reason, even if he had gained a reputation as someone who liked to ignore it.

  ‘Let’s start door to door enquiries.’

  Watkins nodded. ‘So, what do you think?’

  Jack’s experience had taught him to look at everything and rule out nothing. It also told him that when more than one body was involved, it was generally bad news.

  ‘I think we’re in for a difficult winter,’ he sighed. ‘Have we questioned the bloke who found them?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s a dog walker. Comes here all the time. He’s being treated for shock,’ Watkins said, motioning toward a nearby paramedic van.

  ‘Bit of a cliché,’ Jack said.

  He watched as two medics flanked a middle-aged man who was wrapped in a blanket nursing a warm drink. His dog, a young-looking Labrador, lay close by, looking as glum as Jack felt.

  ‘Detective.’

  He turned. ‘Jane.’

  DI Jane Russell strode over with what some might call concern etched onto her face. Jack knew it was all an act though. Still, it didn’t pay to mention it to her. Despite being on the same team, she had a habit of making things all about her. A fine policewoman, yes, but selfish. And Jack couldn’t stand selfish people.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re here.’ Her grey eyes narrowed. ‘We’ve already secured the scene and bagged up potential evidence.’

  ‘Edwards wanted an extra set of eyes on this,’ he replied, holding her gaze. ‘Plus, I’ve been assigned SIO.’

  The detective’s pencil-thin features scrunched up, ageing her by at least ten years. ‘Yes... well... just don’t contaminate the scene... guv.’

  She strode away, casting a cursory glance over her shoulder. Having not long made DCI, Jack was determined to stay involved in the investigation process. He’d be damned if he was going to put his feet up and delegate everything away like his predecessor. Jane Russell would just have to deal with it.

  ‘What’s up with the Bulldog?’ Watkins asked as she began barking orders at a nearby PC.

  He shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ Turning to take in the scene once more he added, ‘but I don’t like this one bit.’

  The DS began swinging his gangly leg around, kicking at the loose dirt. ‘What’s got you so spooked?’

  ‘Stop that.’ He crunched an ibuprofen down and dry-swallowed it before continuing. ‘Somebody dug that ditch up. Somebody who knew where the bodies were and wanted us to find them.’ He fixed his eyes on the sergeant. ‘I’ve seen nothing so far to suggest that we’re dealing with anything other than one sick bastard, and sick bastards are usually the worst kind of killers to find.’

  * * *

  At the corner of the field, a small crowd had gathered, aware something serious was going on. As the two detectives left the scene, only one man amongst the nosing throng was aware of what had happened. Suppressing a smile, he feigned concern, the images of the bodies he’d dug up dancing through his mind on a happy repeat. A quick check of his watch told him it was almost time. They’d both be waiting, hoping he’d change his mind and let them go. Unfortunately for them he’d be unable to comply. After all, he had a schedule to stick to.

  And this was just the beginning.

  3

  Jack was greeted by a young desk sergeant as he waded through three policemen wrestling a drunken teenager with a penchant for facial piercings and foul language. He was early for work but his 5am wake up was a lie-in for him. Once a big case ignited, sleep became a luxury he couldn’t afford.

  He glanced at his watch. ‘Eight am? They start earlier and earlier, don’t they?’

  ‘Or stay up later,’ the desk sergeant replied. ‘Oh, before I forget, sir, Superintendent Edwards is looking for you.’

  Jack forced a smile before pushing through the double doors into the main station. He began a slow ascent to the second floor, each step proving heavier than the last. A summons from Detective Superintendent Logan Edwards was something nobody looked forward to. Unlike most, he wasn’t frightened of the gaffer, but he didn’t trust himself to keep quiet when being spoken down to; a habit he’d developed whilst messing about at secondary school.

  By the time he’d made it to his office, hi
s lack of breath had convinced him to get back on the bike. If he wasn’t careful he’d end up like his father, approaching retirement with a waist size comparable to his age. Given that his drinking habits were also starting to resemble his old man’s, he would have to be careful with his lifestyle. For some, working the doors had led to strict sobriety; for Jack – in his previous line of work – it seemed to have had the opposite effect.

  ‘Where have you been?’ A flushed-looking Watkins met him at his office door.

  ‘At home. It has just gone 8am.’

  ‘Yes but...’

  ‘Lambert!’ Edwards’ voice boomed from the end of the corridor.

  ‘I’m not here,’ he whispered to Jack, before attempting to enter the office.

  ‘Wait right there!’ the superintendent shouted, lumbering towards him.

  ‘Sir?’ Watkins squeaked.

  Jack suppressed a smile. Edwards’ love of instilling fear in others was legendary. Sooner or later it would probably catch up with him, though. Modern day policing wasn’t what it had been. So far, he had stubbornly refused to change.

  ‘You’re not paid to kiss my arse every day, sunshine. Now, go and make Detective Lambert and me a cup of coffee. Black no sugar.’