Long Shadows Read online

  LONG

  SHADOWS

  A totally gripping crime mystery

  DEREK THOMPSON

  First published 2020

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  © Derek Thompson

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Derek Thompson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  www.joffebooks.com

  ISBN 978-1-78931-359-8

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  ALSO BY DEREK THOMPSON

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  “No good can come from a waning moon.” — Anon

  Prologue

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  A blue sheen covered the land, illuminating creatures of the night — predators, prey and scavengers in the dance of life and death. But there was nothing natural about the gunshot that split the silence, before the body fell and blood seeped into the soil like the sacrifices of old. Only, this time, someone else was watching.

  Chapter 1

  Detective Sergeant Craig Wild stared forlornly through the windscreen at the cattle blocking the road. Lazy wipers cut across his view like the world rhythmically flipping him the finger with both hands. This had to be someone’s idea of a bad joke. First he’d overslept and now this. 2016 was definitely not his year. He closed the window against the stench while the herd streamed around his car. A farmer trudging behind raised a stick like a half-hearted apology, although he’d forgotten to tell his face.

  Wild followed the cows’ progress in his wing mirror, drumming the fingers of one hand against the window to play them out. “Any time today.” Two weeks on duty since transferring from London and the Wiltshire countryside still gave him palpitations. When there was barely a cow in sight he turned the ignition and moved off swiftly in case any changed their mind.

  DI Marsh’s Caledonian tones crackled through the radio. “Craig, where are you?”

  He swore under his breath and held the handset several inches from his face. “Nearly there, boss. Sorry . . . ma’am. I got lost and missed the turn-off for the lane.”

  “Well, get a bloody move on.”

  He swung wide around a puddle he could have swum in and checked a pencil drawing in his lap. No reliable phone signal for a map of course. Come back, London — all is forgiven. Well, nearly all.

  Three field gates and a derelict cottage later, he found the track. He clocked a uniformed officer a little way up, a sentinel at the mercy of the elements. She nodded as he passed and he thought he might have seen her before at the police station — maybe on his welcome tour — only he wasn’t the greatest at putting names to faces. He clung to the steering wheel with one hand as his Ford Focus bounced along the ruts, his other hand grasping for a lone pill in a cup holder. Mud and water sprayed liberally up the car — he’d have to take it to a carwash when the weather lifted.

  Further up the field a familiar forensic tent awaited him. A small gathering of vehicles had already arrived. Even the private ambulance was there — he’d be last to the party. He parked alongside the others and changed into wellies stowed in the boot. No point ruining a decent pair of shoes for a dead man. Everyone stopped working as he approached. He’d got used to being the main attraction: the transfer from the Met, or — for those who had done their research — the DS who’d got sick after an armed robbery went tits up. What would it be this time — loaded questions or a loaded silence? He wasn’t sure which he preferred.

  Rain spattered over his hood, making it hard to hear. He eased it back as he entered the tent and waved some ID needlessly. “DS Wild.” He pulled out a packet of nitrile gloves from a box in his coat pocket. “What’s the situation?”

  A uniformed sergeant nudged a younger man in an umber suit that was trying too hard. Given the circumstances, Wild took him to be a detective constable and not a twenty-something on work experience.

  The DC lifted the plastic sheeting. “Victim is an elderly male, deceased. Cause of death appears to be a shotgun wound.” He said it without irony and glanced to the sergeant, who nodded encouragement. “Dr Bell has done a preliminary examination.”

  Wild skipped the pleasantries and bent down to the corpse. Judging by the damage, a single barrel had been unloaded in the mouth. Effective but messy.

  The doctor handed him a sheet of notes and a body outline marked up. “I’d say it happened late last night or very early this morning.”

  Wild glanced over the paperwork before passing it back. “Who owns the field? We’ll question them first.”

  The young DC sniggered. “Might be difficult, Skip — he’s the one lying here with half his head missing!”

  The uniformed sergeant cleared his throat. “This is DC Ben Galloway and he still has a lot to learn. I’m his uncle, Sergeant Galloway.” He extended a hand.

  Wild sniffed the air. “Well, he can start by bagging the victim’s hands for residue. Should have done that right away.”

  The sergeant stiffened. “We were expecting to find you on site when we got here. I was only dropping off Ben and the PC. In your absence we’ve been busy trying to preserve the scene and make up for lost time.”

  Wild conceded the point with a nod. “Okay. What’s the victim’s name and how did he get here?” His stomach groaned — he could murder a bacon roll.

  Sergeant Galloway read from his notes. “Alexander Porter, sixty-eight. No recent history with the police and no convictions. There’s a historic attendance for a domestic, but that’s over fifteen years ago.”

  Wild glanced to the men and then down at the farmland track, where the lone copper still waited like a scarecrow. He already knew there were no other cars on what passed for a road because he’d driven up and down it twice. Only one track in and out, and he’d arrived too late to secure the site so everyone and his mother had already driven through. The DI would have a field day. However . . . sixty-eight wasn’t eighty-eight.
The late Mr Porter might have walked across the field.

  “How far does — did — the victim live from here?”

  DC Galloway deferred to his uncle.

  “I’d say three or four miles.”

  Wild blinked slowly, conscious that these were now his colleagues and nothing would be gained by losing his temper. A second examination of the victim’s hands made his heart sink. The calluses on the right hand told their own story.

  “Has anything been moved — beyond the weapon you’ve bagged, I mean?”

  DC Galloway’s voice cracked. “Bagged . . . ?”

  Sergeant Galloway drew himself to his full height, all five foot nine of it. “We didn’t find any shotgun when we arrived. We conducted a thorough search,” he waved an arm in a loose arc, “but came up with nothing. I thought it best to discuss it with you before reporting it — probably some ghoulish trophy hunter. Could be whoever phoned this in? Not to worry — we’ll ask around.”

  Wild felt his jaw slacken. Perfect, just perfect. No one spoke. Instead, they all looked at him, eager to hear what came out of his mouth.

  He pointed to the victim’s right hand. “And where’s his walking stick?”

  No one answered so he stepped outside to swear in private. After a few paces he heard someone running behind him and then a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

  “Wait up, DS Wild. As one sergeant to another, we need to stick together on this. It’s not as bad as it seems. I’m sure the shotgun will turn up — I can think of a few people . . . well, let’s just say I’ll be making some targeted enquiries!” Sergeant Galloway laughed and slapped Wild hard on the back. “It’s only a suicide, after all.”

  Wild slipped free from his hand. “You’re sure of that, are you?”

  In the absence of a better plan, he followed the sergeant back to the tent and let them finish their work. He watched the scene dispassionately, as an outsider: the sergeant, nurturing and authoritative towards the DC, the pathologist, focused and businesslike. The DC, trying not to balls it up. Not so different from London, Wild told himself. And then nostalgia sank into his guts like a punch.

  He stood to attention and clasped his hands when the body bag went out, an old habit instilled in him during his first days on the force. The private ambulance left first, closely followed by Dr Bell’s Toyota saloon. Sergeant Galloway and his nephew went off in the van together. Not good for objective record keeping, but Wild didn’t want to cast aspersions. Even if he had been warned about rural, close-knit communities and their Wicca Man tendencies at his leaving do, back in Camden. The do that very few people attended.

  Once the affable sergeant and the DC had quit the site, Wild stepped outside again and tuned into his surroundings. It helped take his mind off the potentially career-limiting report waiting for him back at the station. Rain spat lazily against his coat, heavy and indifferent. There was farmland as far as the eye could see and sheep in the distance, probably. Beyond the fatality field, rising up to the ridge were two other fields — one beside it, about the same size, and another, smaller field that nestled between the two further up. From his vantage point the middle field looked unfarmed. Above it all, high on the ridge and half-shrouded by trees, the ruins of Montford Abbey cut a jagged outline against the sky.

  Birds chirruped from hedgerows that enclosed the middle field, probably as pissed off at the weather as he was. Wild turned slowly, taking it all in, and an unexpected smile crept up his face. At least he had an investigation to get his teeth into. No more missing tractors or holiday home break-ins. Alexander Porter’s death demanded top billing. A man who habitually used a stick did not travel miles without it just to off himself in his own field. Well, not unless he hitched a lift for the big occasion.

  Wild stared at the lone copper. Poor sod. He didn’t miss being in uniform.

  “Right, can’t stay here all day,” he said aloud to an empty field. Steph used to say he liked the sound of his own voice. Then again, Steph said a lot of things that turned out to be questionable. He changed back into shoes and then radioed his boss with an update.

  If DI Marsh sounded impressed, it was only because she’d set the bar low. DS Wild had not come highly recommended. More of a necessity after his predecessor moved on at short notice. Wild never asked about it — he didn’t care. The DI hadn’t flowered it up at their first meeting: ‘We need a replacement DS and beggars can’t be choosers.’

  He started rehearsing his review as he drove down to the lane, until the lone police officer flagged him down from behind the fencing.

  “DS Wild?” She wiped the rain from her face. “I was first on the scene this morning. They told me to prevent any unauthorised vehicles going up the track. Sorry, I couldn’t take any tyre impressions — they dropped me off without the kit. But I did take photographs, on my own initiative, before anyone went through. Is that alright?”

  He nodded. “Well done. Can I borrow your camera?”

  Her face tightened. “It’s my work mobile — I can email or text you the pictures.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Marnie Olsen.” She waited to see that look. “Mum watched a lot of Sean Connery films. It could have been worse. I might have ended up as a Bond Girl — Honey Ryder or Plenty O’Toole.” She paused, watching his face redden.

  Wild stalled, trying to forget Pussy Galore from Goldfinger. He dug out a business card with the mobile number scratched out and another scrawled above it. “Send me the pics and I’ll buy you a pint.”

  Olsen made a futile dab at her forehead. “Coffee in the canteen will be fine.”

  Wild nodded. “Fair enough. Can you secure the gate after me and then head up to the field for half an hour or so? Take a look around and stay visible — in case anyone gets curious. Keep an eye on the ruins — that’s a good vantage point.”

  She struggled to stifle her excitement. “Absolutely. What am I looking for?”

  “Aside from a missing shotgun, we’re looking for the victim’s walking stick. It’s a suspicious death at this point, so tread carefully.” He saw the way her eyes sparkled and wondered when he’d last felt like that about the job. A long time ago. He tapped the accelerator, drawing the conversation to a close. “Come and find me when you get back to the station. It’s Craig, by the way — Detective Sergeant Craig Wild.” He couldn’t be sure she’d heard him and he didn’t stick around to find out.

  Chapter 2

  Wild made it to Mayberry police station in under an hour. He enjoyed the transition from countryside to semi-urban sprawl — vagrants huddled by bus shelters, roundabouts, and litter-strewn fast-food outlets all offering a little slice of home.

  When he switched off the engine in the car park he could practically hear the blinds rattling. Here’s the Big City Boy, come to ring the changes. So wide of the mark it was tragic. Thirty-seven, soon to be divorced, and all he wanted to do was keep his head down and concentrate on work. No plans for the future — unlike Steph, who even now had DCI on her doorplate and an eye on the next rung of the ladder.

  He wandered back to his desk and checked his emails. Well done, Marnie Olsen, he thought as he clicked on her name — and most of the pictures were in focus. She’d go far, only probably not at this nick. He stared at the screen, trying to make sense of the track marks that weren’t waterlogged. Now, who could he ask about a database of farm vehicles for elimination purposes? As he glanced away from the screen he caught DI Marsh watching him from her ivory box. She raised an index finger and pointed at her desk. He took the hint. He was a detective, after all.

  She blinked through her glasses, resting one hand on a Rennie Mackintosh paperweight. He’d asked about it on his first day, trying to ingratiate himself with the new boss. It hadn’t worked. Or maybe Glaswegians had a different notion of charm.

  “How did you get on, Craig — anything to tell me?”

  He pondered how best to answer, mindful that Sergeant Galloway might have already delivered his version. DI M
arsh folded her hands in her lap. He took that as a good sign.

  “Well, ma’am, there are some anomalies . . .”

  She nodded. “Uh huh. Why don’t you talk me through them?”

  He smiled. Like being back on probation. He kept it to facts and gaps until his summing up. “In my judgement, it’s still a suspicious death.”

  “Is that right?” Her accent was pure Glasgow, somewhere between authoritative and menacing. “In that case I look forward to reading your report. On ye go then. Unless there’s anything else?”

  He made as if to get out of his chair. “Actually, there was one other thing. DC Galloway is a bit too cosy with his uncle in my opinion.”

  Marsh smiled slowly. “And you think a lot of your opinions? You’ve not met Ben Galloway before, have you? He’s been away on a course.” She picked up a pen and clicked it twice. “Your observation is noted, although we’re not exactly awash with staff.”

  “How about Constable Olsen? She seems keen. I could use someone local to do the legwork . . .”

  “Someone without relatives here at Mayberry, you mean? I’ll think it over.”

  * * *

  Marnie Olsen walked over to Wild’s canteen table and took a seat opposite him. “You owe me a coffee.”

  He studied her deadpan face and only saw the joke when she cracked a smile. “No problem. Play your cards right and you might even get a biscuit.”

  When he returned, she was going through her notebook.

  He slid a coffee and a miniscule packet of shortbreads across the laminate. “I’m a man of my word.” He sat back down while her eyes tracked from her mini shortbread to his full-sized chocolate bar.

  “What? I haven’t had breakfast. How did you know I’d be here, anyway?”

  She cupped her coffee. “When I got back here to change . . .” she left the accusation for him to work out for himself — the last time he’d seen her she’d looked like a drowned rat, “. . . my sergeant passed on a request from DI Marsh. She said to check for you and if you weren’t here she’d get someone to run me out to the victim’s house.”