Sweet Murder: A Blackbridge Novel Read online

  J. S. Spicer grew up in the West Midlands, where she still lives. An avid and enthusiastic reader from childhood, she now indulges her passion for writing and is the author of the Edward Gamble Mystery novels (The Art of Detection, Canvassing Crime and The Mystery Artist), and of the Blackbridge crime series (Fallout and Sweet Murder).

  Also by J. S. Spicer

  The Edward Gamble Mystery Series:

  The Art of Detection

  Canvassing Crime

  The Mystery Artist

  The Blackbridge Series:

  Fallout

  Sweet Murder

  SWEET MURDER

  (A Blackbridge Novel)

  By

  J. S. Spicer

  Copyright © 2017 J. S. Spicer

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

  The past should be behind us;

  sometimes it catches up.

  PROLOGUE

  Sherbet Dip.

  That fine sugary cloud. Sweet powdered lips and a sliver of glistening liquorice. They were getting harder to come by. He’d loved them as a child; a simple pleasure. Other simple pleasures were harder to find too.

  The daily grind; that’s what they called it. It felt right, that word. Grind. He was being eroded, worn down and rubbed out, bit by bit. He saw it in the mirror every morning; the evaporation of self.

  “FELIX!”

  His boss, Karl. Half his age, twice as confident.

  Felix licked his upper lip, harvesting the last grains of decadence. He took his time to close up the cardboard tube, pressing in the sides with his thumb. Karl was already yelling again as he stepped up to the bank of lockers.

  The dial rolled easily beneath his forefinger, rotating until the right numbers appeared; habitual, every day, mundane.

  But today was different.

  Today his senses were on fire. Every detail sent a thrill through him; sparks of electricity popping and hissing beneath his skin. Just feeling those tiny plastic wheels drop into place was intoxicating.

  Sequence complete, Felix eased open the locker door.

  He hadn’t slept much, a few breathless hours before dawn, but his body felt light, light and strong and supple. He’d spent most of the night preparing for this.

  Pushing his bag inside, he felt a tingle of anticipation flow through his fingertips as they brushed against smooth, cool steel.

  The office never changed.

  Same desk, peeling laminate curling away on one corner. He’d glued it down but it pulled away again, repelled by something in the cheap hardboard below, spitefully snagging his clothes.

  Brown stains spotted the dimpled white ceiling tiles. One of the strip lights pulsed and flickered, trying to die but hanging on with stuttering stubbornness.

  There was a window. Too high for a view. Only a little daylight crept in, skimming the air above him, tantalisingly close but always out of reach.

  A thick cobweb hung lazily in one corner, buffeted now and then by the blackened edge of the air conditioning vent.

  Worst was the clock; a brass-rimmed monstrosity. The second hand clunked its way around the clock face, shivering and limping to the beat of time.

  Time.

  So much had passed by; so much had passed him by. All the long days he’d sat there, still, dull, grey and dusty. Where was life? Was it in the sunlight glinting off the high window? The draft under the door? Distant laughter, or the turning seasons?

  Life. That’s was what was missing. He needed life. He needed to take life.

  Karl Drummond rocked in his chair, tilting and swaying on the back legs as he finished his call. The chair back eventually stilled against the wall, forming a new scar in the scuffed paintwork. Dropping the phone back into its cradle he draped his long legs over the desk, one pristine leather shoe neatly on top of the other, and watched Felix Vine enter the room.

  “Morning, sunshine.” Karl bared his teeth in a mock smile, mouth twisted up with contempt. Felix dipped his head by way of reply, eyes down as he slipped into his seat.

  “What d’you do last night, Felix? Eh?” Karl needed his morning fix, something to set him up for the day ahead. Coffee and taunting got Karl through. “Did you go out? Bet you had a hot date, didn’t you?”

  Felix fired up his computer, straightened the files on his desk. The clock registered barely after nine.

  Fetching his first coffee of the day Karl gifted Felix a chummy pat on the shoulder as he passed by. Felix watched as he afterward wiped his palm against crisply pleated trousers.

  “Bet you’ve tried that internet dating, haven’t you?” Karl barked out a laugh, his spotless shoes beat a swift rhythm against the tiled kitchenette floor as he made coffee, whistling along with the gurgle of the kettle, the ring of the spoon chiming against his mug.

  Karl was always in motion, always buzzing and flitting about like a bluebottle.

  Even returning to his desk didn’t still him; the way he shuffled in his seat, tapped vigorously at the keyboard, straightened his tie and swept back his hair. A force of nature, vibrant and spirited.

  Felix was careful about where he looked, kept his eyes down, on his work, screen, keyboard, anywhere but Karl. He was sure the other man would see what had kindled behind his eyes if he looked into them, see the need flaring bright, detect the hot intent throbbing and growing with each passing moment.

  Strange, how the feverish storm swirling inside him was easily contained by a thin shell of calm.

  Was he losing himself? Or, was he finding himself?

  Either was fine. It was enough to have certainty. For once in his life there were no doubts bouncing back and forth, scurrying through his consciousness and confounding him. His certainty guided him, steering each motion, thought, breath. His certainty could dictate the rate of sweat forming beneath his shirt, the pumping of his heart and steady flow of blood through his veins.

  The morning faded, its demise marked by the thudding hands of the clock and shadows creeping stealthily around the walls. The air warmed and thickened and pressed down. Only the cobweb in the corner enjoyed the benefit of the weak air conditioning.

  For the first time in his life Felix wasn’t willing the hands on that clock to move faster, he wasn’t wishing for the day to be over so he could escape the burden of his mundane existence.

  Today, he paid attention; every sight, sound, smell, sensation. Even the thoughts dipping in and out of his mind, some profound, others random, some ridiculous, they were savoured. All of it was the soundtrack to this moment; to his awakening.

  When Karl ducked outside for a cigarette break, Felix leaned back in his chair. He let his neck go loose, his head lolled back, and he exhaled loudly towards the stains on the ceiling. The anticipation had built within him, exciting the molecules that made up his very being.

  Karl would be gone for just a few minutes, but it was more than enough time for Felix to hurry up the stairs and reach the bank of lockers.

  When Karl returned he was high on caffeine and nicotine, the last fumes of his cigarette drifted after him. Even so, he sought more coffee.

  Felix knew this portion of the day, as Karl, hyped up, bolstered by his latest fix, would crank up the taunts, point and laugh at Felix like he was watching something hilarious on TV.

  His shoes were tapping their dance against the kitchenette tiles again.

  “Have you ever even had a girlfriend?” He chuckled as he poured fresh coffee; a twinkling eye peeped over one shoulder. “Or, maybe you prefer boys?”

  Th
is wasn’t new, but he’d left it alone for a while. Felix wasn’t sure why Karl found the notion so exciting. As he turned back to the coffee Felix slipped quietly from his chair.

  His vision blurred with the pleasure of the first incision, the resistance of flesh before it yielded, sharpness slicing deeper, blade bumping bone. Karl’s eyes and mouth flew wide, physical shock hitting before comprehension.

  By the time his instincts took hold it was too late. The fight bled from Karl almost before he knew he needed it. He tried to struggle, but his body would no longer do what he wanted.

  Felix held fast, one arm looped around the younger man, pulling him tight and close like a lover, but these kisses were steel-tipped and deadly. Each plunge of the knife was carefully aimed, some shallow, some deep, sucking right up to the hilt.

  Felix felt his burdens float away as the world turned red.

  Slick with blood his grip slackened, but he held on for as long as he could, still working away, easing steel through ragged flesh.

  When he finally lowered Karl to the ground he was enveloped by the blood, the air was sour with it, coating his tongue and penetrating every fibre; the tarnished aroma engulfed his senses.

  He had tried to take his time, focussing each stroke, deliberate actions, no rushing, just easing the knife home on each strike, then retracting it slowly, sometimes straight out, sometimes with a turn or twist, just for the feel of it, the sensation travelling up the blade, through his hand, his arm.

  It was over too quickly.

  He’d planned carefully, set the scene to his satisfaction. But already the euphoria was fading, seeping away like the blood spilling from Karl’s body. Discontent began to gnaw at the edge of Felix’s awareness, sharp and bitter.

  Still, he had stepped off the precipice of worry and doubt and fear. Instead of falling he’d found he had wings, beating strong and steady and carrying him forward.

  And he knew where he must go next.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Detective Inspector Max Travers wasn’t having a great morning. It started with the argument. A confusing, emotionally fuelled dust-up with Jennifer which soured his mood before the day had even begun. After that everything was off-kilter.

  He was parked up in a side street near the town centre. Sweat bristled beneath his shirt. Late July and the last few days had been seething hot. Blackbridge was enjoying a flash of summer, and there was a scramble by the populace to fire up the barbecues, squeeze into holiday shorts and dig out the flip-flops.

  Constrained by shirt and trousers Max was uncomfortable; uncomfortable and irritable. The air con in his car had chosen that morning to pack up. The coffee he’d stopped to buy was limp and bitter. He’d forgotten the sugar. Plus he’d been driven out of the station by the toxic presence of Lorraine Pope, whose hatred of him had intensified tenfold upon discovering he was in a relationship with Jennifer Kim.

  It was the row with Jennifer that was really bugging him. Things had been going well, or so he thought, but now she was talking about ‘needing space’. She’d hinted at it before, but Max hadn’t taken much notice. People said stuff like that.

  She wasn’t sick of him, he was sure, just trying to inject a few boundaries. They were good together. For Max that was enough; he’d never been one to overthink relationships.

  He braved another sip of harsh coffee. The car was parked in shade with all the windows wide open, but the weak air drifting through was scorched and oppressive. He checked his phone; again. He’d sent Jennifer a text and left a voicemail message, extending the olive branch. He’d known she wouldn’t answer the phone so it was a cowardly way to apologise, hoping she’d crumble and soften by the time they next saw each other. The screen remained stubbornly blank; no reply.

  She was letting him sweat. Literally, as it turned out.

  Max closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the headrest. He blamed his father. The old man was getting snippy, complaining more with each passing year. Max was usually pretty good at tuning it out, but now they were living under the same roof, and it was grating on him, shredding his nerves. Jennifer was his escape from Gus Travers, a safe harbour in times of strife. She was also the one who bore the brunt of his exasperation with his father, catching the flack as he off-loaded frustrations.

  The vibration of his mobile jolted him from his thoughts.

  “Travers.” It was just the station, not Jennifer. Disappointment and relief flooded him in equal portions.

  “Where the hell are you?” Carrie Winters’ voice was an urgent whisper.

  “What’s up?”

  “We’ve had a call about a stabbing. Fatal. Heritage wants you on it.”

  “Give me the address.”

  **

  The ‘address’ was a scrap of rough land in the shadow of the bridge for which the town was named. Beneath the tonnes of cast iron soaring gracefully over the tumbling river there were hidden places, forgotten pockets of riverbank, sought only by the lost or the desperate. Given the secluded location there was no need to close the bridge. Only a small section of the roadway had been cordoned off near a section of crumbling wall. Officers and FSIs scuttled miserably up and down the slippery embankment.

  Max stood at the top for a few moments, scanning the area, squinting unhappily at the scene before him. Finally he took the plunge. Someone had had the foresight to attach ropes running top to bottom. These helped a little, guiding Max and keeping his feet under him. Even so his shoes sank into soft earth and knots of brambles coiled around his legs, snagging his trousers and puncturing the skin beneath.

  Reaching the bottom he tried to wipe off the worst of the mud, scraping his shoes against clumps of brown grass. Could his day get any worse?

  He picked his way through more undergrowth and a swarm of paper-suited colleagues, careful where he put his feet, conscious of the risk of contaminating the scene. Away from the hot street, the air below the bridge was clammy and thick with midges. Despite the shade and cooler air skimming off the water’s surface, Max found it oppressive, unwholesome. As he moved further into the gloom beneath the bridge the atmosphere stagnated, each muddy step released fetid odours and the age-blackened wall ahead of him was coated with clinging moss.

  At its base was a terrible sight.

  Lorraine Pope.

  She stood over the body, latex-gloved hands resting on slender hips. Somehow her own trek down the overgrown incline hadn’t disturbed her tailored perfection. She looked cool, contained, and, as usual, immaculate, from her crop of shiny blonde hair to her low-heeled leather shoes. Max stared at his ex-girlfriend in horror for a second or two, before letting his gaze drop to the corpse slumped against the brick wall of the bridge.

  Blood darkened the short grass around the body, and the man’s clothes were covered in a scabbed, bloody crust. Dead eyes stared blindly out of the waxen face.

  When Max looked up again it was to find Lorraine watching him, her eyes glinting like steel in the gloom.

  “Looks like it happened in the last twenty four hours.”

  She narrowed her eyes momentarily, then, like applying a new coat of makeup, adjusted her features into an expression of calm professionalism.

  “In this heat, maybe less.”

  “Sounds about right.” Stan Everson stepped up behind Max. The Pathologist was red-faced and had an edge to his voice. “Why people don’t have the decency to commit murder in nice, air-conditioned buildings is beyond me!” He swiped at his moist brow with the back of his wrist, his hands off limits in their latex gloves.

  “That’s a lot of stab wounds.”

  “About a dozen I’d say,” Stan said.

  Max looked back at Lorraine. “Maybe someone he knew? Rage is usually personal.”

  She pursed her lips, eyed him up and down as if trying to decide if he was worth her time and response.

  Before she came to a decision Stan piped up again.

  “Multiple wounds, yes, but, not really frenzied. Or at least I don’t t
hink so. I’ll need to have a good look at this fellow back at base.”

  “How can so many cuts be anything other than frenzied?”

  “Like I said, I’ll need to examine him more thoroughly. Patience, Detective.”

  As Stan stepped around Max and returned his attention to the victim, Lorraine approached. She kept her expression serene but Max detected the tiniest tightening along the line of her jaw.

  “Heritage wants us to work together on this one.”

  He shifted from one foot to the other; a squelch of mud accompanied his discomfort.

  “OK.”

  Lorraine still had him pinned with that unnerving, all-seeing stare of hers. She slipped her hand into her pocket and removed a square of card.

  “Found in the victim’s wallet.” She dangled the business card loosely between two fingers, as if daring Travers to reach for it.

  “Not a mugging then? What about cash? Cards?”

  “All there, over eighty quid and several credit cards. We also found his phone and keys still on him.”

  His eyes moved from the card in her fingertips to her face, once, twice. It felt like a test, so he waited her out.

  “His name was Andrew Trent. Twenty Five. Ran a photography business with a partner.” Lorraine was still watching him strangely. “Carrie’s already confirmed he lived not too far from here with his girlfriend, Erica.” She waggled the business card. “So, do you want to take the business partner, or the girlfriend?”

  So that was her game. Travers didn’t speak for a moment, didn’t move. A young man with a promising future had been brutally killed and left to rot in the undergrowth, yet Lorraine was still fixating on her own petty jealousy. He’d had to put up with it when they were dating; her acid stares and sulky arm-folding every time he’d so much as glanced in the direction of a pretty girl. Maybe possessiveness had been her prerogative then, but their relationship was history. If they were going to work this case together there was no way Travers was going to be her own personal punching bag. The guilt for what he’d done had kept him lurking in the shadows, avoiding Lorraine, her condemnation, and the constant reminder that he was an imperfect being.