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  SHORESTONE MURDERS

  Book #1 of The Detective Isobel Hester Series

  By Karina Evans

  Copyright © 2021 Karina Evans

  All rights reserved.

  ASIN : B097DZR3BL

  Publisher : Less Ordinary Books (1 Aug. 2021)

  To my family, who inspire me and who tolerate Muse playing on a loop whilst I write.

  To Stacey, my beta-turned-editor, who does it all for cocktails.

  To Vikas, who motivates me.

  To all the authors before, during and after me. You rock.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Serial killer

  Noun

  A person who commits a series of murders, usually with no obvious motive and often receiving abnormal psychological gratification before, during or after the act of murder. A serial killer will typically adhere to a specific, characteristic and predictable behavioural pattern.

  She tried not to die; writhing to escape a grasp so tight that she feared that it alone could crush her to death, cracking her bones into splinters capable of stabbing through organs, through flesh, through skin.

  But he left as suddenly as he arrived, and Millicent Norton became the first surviving victim of the Shorestone Killer.

  He’d been using prostitutes for years because, for a few extra pennies, they let him lightly strangle them. Some allowed him to squeeze more tightly than others, and it’s these girls he hunted, these girls he returned to. Afterwards, with red marks on their necks, they headed back down alleyways into the backs of houses to grab a fix, forgetting that just half an hour earlier a man wanted to squeeze tighter, harder, until his fingertips touched. Squeezing life from the soulless.

  One day it went too far. One day he squeezed too hard. It surprised him how that felt; surprised that excitement, guilt and fear could mingle so easily, mixing as though colours in an artist’s paint palette, seamlessly transforming into euphoria.

  And it was euphoria he felt as he dragged her body from the alleyway to his car and from his car to the woods. He had never killed before — it had certainly not been something he had fantasised about, yet he felt aroused, powerful, in control.

  He knew the area well; he had lived in Shorestone for his entire life. The CCTV cameras had popped up in the 1990s and he mostly knew how to avoid them — a crucial point when using the alleyway so frequently for his own gratification. But there was a solitary camera he didn’t know about — a camera installed by the owners of a shop on the corner of Market Square, robbed frequently for beer and cigarettes. The police were too busy to do anything but, so help them, if the owners of the shop caught the lads they would personally beat the smiles from their smug juvenile faces. It was this camera that caught the comings and goings in and out of that particular end of the alleyway. Luckily, the killer usually parked at the other end, the quiet end, which was enveloped in a darkness so still and so heavy that very few people dared to use it to cross the middle of the town of Shorestone.

  It was a dog walker who found the body. The killer saw it on the news. It’s always a dog walker, he thought. As though these people have a nose for it, leading themselves to a waiting disaster, the trauma spilling from their eyes as they recount their grisly discovery for the local television channel. Maybe the dogs lead them, smelling what humans can’t: a high scent, a shrill scent: only dogs can smell that kind of death.

  Her name was Violet Taylor. She was 27. She enjoyed being held down and she sure as hell liked her throat squeezed. Her attacker had moved her body from the place at which he throttled her, burying her in a shallow grave in the woods. They estimate she had been there for around four months. Did she die before being buried? The post-mortem revealed there was earth in her lungs and the police loudly proclaimed at a press conference that this was beyond evil, that we must stop this man at all costs; this man buried her alive. Only the killer knew that this was entirely unwitting, and that he had thought she was already dead. However, this would not haunt him; it would haunt only the empaths of Shorestone and Violet’s own crushed family.

  This man, this man is evil, this man is an evil man, this man, we must stop this man.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “NINE years to go,” Detective Inspector Dominic White hollered as he walked into the briefing room. “Just nine more years of this crap. Right, what we got?”

  Dominic looked around at the faces of his colleagues, before resting on the frown of his Chief Inspector.

  “Oh, morning, guv. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “A serious sexual assault and GBH on a young woman. Stranger attack in Market Street alley,” Chief Inspector Pennell replied. “Have you any enthusiasm for this kind of crap, DI White?”

  “Yes, guv,” Dominic replied, feeling duly reprimanded. “I certainly have. Any news on Ruby Dixon, the missing 23-year-old from Market Street?”

  “Nothing. We’ll speak after your briefing. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, sure, hold on. I’ll just take my coat off. Right guys, listen up. Ruby Dixon, missing now for six days, out of character, phone is untraceable, bag found in Market Street alley, might be a coincidence but let’s look to see if there’s a link between her and this most recent attack.” Dominic struggled his arm free from his coat, cursing his large and relatively expensive wristwatch on which he had caught the blazer. “The guv’nor will give me details in just a minute. I’m sure, and I’ll fill you all in later. In the meantime, I want another house-to-house on the properties lining the alleyway. I want an up-to-date phone record for Ruby Dixon. I want to find this girl alive.”

  Dominic walked out of the office and into the kitchen — how Chief Inspector Pennell expected him to be fully functioning without even a sniff of caffeine, he did not know. He was just putting the second teaspoon of instant coffee into his cup when the chief inspector walked in.

  “Someone’s called in a body. Valley Woods. Young woman, but dark hair so not likely to be Ruby — she’s blonde, isn’t she? Get down there though, I have a terrible feeling this isn’t a coincidence.”

  Dominic put down his cup, grabbed his coat, and left the building.

  The grave appeared to have been dug hurriedly — it was about three feet deep and was, unsurprisingly, uncovered by a dog who had scratched away at it, whining, until its owner gave in and examined it. The earth had looked freshly disturbed, and it was the only patch he could see with no greenery growing from it. He had tentatively dug a little with his hands until his fingers hit the glass screen of a mobile phone. The dog continued whining and so he carried on digging, reaching a disposable lighter a little further down, then a shoe, and suddenly he was up to his elbows, scrabbling, clawing, driven by the need to stop his dog whining, to find out what lay beneath.

  Who lay beneath was Violet Taylor.

  Dominic pulled on his PPE and nodded to the officers guarding the scene, who lifted the tape to allow him access. A forensic medical examiner was already there and Dominic knew better than to trample over the area prior to Scenes of Crime Officers securing evidence; SOCO’s anger knew no bounds when presented with a contaminated crime scene, so he stood outside the inner cordon with his back to the dense woods in sight of the medical examiner. He wanted to be the first to be given information. The morning flashed by, a blur of activity — a tent erected over the body; a call to the coroner; forensic officers on scene to take photographs, samples and shoe prints; the medical examiner confirmi
ng the death as suspicious; scene guard officers changing; comings and goings and fits and starts, with DI Dominic White on the periphery — always watching. Always listening.

  Dominic’s head was banging. He really needed that coffee, but couldn’t see that happening for some time yet. He reflected on what Chief Inspector Pennell had said — the attack on the girl in Market Alley and the missing local girl couldn’t be a coincidence. And adding the body of another young female to the mix was surely a sign that a very dangerous person was living in Shorestone.

  For the first time in his career, Dominic felt a little out of his depth. He paced a small clearing outside the inner cordon for hours, stopping occasionally to look around at the dense trees, at the squirrels skittering in the branches, at the fresh shoots determined to grow through the hardened summer ground. Trying to absorb nature, as advised by his therapist, was not as easy as he thought — being mindful and present in the moment didn’t seem suited to scenes of crimes, he eventually mused, having failed several times to see anything but the officers trudging through the woods, carrying the bagged-up belongings of a girl who was far too young to die.

  After another twenty laps of the clearing, he pulled his phone out of his pocket to call his colleague, Heather, who he was sure would run a takeaway coffee down to him, considering the circumstances. Just as he dialled the office number, a SOCO trudged wearily over. “We’re done here, DI White. She’s all yours. I’ll get swabs from this phone and someone will call you to collect it. My colleagues will continue searching between the cordons for further evidence, but you can move her now.” Dominic nodded his gratitude and rubbed his aching temples, cancelling the call to the office and instead dialling the pathologist. This was far from over and, in fact, had only just begun.

  Dominic drove back to the police station, parking in the small car park reserved for CID. He took a lesser-used route to the department office, which directed him closer to the kitchen for that elusive cup of coffee. He had just boiled the kettle when his phone rang.

  “DI White.”

  “Violet Taylor,” the voice at the end of the phone said. “She’s called Violet Taylor. Not reported missing, but it seems she lived alone. Her neighbours hadn’t seen her for a few days and she didn’t have any close friends, judging by her non-existent text history. She lived in Goodwin Street, which runs parallel to Market Street — the alleyway that separates the two is where they found Ruby Dixon’s bag. I think this is significant. She was a drug user, heavily, it seems. And she had marks around her throat showing asphyxiation. Not sure if that’s the cause of death, but it’s likely.”

  “Ok, cheers, that’s really useful. Thank you.”

  Dominic looked around for his mug, which he had earlier abandoned with coffee and sugar in it, sighing when he discovered that someone had emptied it, washed it up and placed it upside-down on the drainer. He retrieved it and was spooning in his usual two teaspoons of coffee and three of sugar while dialling the pathologist’s office.

  “When’s the post mortem booked for?”

  “The Valley Woods’ victim’s PM? Tomorrow, 3 pm.”

  “That’s her, great, thank you.”

  Dominic was just about to pour boiling water into his cup when the kitchen door opened. His colleague, Detective Constable Heather Fraser, stood in the doorway, looking a little flustered.

  “I’ve looked through Violet’s phone, Dominic. Her mum’s number is on there; I think it’s best that you call her, don’t you think?”

  “I’ll go round in person — find the address, please.”

  “I’ve got it — she’s on the system and her mum is a nominated person contact. Her house is about half an hour’s drive away. Erm... do you want me to come with you?”

  “If you like, yes, if you want to, then that would be great. Anywhere we can grab a coffee on the way back?”

  “I’ll check out the route. But yes, I’m sure we can manage that.”

  Violet’s father answered the door — a strong-looking man in his sixties. He visibly shuddered as Dominic flashed his warrant card.

  “Are you Violet Taylor’s father?”

  “Yes, yes, how can I help?”

  “Please, can we come in?”

  “Erm, yes, ok. Jan! Jan, the police are here. I think Violet is in trouble again.”

  Breaking the news of the death of a family member was the part of the job that got no easier. Often the responsibility passed around the office — nobody ever wanted to be the reason someone’s life changed in such a devastating way. In Dominic’s experience, people usually reacted in one of two ways — they would scream and fall to the floor in abject grief, or they would quietly nod, thank the officers, and see them out. Human nature would dictate that the pain would hit later, perhaps in the middle of the night, perhaps while out shopping, but the pain would always hit.

  Violet had been in trouble a few times, nothing remarkable — a shoplifting caution when she was a teenager, a drunk and disorderly penalty notice a couple of years ago, a court appearance with a fine for an ABH following a drunken altercation at a nightclub, and two more recent offences of possession of a Class A drug. Her parents weren’t aware of Violet’s drug use and so hadn’t quite started despairing of her, but they were not expecting that the police officer who turned up on their doorstep that day was there to inform them that someone had murdered their untameable, one-in-a-million daughter.

  Dominic climbed back into the car, trying to tune out Heather’s incessant chatter. “That was hard, wasn’t it… did you see her face, she was broken… imagine that, though…. your kid… your only kid… it’s hard breaking bad news. So hard… isn’t it…. are you ok, guv?”

  “Heather, I’m fine. I just need to think, that’s all. Let’s head back.”

  “I thought you wanted a coffee. I found a lovely little café just off the —”

  “I think I’ll skip it, if it’s all the same to you? I need to clock off, really, keep a fresh head for tomorrow.”

  “Oh, ok. That’s fine. Sure, let’s go.”

  Dominic slept off his pounding head for the best part of twelve hours, getting up at 9 am and immediately firing up his coffee machine. While he waited for beans to grind, he made an instant coffee, determined to avoid the crippling withdrawal of yesterday. His shift began at 3 pm but he needed to be at Violet Taylor’s post mortem and so arrived at the office at 1 pm, clutching a thermos of strong coffee, just in time to catch Chief Inspector Pennell before he clocked off.

  “You joining me for a handover, Chief Inspector?”

  “Yes, that might be useful. See you in the briefing room.”

  He leaned over the computer of the outgoing Detective Inspector, who had been on-shift since 7 am.

  “What have we got then?” Dominic asked.

  “Post-mortem due on Violet this afternoon. As you know, that will give us much more to work with. In the meantime, we have no leads on Ruby Dixon, although I think we should send a team down to check further beyond the initial cordon in the woods — if, as suspected, she is the Shorestone Killer’s next victim, it may well be that he is familiar with Valley Woods and her body may have been right in front of our noses.”

  Dominic and Chief Inspector Pennell nodded their agreement.

  “Any leads on the Millicent Norton attack?”

  “No, not yet. But I’ve been liaising with a DI in Hamhill — remember the murders last year? Similar modus operandi, MO, to our spate of attacks, although he is firmly behind bars. I’m not thinking copycat, but the similarities, like timescale between attacks, are strong enough for me to think we could bring a detective over from Hamhill Major Crime Team to help us, and the DI agrees. DS Isobel Hester, have you met her? She’s analytical, and she’s quick, exactly what we need.”

  “Yes, I have heard of her — they interviewed her for the Federation magazine, wasn’t she? Happy to bring in another perspective, and we need someone from Major Crimes. Can we get her over to interview Millicent Norton? In
tensive care says she’s stable enough for a quick first account.”

  “I haven’t called yet; wanted to run it by you as you are the Senior Investigating Officer — here’s her number, give her a bell.”

  Dominic, both proud and horrified to be the SIO of such a big, yet daunting, case, took the piece of paper with Isobel’s number and punched it into his mobile; he would call her when he was certain he was on top of all the developments in the cases. At 2.30 pm, he headed to the post-mortem examination unit at the nearby hospital, cursing the lack of parking and jogging from his space in a local residential estate to the examination suite.

  By the time he reached the room, the post-mortem had begun — the pathologist had cut a long incision down the centre of Violet to remove her internal organs, and was currently examining her heart.

  “Anything to note?”

  “Judging by pooling of blood and the decomposition process, she’d been there for a few days, but I can’t get you much closer than that, I’m afraid. At the moment, it appears as though cause of death was asphyxiation.” She pointed at the marks around Violet’s neck. “But, as always, we can’t be sure just yet. We’ve yet to examine her brain, or find out if any sexual assault had taken place. You’re welcome to wait or I can forward you the report later today?”

  “Could you send the report, please? And are you running toxicology? I’d like to know if she was under the influence of anything when she died.”

  “Certainly. I’ll be in touch.”