Текст книги "The Electrician's Code: An Evans and Blackwell Mystery"

Автор книги: Clarissa Draper

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Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Contents

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-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

About the Author

WiDō Publishing

Salt Lake City, Utah

www.widopublishing.com

Copyright © 2014 by Clarissa Draper

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher.

Cover Design by Steven Novak

Book Design by Marny K. Parkin

Print ISBN 978-1-937178-56-7

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014908663

for Isaac

Chapter One

Monday June 17, 1991

Creatures of habit are easier to catch, and beautiful Edie Grace was as predictable as a James Bond love affair. For three weeks, he studied her, peering into her life . . . her soul. He enjoyed her youthful movements, so graceful and delicious. She now belonged to him.

Through the front window, he watched Edie jump onto her sofa and sit cross-legged in front of the television. As an avid fan of Wheel of Fortune, her fisted hands move up and down in front of her chest as the wheel went round. As the needle passed every number, she mouthed one thousand, one thousand and finally called out a letter in turn.

G as in girl.

He smiled. Yes, and what about B as in beautiful or D as in dead? Oh, the hours he had stood watching were about to end. Excitement filled his stomach and his heart beat rapidly. He longed to be inside—with her. No, he must be patient; he knew the perfect time.

Show over, she picked up the remote control and shut off the television. Her head fell and he knew she hated what she had to do next: cook herself dinner. From his current vantage point, he could only see half her kitchen, so he crawled around the side of the house and behind the perfect bush—a bush that hid him from the house, the neighbor’s house, and the street. It also had a perfect view of sweet Edie in the kitchen. He felt fortunate she wasn’t a gardener. Her bushes were allowed to grow out of control. Fifty men could hide in her gardens. The spot nearest the kitchen he had picked with care—he needed to be able to see her without her seeing him. The grass under his feet was worn down in the shape of a large cloud.

Edie opened the cupboard over the sink and chose the third book from the right—Cooking for One. She threw it down on the worktop and flipped through the pages one at a time.

No, no, no, she shook her head at each page. Occasionally she would pause, open her refrigerator, and rummage through. After a few seconds, the door would thump closed, rattling the glass bottles inside, and she would flip through the pages of the cookbook again. Reaching the end of the book, she slammed it closed and pushed it off the edge of the kitchen worktop. Finally, she opened her freezer for a ready meal and after her oven was heated, placed it inside and left the room.

Soon.

He looked at his watch. About now she would be back on her sofa.

When he returned to the front, he bent down and retrieved a bag he had hidden under a bush. A large blue workbag filled with all the needed supplies. He felt round inside and pulled out a coil of wire neatly placed within. He slid his fingers along the entire span. Perfect as always.

With his gloved right hand, he slowly turned the handle to the front door. It opened easily and quietly, without a catch. He knew she often forgot to lock her front door. In the past three weeks, she had only locked it three times. Twice she left the keys hanging from the lock outside. A single female living alone. If only she understood the dangers in the world.

The smell of baking roast beef and gravy hit him as he walked down the hall toward the reception room. He moved very slowly, careful not to make any sound on the carpet that covered the length of the hardwood floor. One, two, three, four, he counted his steps, closer and closer he moved toward her. Movement from the living room made him pause, a sound of glass landing harshly and a plastic item dragged off a wooden tabletop. A click followed by loud blaring voices from the television calmed him down; he would not need to be so quiet now.

At the end of the hall, he placed the workbag at his feet and peered into the empty kitchen. No one. He knew exactly where she sat. After taking a deep breath, he stepped into the doorway. She didn’t see him at first, not until he moved closer and stood nearly in front of the television. She looked at the intruder in her house, somewhat confused by the wire in his hand.

Her face betrayed her shock—her eyes widened in horror. The remote control dropped to the floor. She opened her mouth but no words left her lips. He moved closer. Instinctively, she moved back on her sofa, crawling to the farthest edge before she grabbed her legs and pulled them into her chest. Huddled in the fetal position, her head shook like a robot unable to compute.

The tight leggings she wore accented her knees and for a minute, they distracted him. The knees, her knees, they made him pause. They were right there, right in front of him, her beautiful knees. The knees he dreamed about, fantasized about, worshipped, and they were his for the taking.

Finally she spoke, “What are you doing in my house? How did you get in?”

These questions disrupted his thoughts; he looked into her eyes and put his finger to his lips to silence her. Her eyes betrayed her fear and that drove him on. The power, oh the power. She was his now.

Confident, he stepped back and calmly asked, “Are you cooking something? It smells as if you’re cooking something. In the kitchen, I think. It smells delicious.”

She looked down at his hands and the wire, and finally, she said, “Is there something wrong? What are you doing? Why are you here, in my house? I want you to leave . . . immediately.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and walked into the kitchen. Opening the oven, he knelt down and took a deep breath in. “Delicious. You are a wonderful cook.”

She stood nervously in the doorway, arms crossed in front of her.

“Why are you here? How did you get in? I am going to ring the police . . . leave my house immediately.”

“No, my sweet, you see, you can’t.” He held up the wire and slowly stood back from the oven. He watched her, her beautiful back and hands now hugging the door frame. He caught the cautious glance she made toward her front door.

You feel you are so close and yet how far you really are, he thought. You want to run, you want to scream, but you’re too scared. As he moved toward her, she readied herself to run, bracing her feet firmly on the floor. At the end of the worktop he reached down, picked up the cookbook off the floor, and read the title.

“Oh, beautiful Edie, why do you make this hard on yourself? You won’t reach the end,” he said, taunting her as he stepped closer and closer to her. “Your beautiful legs, knees, I am afraid they won’t be able to carry you fast enough before I catch you. Perhaps you want the chase, is that what you want? Why don’t you run?”

Grabbing her chin with his gloved hand, he looked into her eyes. They spoke the one word he thrived on, terror. “Run,” he whispered into her ear and run she did. But, as he suspected, he caught her as she unlocked the bolt on the front door

“Tsk, tsk, you should be more careful, because you never know who could be outside lurking, do you?” He leaned past her and locked the front door again. “We don’t want someone coming in now, do we?”

Her legs became weak and she fell to the ground. Grabbing her hair, he pulled her up. A short high-pitched scream came out of her mouth.

Cupping her mouth with his hand, he whispered into her ear, “What are you doing? Why do you fight it? It will all be over soon.”

He ignored the stifled whimpers that came from under his hand as he dragged her down the hall. She clawed at the walls and kicked the floor trying to stand. When that failed, she attempted to reach behind and scratch him but he yanked on her hair in response. In the kitchen, she wildly threw her body up on the worktop and kicked like mad. The rack of spices flew through the air—the cumin bottle smashed in the sink sending greenish powder up in the air and tiny balls of peppercorns flew like little missiles in all directions as the bottle shattered against the fridge.

He couldn’t hold on to her and she threw herself to the floor, yanking drawers out as she fell. Cutlery landed with a deafening crash on the tile floor. He covered his ears with his hands. She crawled toward the kitchen door but yelped when his strong hand grabbed her ankle and dragged her back.

As screams emerged from her lips, he placed his hand over her mouth, and said, “Stop.”

He was getting angry now. This was not what he’d imagined. Where was his power? Where was her fear? Tired, he looked around for his wire, where was his wire? He must have lost it somewhere in the struggle.

She moved again, her hands clawed the floor, reaching for items. With a loud slap, his gloved hand connected with her face.

“Stop,” he said once again. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she began to whimper. With his body on hers to hold her down, he placed one hand on her neck—her thin tender neck—and began to squeeze. “Will you be quiet?”

When she made no movement, he squeezed her neck harder and asked again, “Will you be quiet?”

When she finally nodded yes, he took his hand off her mouth. Again he looked around for his wire. Nothing. He could feel her squirm beneath him, adjusting her body under his weight.

The smell of burning pot roast began to fill the room. Could he shut off the oven from here? He leaned back trying to reach the knobs on the hob. Just out of his reach. Damn. He slid his body back but he still couldn’t reach without taking his hand off her neck. No, no, no, he thought, this is not what he had planned. Turning back to her face, he realized he must deal with her first. She looked at him and the fear returned.

She squirmed as his second hand reached for her neck. No, she shook her head. Please, she pleaded with her eyes. Her yell was a gurgled gasp. As he watched her struggle for air, he felt a deep sharp pain radiate from his leg up his entire body. For a moment, his hands loosened from her neck and he let go. Blood pooled onto the floor from a large fork in his thigh. He reached back and yanked it out, blood gushed against the kitchen cupboard door. With anger he turned back to her. Her eyes were still on him, but she had stopped struggling for air.

Beautiful Edie Grace was no more.

Chapter Two

The sound of hoovering caused Sophia Evans to look away from her monitor. What time was it? The clock on the wall read 2:10. Where did the time go? She pressed the power button on her screen then leaned back in her chair. Her shoulders ached and she rolled her head from side to side.

She glanced around the office. Six other co-workers still sat at their stations. Three had noise-cancelling headphones over their ears. Maybe Liam Foxton was right; perhaps they had no lives. Liam would never work this late. She wondered when he had left. It was rare for him to leave without at least saying good-bye. From her bag, she pulled her mobile phone—no one had rang.

When she looked up, she saw Liam approaching her desk. “Speak of the devil,” she said.

“What’s this?” Liam asked and shook papers in front of her face. She rose and snatched them from him. He had recently followed her to the ICT unit at MI5 in a role he termed liaison—between the Intelligence Officers and ICT Specialists.

“You know, it’s after two in the morning.” She flipped through the sheets—at least he hadn’t marked them in any way. She didn’t want to have to reprint the thirty-four pages.

“I intercepted this,” he yelled over the vacuum. He jabbed at the papers.

She let out a laugh. “You didn’t intercept it; you stole it off the post cart. It’s for my boss to review.” She slammed the document down on her desk. “And you’re not my boss. It’s my speech—waiting for approval.”

“In what language?”

“Just because you don’t understand it doesn’t mean it’s not English. It’s my demonstration of the Huffman Compression Function and Linguistic Stenography.”

Three or four times a year she gave a lecture at the university on various Mathematics subjects to various groups. It impressed her that students as young as eight took an interest in maths. In a way, it reminded her of herself at that age.

“Would you like me to bore you with the details?” she asked him.

“No.”

“Is this what you’ve been discussing with your superiors all afternoon?”

“What are you on about?”

“I saw you this afternoon and I know you were talking about me. I saw you looking at me. Is this what it’s about?” She held up the pages.

When he didn’t reply, she continued, “Never mind. What are you doing here so late?”

“I-I thought we could grab a coffee.”

“I don’t need more coffee, Liam. I need a bed.” She picked up her bag, umbrella, and coat from under her desk.

“It’s only that we haven’t had much time to talk . . . to discuss what happened on—”

“What? Just spit it out.” The words came out louder than she had planned. She looked round the room, but none of the other analysts had stopped typing to watch. There was enough noise in the room even to drown out the occasional game of Halo some of the analysts played. Liam attempted to drag her to his office but she stopped him.

“Well,” he whispered, “I want to make sure you’re okay. You seem really angry. Well, towards me anyways.”

“I’m all right, all right?” After a soft pat on his arm, she headed for the lift.

“Wait. Just wait for me.” He ran to his office and retrieved his coat and briefcase. She stopped and turned to him.

“The reason we haven’t discussed it,” she said when he returned, “is because I haven’t wanted to discuss it with you. I’ve already been through months of counselling. Now, I just want to put it behind me. All right?” She pressed the button. And then three more times.

Liam pulled her hand back.

“But you still seem angry—” he started.

“Of course I’m angry. I shot him. I shot a man I cared about . . . for you.” She jabbed him in the chest. When the lift doors opened, they entered. He pressed the button for the ground floor.

“He died in my arms,” she continued, “and you never apologized, did you know that? Are you even sorry for putting me on the case, a case I was in no way prepared for? Are you sorry for risking my life and the lives of your officers?”

He opened his mouth to speak but she stopped him. “It’s too late now, Liam.”

“I know I can’t say anything to make you forgive me, but can we at least be able to have a civilized conversation?”

She leaned her head against the lift wall.

“We were talking about you in the office earlier.” He lifted his hand in front of her face to stop her from speaking. “But before you jump to conclusions, let me explain.”

He pulled a small slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to her.

“What is it?”

“It’s an address. I want you to meet me there first thing tomorrow morning. Nine. On the dot.”

Her shoulders sank. “I thought you said you would explain. What is it about? And you say we don’t have civilized conversations? You never tell me what’s going on.”

“I’ll explain in the morning.”

She sighed. “Do I have a choice? Did my boss approve this?”

“Yes, you’re required to go.” The lift doors opened and he walked out. “Nine, Evans. On the dot.”

Chapter Three

Theo Blackwell stood in aisle sixteen at Tesco, running his eyes up and down the rows of greeting cards. He knew the supermarket wasn’t the ideal place to find an anniversary card for his wife, but he was pressed for time and not many other places were open at eight in the morning. When he reached the section he was looking for, he pulled three different cards from the rack. They all pictured happy couples, kissing couples, and messages that didn’t apply to his situation. One had six different pictures of a couple from the moment they started dating to an older couple holding hands walking through the park. That wasn’t his life.

Where was the one that said, I know you don’t remember who I am and don’t love me anymore, but when I look at you, I remember. I remember how happy we were together and I know I still love you. Where was that card?

For their six year anniversary, his wife had been unconscious and hanging on for dear-life after getting in a car accident. He had got her a card and laid it by her side in the hospital but in the end, it went in the box with all the other cards she had received. She never read it. For their seventh, he bought her a card but ended up stuffing it in his sock drawer. Though she was making a fine physical recovery, she still couldn’t remember anything about her past and they were as good as strangers.

He actually considered not getting her a card this year. Although they were talking now, and she had begun to display the same sweet personality she had when he fell in love, he just wasn’t sure she would appreciate the gesture.

He took all three and stuffed them behind a random card.

His mobile rang and he reached for it on his belt. It was his boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Deveau. “Good morning, sir.”

“You sound chipper this morning, Blackwell.”

“Thank you, sir.” He wasn’t chipper but he didn’t feel like correcting his boss so he let the matter drop. “I’m optimistic your call will take me from the last few days of doldrums to an exciting new case?”

“You solve one really high-profile case and now you’re never satisfied. Yes, you will be happy to know that a man died for your enjoyment this morning.”

“Wonderful,” he said ignoring his boss’s sarcasm and pulled a Biro from his coat pocket. It was true, a lot had changed since he solved his first homicide. And really, he had Sophia Evans to thank for it, even though she wanted no recognition.

He hadn’t seen Sophia since the week after they arrested the man they were after, and although he knew where she lived and had her mobile number, he made no attempts to contact her. And to his knowledge, she hadn’t made any attempts either.

One day she was in his life, the next, she disappeared. And he had to respect her wishes.

“Would you like the address?” his boss asked, interrupting his thoughts.

When Theo couldn’t find a piece of paper, he walked an aisle over and picked up a small notebook. “Can you repeat that, sir?”

As he began to write down some instructions, an extra loud announcement blared over the speaker above his head. He heard nothing.

“Where are you, Blackwell, the Underground?”

“Actually, at a Tesco. Sorry, come again, what was the address?”

“You’re shopping at eight in the morning? Doesn’t your mother do that for you?”

“Looking for something, is all. I’ll be at the scene ASAP. Have they got the scene under control?”

“Everyone has been dispatched. You’ll find this case interesting.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

Chapter Four

On the path leading from a small house on Connell Road in Ealing, Queen of the Suburbs, laid a man in his bathrobe. The victim had his eyes opened and might have been mistaken for cloud watching if it wasn’t for the pool of blood beneath him. A gray steel walking frame and a neatly folded newspaper were at his feet. No, foot. The man only had one leg.

The brick house that belonged to the deceased was two-story with large windows. It had a small yard out front. The lawn and hedges neatly trimmed. The white wooden fence, recently painted.

Theo looked up and down the street. The crime scene was loud and hectic. A crowd had gathered behind the crime scene tape. Only a handful of uniform officers were there to keep control. Amateur photographers pushed the tape boundaries hoping to snap the best shot.

Children ran to the first floor of their neighbor’s homes where they could get a view of the dead body, while mothers were doing all they could to keep their children away from the tape. A group of older men were huddled together debating whether this was the first of many attacks to come on the old men in the neighborhood and what was the world coming to. Old women were huddled debating who had seen the most from their planter-covered windows and discussing the theories they had in which to enlighten the police.

“Are you the SIO?”

Theo turned around to face a short, pudgy uniformed officer whose blond hair was cropped short. “I am.”

He took out his warrant card and displayed his credentials. The young officer just stood there.

“And who are you?” asked Theo.

“I’m PC Barry Borders. I was the first to arrive on scene, but I didn’t touch the body, and I made sure no one else touched the body. To make sure there were no other victims, I entered the house, but I didn’t touch anything there either—except the door handle, I had to touch the door handle, but I used gloves. No one was inside. The deceased is Maddock Tipring, sixty-two. I don’t really know how he died. Perhaps he had a heart attack while fetching the newspaper. But, I didn’t touch the body.”

“That’s perfect, Borders. Good job.”

Just then, a small child of around eight years brushed past Theo’s leg. With a swift grab of the school bag attached to the boy’s shoulders, Theo yanked him back.

“Sorry, sir,” said another officer who was running after the boy.

Bending down to meet the boy at eye level, Theo asked, “Where is your mum, lad?”

The wide-eyed boy pointed in the direction of a woman intently capturing the scene on her mobile phone camera. Theo dragged the boy to his mother and confiscated the phone out of her hand. “Are you the crime scene photographer?”

“No—”

“Then I suggest you do your job which is taking care of your son. He is yours, I presume?”

“Yes. I’m sorry,” she replied roughly, drawing her son near to her. Theo handed her phone back.

“Are you trying to traumatize your son? You understand your son almost saw a dead body? Do you know what happens then?” Theo continued as the woman shook her head, “They grow up to be teenagers with emotional problems, and when life doesn’t turn out for them like they think is fair, they blame their mothers, who they guilt into spending lots of money to support them for the rest of their miserable lives. Can you afford that? If not, try taking more care of you son. Thank you.” He returned to the dead man.

“Were there any witnesses, Borders?” asked Theo.

“Ah, no sir, but we’re questioning the neighbors and bystanders now. So far no one has heard or seen anything. No one even heard him scream. Maybe he couldn’t, I don’t know. Apparently, though, his neighbors say it was his habit to pick up the newspaper every morning. According to the nurse, it was something he wanted to do for himself. Made him feel useful, I suppose. As you can see, he is . . . was disabled.”

“Yes, I think I can see,” Theo said, ignoring his comment. “Who found the body?”

Looking down at his pad, the officer replied, “A Mr. Carlin Dowridge. He was walking past the house on the way to work, saw the body, and called the police from his mobile. He says he only touched the body to check for a pulse.”

“Where is Mr. Dowridge?”

“He had to be at work by eight because he works at a local school, but I made him stay in case you wanted to talk with him, and I wrote down all his information.” He held his notebook in Theo’s face.

Theo pushed the notebook aside. “What time did the witness notice the deceased?”

“About a quarter to eight. He said he almost didn’t notice him because the bushes hid him. When he walked past the fence, he noticed the Zimmer frame. I guess that was when he saw the body. Thought the man had a heart attack or something.”

“Does he live nearby?”

“He lives on this road by but two streets down.” Borders pointed in the direction. “He gave us his address.”

“Did he enter the house?”

“No, I don’t think so. He said the man looked dead—with all the blood—and so after he rang the police, he just waited and that was all.”

Theo nodded.

“The victim’s nurse arrived only a few minutes ago. She’s pretty distraught.” Borders pointed to a woman in a nurse’s uniform that was standing with an officer a few feet away. “The liaison officer hasn’t arrived yet.”

“All right,” said Theo. “When you checked the house, did you speak to the people who let the upstairs flat?”

“I knocked on the door of the flat upstairs. No one answered. I suppose the nurse will know if that upstairs flat is let or not.”

“Listen, you have done an excellent job so far. Don’t let any officers in the house or around the property until Scene of Crime Officers arrive. If this is a murder and the killer went into the house, I don’t want any of the evidence destroyed. SOCO will be furious if we disturb the crime scene any more than we need to.” The officer nodded and left, Theo turned around searching the crowd.

Finally, the Scene of Crime Unit arrived. Men jumped out of the vans, donned suits, and stormed the house and body, taking pictures and picking up evidence. He took his mobile from his pocket and dialed his partner, Detective Inspector Dorland’s number. Straight to voicemail. Dorland better be on his way.