Dead Feint Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Warning

  Copyright

  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

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Back matter

  72,000 words.

  Dead Feint

  by Grant Atherton

  with grateful thanks to

  JAKOB PAULUSSEN

  for all his valuable help and advice

  Cover art by

  SelfPubBookCovers.com/Michelleleedesigns

  Grant Atherton’s Website

  GrantAtherton.co.uk

  WARNING

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers.

  Dead Feint, Copyright (c) November, 2018 by Grant Atherton

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorised editions.

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical event of existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It wasn’t a conversation I would forget in a hurry. “How did she die?” I said.

  Rusty bit on his lip before answering. It was just long enough to put me on guard for what came next.

  “Her head and face was smashed in. Some sort of blunt object they reckon. Not a lot left to see.”

  “Jeez, man.” I flinched and tightened a hand around my glass of beer. “I don’t know what to say. What a nightmare.”

  I was rarely at a loss for words but how was I supposed to respond to that?

  End-of-term parties are about letting your hair down, throwing off inhibitions and having some well-deserved fun once the pressure of exams is over. But Rusty wasn’t in a party mood.

  He’d asked for my help with what he’d called ‘a bit of a problem’. In his place, I would have ranked my sister’s murder at a somewhat higher level of magnitude. But what would I know?

  We were in the Red Lion pub just down the road from the College. The management had laid on a heavy-metal rock band - a motley crew of leather-clad post-pubescent posers who hadn’t yet worked out the difference between talent and volume. My other students, clearly in favour of volume, were already whooping it up, party lovers all. Bursts of excited chatter and hoots of laughter broke through the roar of music, and pounding bass rhythms hammered at the walls of the small crowded bar.

  Rusty and I had pressed ourselves into a corner at the far side of the room in a futile attempt to escape the din.

  “I can’t hear myself think in here,” I said. “Let’s go find somewhere to talk.”

  We squeezed our way through groups of boisterous revellers to the front of the pub, taking our pints of bitter with us, and stepped out into the relative quiet of the forecourt. As we crossed it, I clasped his shoulder in a show of sympathy.

  There was a wooden bench table over by the pub’s kitchen annexe, and we parked ourselves on either side of it, facing each other under the amber glow of a metal-cased lantern hanging from the wall.

  Apart from the occasional moth attracted by the light, we had the area to ourselves. The evening air had cooled as day faded to night, and all the other patrons had stayed inside. Out here, the hubbub from the bar was a muted blur of sound.

  My throat was dry - the sudden surprise of Rusty’s revelation no doubt - and I gulped down a large mouthful of beer.

  Just as surprising was the matter-of-fact way he’d passed on this information. No trace of emotion. But that was Rusty. And, eventually, time dulls the emotional impact of even the most traumatic of experiences, so I guessed it couldn’t have been a recent event.

  I took a closer look at him.

  Rusty Naylor was one of my psychology students. A late starter. But bright. He was older than the others, but, even with the grey hair and beard, appeared younger than his forty years.

  After a change of direction in his life - something he was still cagey about - he had returned to college to seek new challenges.

  I didn’t know much about his background. But with that body, I guessed he’d worked at something physical. He was all hard muscle and corded veins. It was the kind of body used to labour.

  We’d developed a friendship over the months, seeking each other’s company outside class, and I thought I was getting to know him.

  Until now that is.

  “Why did you never tell me this before?” I said.

  “Come on, Mikey, it’s not something you’d drop into casual conversation, is it?” There was a trace of mockery in his voice.

  “No, of course not,” I said, apologetically.

  Many of us are burdened by events we prefer to stay buried in the past. It’s not as if the details of my own troubled life would make for suitable dinner-party chit-chat. On the other hand, my ongoing acrimonious divorce and the reasons for it weren’t quite on a par with having a family member murdered. Near enough, but not quite. So his revelation came as a jolt.

  “How long ago did this happen?” I said.

  “Reckon it’s getting on for two years. They never caught him.”

  Rusty didn’t make a show of his emotions. He wasn’t the demonstrative type. But nor was he the stoic, bereft of feeling, and so it disturbed me to learn he had carried the weight of such a harrowing event with such forbearance.

  Knowing the killer was still at large, not being able to find closure, must be a real kicker, a source of continuing pain.

  “It can’t be easy for you,” I said, “knowing he’s still out there. But I’m not sure what it is you’re asking for, what I can do to help.”

  He leaned toward me across the table, a pleading look in his eyes. “I thought - you know - ‘cos of your work, you might nudge ‘em along. Get ‘em moving again.”

  That threw me, and I stammered.

  My students knew of my relationship with the police; I used details of cases I’d assisted with as examples in my lectures. But Rusty’s exp
ectations about the extent of my influence were way off the mark.

  “That’s not how these things work,” I said.

  I could imagine how that would go down in police circles, checking up to make sure they stayed on top of an investigation.

  I was momentarily spared the embarrassment of turning him down by the sound of the door behind me bursting open and expelling four well-oiled young men into the cool evening air. Laughing and joshing among themselves, they staggered away across the forecourt to the road beyond. Their lively animated exchanges contrasted with the sombre mood at our table.

  Once they were out of earshot, I leaned towards Rusty, hands clasped on the table before me, and said, “My only involvement with the police is in an advisory capacity. It’s limited to the expert advice I can offer as a Forensic Psychologist. And it’s always at their instigation.”

  He squirmed on his seat and looked down at his half-empty pint pot.

  I said, “I’d like to help, but my intervention outside the limits of my role wouldn’t be appropriate. Or welcome. And you must appreciate that the investigation into your sister’s death will be ongoing, anyway.”

  He looked up again. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t for your connection.”

  I stared at him blankly, unsure what he meant.

  “She was killed in Elders Edge.”

  The light of understanding dawned.

  My mind raced back, and I vaguely recalled some details about a gruesome murder around that time. The victim must have been Rusty’s sister.

  Elders Edge, my old hometown, was a sleepy seaside resort out on the east coast where nothing much happened. But it had its share of turbulent events like anywhere. And the brutal murder of a young woman in the heart of the town’s idyllic woodland had been one such event, details of which had eventually reached my ears.

  Rusty said, “I figured you might know some people down there.”

  Now my term as a guest lecturer at Flamstead College was over, there was nothing to keep me in London. It was common knowledge on campus that I was returning to Elders Edge. Rusty must have seen it as an opportunity to take advantage of my links with the place.

  I said, “A friend of mine runs a boarding house back there. I remember her telling me about the murder. But I had no idea how it turned out.”

  “Well, now you know. They could be sitting on their arses all day for what good they’ve done.”

  I mulled this over as I considered my options. Rusty drained his glass and pushed it to one side on the table.

  Perhaps, given the circumstances, it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to make a few discreet enquiries.

  “I know some of the guys in the local force,” I said, and added reluctantly, “and I guess I could have a word in the right ear, see what I can find out.”

  My connection to Elders Edge’s Chief of Police, DCI Nathan Quarryman, was about as personal as it could get, our relationship being the reason for my return. But that was a different matter.

  I continued, “But I’m sure they’ll be keeping a close eye on the case. In my experience, cold cases are kept under constant review.”

  Rusty cleared his throat. “Sorry, Mikey, but I don’t share your high opinion of the old bill.”

  That put me on the defensive. “I’ve worked with those guys before. They’re a competent and committed team.”

  A flush rose in his cheeks. “Look, my sister….” He paused for a moment and tugged at the cuff of his shirt. “Let’s just say she was no Mother Teresa if you get my drift. She had some form. Nothing serious. Shoplifting. And she’d been on the game.” He shrugged and pulled a face. “In her case, I don’t think the bizzies would give it their best.”

  “Who was in charge of the case? Do you know?”

  “Some bod called Baxter. Sgt Baxter. Snotty type.”

  I searched my mind, tried to recollect the name. But nothing registered. “Sgt Lowe is the man on the ground at local level. I don’t recall a Baxter though. Unless he’s based at Divisional HQ in Charwell.”

  “I remember Lowe. He interviewed me.”

  Adopting a more placatory tone, I said, “I know him well. So maybe I could have a quiet word without ruffling any feathers. I’ll check in with him when I get back, and I’ll call you as soon as I have something.”

  To lose someone close is always a tragedy. But to lose someone in such circumstances and wait so long in the hope of justice must be almost unendurable. The least I could do was have Lowe check the file and bring Rusty up to date.

  He thanked me profusely, and rising to his feet, said, “Come on, I’ll stand you a pint to seal the deal.”

  On the way back to the bar, he said, “We’ll stay in touch anyway, won’t we? I’d hate to miss out on our get-togethers.”

  “You bet,” I said. “I won’t be far away. And I’ll be back on business on a regular basis.”

  Now his mind had been set at rest, he adopted a lighter tone and said, “So who’s the woman then?”

  “What?”

  “Come on, don’t tell me there isn’t a woman back home. That is why you’re going back, isn’t it?”

  I considered telling him the real reason but bottled out. I opened the pub door and stood aside to let him through. “Something like that,” I said with a grin.

  Rusty wasn’t the only who kept secrets.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “No regrets?” Nathan’s breath was warm against my cheek.

  Forcing myself into wakefulness, I tried to focus through sleep-bleary eyes.

  Daylight filtered through the three slatted wooden blinds covering the large picture window at the side of the bed.

  I blinked in the half-light and brushed his stubbled cheek with the back of my hand. “Regrets? After last night? What kind of dumb question is that?” I yawned, wrapped an arm around his chest, and huddled up to him. “No, I have no regrets.”

  Those last few days in London had passed in a flurry of activity. So many last-minute chores; final arrangements for furniture removal and storage, chasing the bank, setting up insurance, redirecting mail. All those mundane tasks. There had been no time to think beyond each day as it passed.

  But, at last, it was over, and I was back where I belonged. Back home.

  And what a homecoming it had been. A night of passion, wrapped in my lover’s strong arms, flesh against flesh, a shared urgent need released in a frenzy of heat and fire and lust. As homecomings go, it had been impressive.

  And all I wanted now was to bask in the warm afterglow of satiated desire.

  “No, no regrets,” I murmured again.

  He prodded me in the ribs. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Ouch.” I squirmed away from him. “What was that for?”

  “Come on, Mikey. You know what I mean.”

  “You’re an idiot. What’s to regret?” I cuddled up to him again, ready to drift off into another slumber.

  “It’s a big change. A whole new way of life.”

  The tone of voice was serious. It unsettled me, and I tensed. “What is this?”

  Now wide awake, I struggled out from under the bedclothes, sat up, and tried to read his expression.

  The strong square-jawed face was impassive. As ever. But those molten green eyes, so recently fired with passion, were now full of questions.

  He was still so unsure.

  A surge of tenderness, tempered by guilt, welled up inside me. I leaned down and momentarily pressed my lips to his. “I’m home again. That’s all that matters.”

  Trust, once lost, is not something easily regained. But time and circumstance were on my side. And what I’d once forfeited, I was set on winning back. I was determined to make a go of it.

  He traced a finger over my face and across my lips, and his firm-set expression relaxed into a smile.

  I nestled back down against him, nuzzled his neck, and breathed in his musky scent. There was a stirring in my loins. “Now where was I before I was so rudely interrupted.” I slid a h
and slowly down his chest, running my fingers through the thick mat of hair, down and down.

  He brushed my hand away. “Sorry to disappoint you,” he said, “but it’s time to rise and shine. I need to get a move on.”

  “But I was rising,” I said. “The shining can wait.”

  He answered with a laugh.

  Groaning, I turned away and sat up again. “You know what you were saying about regrets…?”

  “I’ll make it up to you another time.” Grinning, he rolled out of bed. “Right now, duty calls.”

  He raised the blinds.

  Daylight flooded in. A bright morning sun hit the mirror on the adjacent wall and bounced back, glinting off the metal window frames, and adding a glossy sheen to the highly polished surfaces of the beechwood furniture.

  I rubbed my eyes and squinted up at him. “You pick your times,” I complained. “I was hoping to have you to myself for a while.”

  “Believe me. If I had a choice….” He headed for the shower, padding across the parquet floor, and grabbed a white towelling robe from the back of the door on his way.

  I called out after him, “Serves me right for getting involved with a cop.”

  “Better luck next time,” he called back.

  I raised my voice above the sound of the shower. “Next time, I’m going for a work-at-home accountant. Someone nice and boring, who doesn’t run off when I need him.”

  Not that there would be a next time. This time it was for keeps.

  Ironically, he was being called away to London just as I’d left it behind. Conferences weren’t really his thing; he was more the hands-on type and liked to work in the field with his men. But when duty called, he had to follow.

  Personally, I preferred other ways to utilise his need for hands-on experience. But as I had just been denied that particular pleasure, I reluctantly crawled out of bed and picked up my scattered clothing from the floor where I had so hastily discarded it the night before.

  Moments later, Nathan’s rumbling bass tones drifted out from the bathroom, and I was treated to a very off-key rendition of Imagine Dragon’s ‘I’ll Make It Up To You’.