Shorestone Murders: Book #1 of The Detective Isobel Hester Series Page 2

  “Initial tests show that she had taken heroin on top of methadone,” the pathologist said a few days later in a phone call to Dominic. “She had possibly recently had sex but no evidence of rape or DNA found. Her stomach was empty — she hadn’t eaten for days. This girl definitely didn’t look after herself too well.”

  Dominic thanked her and hung up the phone, absentmindedly reaching for his coffee cup, but knocking it off the edge of the desk. As the dark liquid pooled on the tiled floor next to his desk, Dominic cursed and wished for retirement to come a little quicker than nine years’ time.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Him

  He needed Isobel Hester to come back to Shorestone — in fact; he had never wanted her to leave. As though by chance, just days after he buried Violet Taylor, the county newspaper reported on a commendation awarded to Isobel for her work in catching a serial killer in Hamhill; quite an achievement, he thought. For years, he had been wondering how he could lure Isobel back to Shorestone, and the article had given him clarity.

  Chief Constable Karen Mercia awarded the commendation to Detective Sergeant Isobel Hester for the part she played in tracking down the Hamhill Strangler.

  “Determining how he operated and where he was likely to be next was crucial in identifying him,” DS Hester said to The County News. “Behavioural patterns will always exist, even when an individual attempts to hide them, as with Simon Motson, the perpetrator of five horrific murders. I am delighted to have played a part in helping the residents of Hamhill feel safe once again.”

  The Hamhill Strangler targeted women in their sixties, which shocked the Shorestone Killer; these women were respectable — they had families and jobs and to murder them was unfathomable. There was a dinner lady, a supermarket worker, a pharmacy assistant and a childcare worker. What had they done to deserve to die? He realised he needed to kill with ethics; killing only those who deserved to die. He started well with Violet Taylor and, although it had been an accident, it was the greatest fluke of his life. Often people fell into incredible careers purely by accident; by listening in to a conversation, by picking up a leaflet in the dentist’s waiting room, by squeezing just that little too tightly.

  He had used Violet for sex a few times, paying her extra for mild asphyxiation. There was a small abandoned yard at the end of the Market Street alleyway and they always walked in together, not talking, each with their own motivation. Afterwards, he would usually help her to her feet and press a few notes into her hand. She would nod and walk back to the other end of the alleyway to score her fix, but that night was an exception: he hadn’t pulled her to her feet; he hadn’t paid her; he hadn’t even been able to rouse her. He had stared at her body in confusion — how easy it had been to kill her, this young, decaying human being. He paced the yard for a minute or two, holding his aching head in his hands, and then he had dragged Violet’s rake-thin body down Market Street alleyway. It was the early hours of the morning and he had prayed that the residents of Shorestone adhered to their unspoken rule of not entering the alleyway from the unlit end, as that is exactly where he had parked his car. Despite her slight frame, Violet was unwieldy, and it took him a few attempts to throw her in the boot of his car. He drove her to Valley Woods, a vast, dense space that surrounded two sides of Shorestone.

  A feeling of euphoria soon outweighed his horror — the local news programme reported the death, the police were looking for him, people were talking about him. The delight he felt as he heard the disbelief in their voices, as they confirmed his power, needed to be replicated. And to lure Isobel back to Shorestone by doing something he loved was perfection.

  Violet made a killer. Isobel made a serial killer.

  Isobel pounded along Hamhill seafront, her feet landing heavily with the beat of the music in her ears. She ran as though in a trance, eyes focused, music driving her, sweat pouring uninhibited, tracing tracks down her cheeks, letting her know she was achieving her goal. She had pulled her hair tightly behind her head. Not a strand hung down, nothing to throw her attention, nothing to alter her focus.

  She had just reached a five-mile point when her phone rang. Isobel grabbed it from her armband to check it, cursing when she didn’t recognise the number — why do people insist on phoning, she wondered, instead of something less intrusive, like emailing or texting? She accepted the call on her earphones, thrusting her phone back in her armband.

  “Yes?”

  “Isobel? Sorry, is this a bad time? It’s DI Dominic White from Shorestone police station, can we have a quick chat?”

  “It’s not really a good time. I’m out on a run. “

  “I’ll be quick then. We have a linked murder and serious sexual assault with GBH and we need you to help us.”

  “How on earth do you think I can help?” Isobel stopped running, leaning her forehead on the cold metal barrier of the promenade railings.

  “The reason we need you, Isobel, is that none of us have the same knowledge of this local area as you, and this is a local guy, that much we’re sure… and apparently you’re good at this; your reputation precedes you, as they say.”

  “Your entire team knows the area, DI White. With all due respect I do not know why you need me in particular.”

  The telltale buzz of a broken line left Isobel confused, and she continued her run, keeping on track, on the right track, just as she had intended.

  When her phone rang again, it intrigued her enough to answer it. This time she stopped fully, sitting on a bench to take a break, despite having only completed three-quarters of her intended ten miles.

  “DI Dominic White, I presume?”

  “Yes, sorry, battery went flat. Ok, so here’s the thing. We need you. We need your knowledge of the local area, we need your knowledge of the people who live here. Nobody really moves in and out of Shorestone, it’s all very static. I really feel you can help with this investigation — talking to people you used to know, getting a feel for anything unusual. We need your expertise with survivors to get as much information as possible — the attack was last night, and we have conducted an initial interview, but we would like you to speak to her too.”

  “The entire town is unusual, DI White. I left years ago, twenty years ago. Decades! So much will have changed. And it’s not static — I left, you arrived, people move on, people move in. I would probably be no help. And you have highly trained female officers who can interview your victim.”

  “Your experience catching the Hamhill Strangler is more than enough for me to know that you are the right person to help me. And, as for Shorestone’s occupants, from what I’ve heard, I’m certain they all remember you. ”

  “No need to be a dick, DI White. Send the file over. All I can promise is that I will have a look.”

  Later that evening, Isobel pored over the file that DI White had emailed over. Seeing the street names of old in black and white filled her with both nostalgia and anger. Isobel needed to go home. She had unfinished business.

  “The reason we need you, Isobel, is that none of us have the same knowledge of this local area as you, and this is a local guy, that much we’re sure… and apparently you’re good at this; your reputation precedes you, as they say.”

  Detective Inspector Dominic White stared accusingly at the blank screen of his mobile phone, cursing his failure to charge it before he began his twilight shift at Shorestone police station.

  “Anyone got a charger?”

  DC Heather Fraser reached under the desk to grab her bag, lifting it up upside-down, blushing as a purse, mints, paracetamol and a hairbrush wound tightly with strands of her wavy, greying hair fell to the floor. She grabbed the wire of a charger sticking out of the top of the still upside-down bag, pulling it out along with a well-thumbed copy of Sylvia Plath's poetry and a cereal bar. “Fuck it,” she muttered under her breath before sitting up straight, charger held aloft, “Got one, guv,” she called. Dominic waved his hand dismissively. “It’s ok, I’ve found one in my drawer, just trying Isobe
l again.”

  Heather knelt on the floor, picking up the remnants of her handbag from the stained carpet tiles, hurriedly shovelling them back into her cracked plastic leather handbag.

  “Isobel fucking Hester… everything is about Isobel fucking Hester.” Heather whispered to nobody.

  “Plath, eh?”

  “Wha… oh, yes, my favourite.”

  Dominic stared at her for a few seconds, as though assessing the mess kneeling on the floor in front of him. Heather stood up, brushing floor debris from the front of her black trousers and pulling her shoulders back to hint at a confidence she didn’t feel. She felt awkward and gawkish; at 5 foot 8 inches she felt as though she towered over the 5 foot 6 inch DI, although he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Why do you hate Isobel, then?” he asked, chewing on a piece of something he can only have found lurking in his teeth. He worked it to the end of his tongue, removed it, and examined it. “Brazil nut,” he declared. “Well? I heard what you said.”

  “I… er… don’t. I was just —”

  “I know what I heard, Heather. Come on. Tell me. Do you have a past? I need to know how this office will work with you both in it.”

  “I, well, I don’t know, really. I suppose, she’s just… just perfect, isn’t she?”

  Heather blushed as she said this; admitting Isobel is perfect is the same as admitting that she isn’t and, despite the Brazil nut incident, Heather was still one hundred percent in love with Dominic.

  “Woah, ok, do you even know Isobel?”

  “Well, kind of, yes. I grew up in Shorestone. I was the year below her at school. I —”

  “She is far from perfect, from what I’ve heard. I don’t know her, but don’t feel intimidated. We all need to get on, you know. The reason we need Isobel is that she is a bloody good detective. Did you know she —”

  “… solved the Hamhill murder case by guessing where he would be next? Yes, yes, I know.”

  “Calculating, Heather. Not guessing. Anyway, good. Let that be the end of it, eh?”

  Dominic reached up and patted Heather on the shoulder and it was almost like he had kissed her. Because, despite the age gap, Heather found Dominic to be a handsome and charming man, and that night, she would have slept a content and dreamless sleep had she not awoken with a start as she dozed, recalling the embarrassment of her falling belongings, in particular the decade-old hairbrush. She reached for her phone, ordered a new hairbrush, then fell into a fitful slumber. Still not quite ready to welcome Isobel Hester back into her life.

  Heather walked across the muddy grass on the brief journey from the car park to the CID office (“Cops in Disguise,” a young offender had once hollered at her to mock her. It hadn’t worked, and Heather had actually found it a rather ingenious use of the English language), her heart pounding and cheeks blushing as she recalled her conversation with Dominic during the previous shift. She couldn’t quite believe that she had been so honest about her feelings towards Isobel and, without him having been there all those years ago, she couldn’t imagine that he would understand the humiliation she had felt, a feeling that was threatening to surface again if she could not put a lid on it.

  “Heather, wait up.”

  Heather wheeled round to find Dominic running to catch her up, losing her footing slightly on the mud underfoot.

  “Woah, you ok?”

  “Erm, yes. I… I’m pleased to see you, actually. Oh, er, not like that… just… I feel I need to explain the history between me and Is… I mean between Isobel and I… Isobel and me —” Heather bit her lip in embarrassment at her inability to get even the most basic grammar right in front of the perplexed detective inspector. “Well, anyway, it’s all quite complicated and I don’t want to go into it really, but please don’t think that I’m being a terrible person, although I would expect that you probably —”

  “I have literally no idea what you’re talking about, Heather. We can’t all get along with everyone, can we? I’m sure once Isobel arrives, we’ll work perfectly together, and let’s not forget our focus, don’t make it personal.”

  “Goodness. No. Right. Understood, yes. Understood.”

  1999

  Heather applied another layer of her favourite lipstick, rubbing her lips together before puckering them in the mirror. She brushed up ok, she thought, admiring her new sequined vest top and cropped cargo trousers. It was just a trip to town, but she knew the townie guys would be there — the older men just on the verge of cool; one more can of super strength lager could tip them into the danger category. But Heather was sixteen years old, naïve, and hugely attracted to this potential danger.

  She set off at 1 pm, knowing that they would all be sitting, drinking and smoking, on the wall outside the market. She picked up a bottle of cheap white wine from the newsagents that wasn’t frequented by her mother, stuffed it in her denim rucksack and walked the twenty minutes into town. Sure enough, there sat the gang that made her heart skip a beat — torn jeans, most of them topless, their sweaty torsos glinting in the heat. In the middle of the horseshoe-shaped wall was a girl who Heather recognised from school, Isobel, whose brother had died about 18 months ago. Heather knew that Archie, Isobel’s brother, had hung about with the townies a fair amount, but had peeled off when he discovered harder drugs, a discovery that had led to his death.

  Isobel was swigging from a bottle of fortified wine, a brave decision on such a hot day. She was commanding the attention of the five men around her, drunkenly flirting with ease. Heather felt uninteresting with her pale skin and subtle smear of lipstick, next to Isobel’s fully made-up face and long, blonde hair. Nonetheless, a burst of adrenalin pushed her forwards to the wall, and she sat at the far end, clearing her throat to say hello to the men who had been as mesmerised by Heather last Saturday as they were by Isobel today.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Isobel demanded drunkenly, lowering herself from the wall to examine Heather. “And what are you wearing, a fucking disco ball?” She inhaled on the roll-up between her lips and turned to face the men behind her. “You seen this? She’s a fucking disco ball!”

  The men looked over at Heather and laughed, one of them making his way over to Isobel and putting his arms around her from behind.

  “Who would you rather fuck, her or me?” Isobel said, pushing her hips backwards into the guy’s groin. “Her. Or. Me?”

  The guy spun Isobel round and kissed her hard on the lips.

  “Both of you not an option, then?” he said, winking at Heather over the top of Isobel’s upturned head.

  “You want it? You get it.” Isobel stumbled towards Heather and pulled her to a standing position. “Let’s go, Disco,” she laughed. “Back to Loz’s, it is.”

  Loz lived in a bedsit on the east side of the town’s central square. The square had a beautifully mown garden in the middle, presumably developed to encourage families with children to move into the converted flats. However, greedy developers had split the flats further, with some of the larger Victorian houses now offering twelve bedsits. Heather felt a little overwhelmed as she followed Loz up the musty stairwell, with Isobel encouraging her by placing a hand on each of her bum cheeks.

  Loz’s bedsit was small but clean. A single bed lined one wall, with a dark wood chest of drawers taking up the rest of the wall. On the chest of drawers sat an ancient black and white television and an ashtray. On the other wall was an armchair and a wardrobe, next to a small section of worktop with two cupboards underneath, a sink and a draining board. There was a door in the corner of the room, presumably leading to a bathroom.

  “Come on then, girls,” Loz said, patting the bed next to him. Heather felt her stomach twist. “Are you up for this or not?” he asked.

  “It’s best if you go first, Disco,” said Isobel.

  “No. I don’t think I want to,” said Heather.

  “Sure you do,” said Isobel. “What are you? A virgin? A disco virgin?” She laughed throatily and, forced by embarrassment and a need t
o build some street credibility, Heather joined Loz on the bed, taking off her new trousers and underwear. Loz took off his jeans and before Heather could breathe, he had pushed her to the bed, parted her legs and put his fingers inside her. Heather winced and gasped; she hadn’t expected this to hurt. “You ok for this?” Loz asked, “Isobel can go first, if you like?”

  “The fuck I will,” said Isobel, sitting heavily in the armchair. “I’m fucked. Besides, I’m a virgin too.”

  Heather closed her eyes and tensed and later, as she tried and failed to remove the blood from her brand new cargo trousers, she vowed she would never forget that Isobel made her go first.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Him

  DS Isobel Hester

  Hamhill Police Station

  Why do I feel the urge to write to you, Isobel? What is my reason for trailing this evidence like a careless child? This is a question I can’t answer right now, although I do firmly believe that good will come of this, and that you need to know that, even during the darkest nights, I am the light that dawns.

  I didn’t set out to kill. I didn’t set out to hurt anyone. Yet, I enjoyed the feeling I got as a result of my power and my strength.

  ‘Why do serial killers kill?’ is a question asked in scientific papers, in books, in reports, and on television. Abnormal psychological gratification seems to be a given amongst these ‘experts’ and I have read enough papers and watched enough programmes to conclude that they are probably right. Trauma in my childhood, mummy issues, rejected by potential lovers, seeking comfort in abnormal sexual acts… it’s all rather predictable.