Lonely Hearts: Killing with Kindness takes on a whole new meaning (DI Falle) Read online

  Lonely Hearts

  Gwyn GB

  Also by Gwyn GB

  Islands

  A page-turning story of love, secrets and regrets

  Amazon.co.uk reviews

  “If you read only one book this year – make sure it’s this one! A beautifully crafted story with characters you will care about as they could so easily be you and I. Difficult subjects that touch us all are dealt with a rare level of honesty, integrity and understanding.”

  “Downloaded this today and have just read it in one go. Page turning, plot secrets revealed with unexpected twists. Brilliant capturing of the pain of invisible loss.”

  “Absolutely loved this book. Flew through it from start to finish.”

  “Thought provoking story, emotional, sensitive and beautifully written. I just could not put the book down until I had finished it. Highly recommended and a must read.”

  “This will stay with me for a long, long time. Hardly moved from my chair whilst reading. Excellent!”

  Available on Amazon now

  You can sign up for a free novella to accompany this book, as well as book club notes and resources.

  There’s further information at the back of this book .

  Please note: SPELLINGS USED ARE BRITISH ENGLISH.

  There is a short glossary of British English slang and police terminology, at the back of this book.

  Hope you enjoy the read.

  Gwyn GB

  Published in 2017 by Chalky Dog Publishing

  Copyright © Gwyn GB 2017

  Gwyn GB has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright holder.

  All characters and their storylines, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living, or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book will be available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-0-9955165-4-0

  1

  Rachel, 13th October 2016

  The garden is illuminated only by thin leached light from the windows of the house - the curtains open for that purpose. The dark moon-less sky means a thousand shadows have been born - but only one has made her heart pound, turning her skin cold and sending the blood pumping in her veins.

  She knows they’re watching again, and curses herself. How stupid not to have realised they wouldn’t have just given up. Now she’s left herself vulnerable.

  Her hands start to shake slightly as she locks up the shed, determined not to leave her animals unprotected. Her breathing is shallow. Muscles tensed for flight, as she listens for the slightest sound from behind: a bush parting, soft footsteps on the lawn, the breath of another on her neck.

  Like last time - there’s nothing.

  Nothing except the endless drone of suburban London traffic and a baby crying in a house across the road, its high pitched wailing summoning tired parents. She is surrounded by houses, by families and couples going about their evening routines: TV, computer games, reading, arguing - all oblivious to her rising fear - and what might be about to happen.

  Rachel shivers involuntarily, partly due to the cool October evening which has begun to penetrate the thin cotton jumper she’d flung on over her jeans earlier; and partly because of the tide of cold dread washing through her.

  She pushes her blonde hair back from her face, pocketing the shed key and spinning on her heels to face the house. It’s only ten paces but the empty lawn gapes wide. Why are they here again? It’s been weeks since the last time and she’d convinced herself they’d gone, scared off by the presence of a man in the house. It’s almost as if they know she’s alone tonight.

  What if they’re already inside? Slipped in unseen while she fed the rabbits.

  Light pours from the open kitchen doorway in front of her - a threat lit up and welcoming to any passing stalker.

  What should she do? Stay outside with the shadows in the open? Or trust the light and the doorway that will enclose her?

  Fear wins. Her legs start to move as flight and adrenaline take over. If she gets into the kitchen her mobile phone is on the table - she can almost see it from here.

  Rachel walks. Each step an eternity. Nearly twisting her ankle as she misses the edge where lawn meets footpath.

  She’s a few feet from the doorway, light bathes her pale face making her blonde hair glow.

  Her phone is just a breath away.

  2

  Neil, 13th October 2016

  Neil leans into the bathroom mirror, plucking the last grey hair from his dark eyebrows. The demanding youth culture of digital marketing isn’t his only motivation to hold back the years.

  It’s as he drops his gaze to the sink, turning on the tap to wash away his age, that the knife enters his back.

  He doesn’t see who kills him. It wouldn’t matter much if he had because he’s dead, and thus a useless witness, long before anyone finds him.

  As he careers head first into the bath tub he knocks his bottle of Creed aftershave in with him, smashing and spattering the white porcelain with scent as well as blood.

  The pathologist later comments that his is the nicest smelling corpse he’s ever had the pleasure to be acquainted with.

  By the time Neil’s mobile phone rings in the sitting room, Rachel’s number flashing up on the screen, his heart has stopped pumping.

  Neil will stay forever young.

  3

  Claire, 13th October 2016

  DI Claire Falle has an epiphany lying naked next to the man who’s shared her bed for the past three years. He is never going to make her happy - a fact backed up by the dull ache between her legs instead of a pleasurable post-orgasmic throb.

  In truth, he’s bored her for months, but it’s been convenient. The same reasons so many coppers get together - an understanding of the crap you have to deal with and the shit hours. Unfortunately, Claire no longer wants convenience. She wants passion and her own space - neither of which she’s been getting since Jack moved in.

  He’s also been getting a bit too heavy lately - broody even. Jack has started talking forward, not just weeks or months, but years.

  ‘This would be a good investment,’ he’d said the other night. They were sitting on the sofa, dinner finished, watching Game of Thrones. It was one of those rare occasions they were on their own in the flat, without one of Jack’s buddies over for a beer. All of a sudden he’d just come out with it and handed Claire his iPad. Claire expected him to show her a savings account or the latest Kickstarter hit, but instead he’d offered up an estate agency site with an ad that said, “Great neighbourhood. The perfect family starter-home.” Claire hadn’t known what to say.

  Thankfully Khalisi and her dragons took that moment to catch Jack’s attention and she was spared any further awkwardness.

  4

  Claire, 14th October 2016

  The morning’s rude awakening at the hands of her mobile phone saves Claire from any further embarrassing conversations about settling down. She resents the call though, it’s supposed to be her day off. She and Jack were planning to go to Great Yarmouth for a couple of nights. Even if she doesn’t want to play happy families with him, she misses the sea and could have done with getting out of London. The brown North Sea wouldn’t have been a patch on the clear blues and greens of her Jers
ey childhood waters, but the fresh salty air would have been welcome. She needs to clear her head.

  ‘We’ve got a murder, get here as quickly as you can. Leave is cancelled. Sorry.’ Detective Chief Inspector Robert Walsh’s East End accent comes at her down the phone, matter of fact. He gives her an address.

  Jack stirs and opens one eye at her. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Bob. I’ve got to go in. Sorry about today. Why don’t you see if Matt’s free?’

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’ Jack rolls back over.

  She’s relieved he’s not going to create a scene. He knows the score with the job, but her lack of upset at not being able to spend time with him seems to have gone unnoticed. She’ll deal with what’s going on in her head another time.

  Claire disappears to the bathroom and takes a moment to gaze in the mirror while the shower heats up. She needs a haircut. Her auburn hair is looking scraggy around the edges. It had been a sharp mid length bob. Maybe she’ll try something different next time, more layers might last longer - although when next time is going to come is anyone’s guess. She can’t see herself getting time off for a haircut for a while.

  The shower manages to drag her into a state of full consciousness and when she returns to the bedroom, Jack has fallen back asleep. His mouth is half open, black hair tousled and he’s making little snuffly snores like an upturned hedgehog. She takes a moment to look at him, trying to rekindle the way she’d first felt about him three years ago when just seeing him had made her want to unbutton his trousers. What had killed that passion? Familiarity? Too much of a good thing? Does she simply not find him intellectually stimulating? Have they crossed that line when you know there’s nothing left to discover and what’s there is simply not enough?

  When they’d gone to bed last night Jack had farted, wafting the bed sheets at her, ‘Smell the amber nectar’, he’d laughed. She’d got stroppy. Maybe she’s prudish or doesn’t have a sense of humour, but the laddish behaviour turns her off. She gets enough of that at the station. At home, things should be different. Shouldn’t they?

  She thinks about her mother and her parents’ 38-year marriage. She couldn’t imagine her dad doing that. Did her mother ever think like Claire? Ever feel the need for an affair just to know she’s still capable of passion and lust? Claire can’t see it.

  Claire has no urge to kiss Jack goodbye, instead, she slips out of their bedroom and leaves him sleeping. Her mind is buzzing with the prospect of a new case.

  The main roads of Shepherds Bush are already choked with traffic and as she walks to where she parked her car, Claire can hear the rumble of the over-ground tube trains. In the distance are the traffic muffled shouts and mechanical noises of the massive building site that was once BBC Television Centre. It’s being slowly transformed into apartments, restaurants and a hotel. She’d hate to think how much even a one bed flat would cost with their 24 hour concierge and underfloor heating. She’s heard a two bedroom unit is nearly one million. If that’s true then there’s not much chance of one of those unless you’re already a TV celebrity. Besides, she can think of plenty of places she’d rather be than Shepherds Bush. There’s only so much landscaped gardens can do to detract from the overwhelming grey urban sprawl.

  Claire reaches her car, but only just manages to escape the parking space because the white van in front and VW Golf behind have boxed her in so tightly there’s barely enough room to turn the wheel. The CD player switches on with the engine and Adele keeps her company for the journey.

  It’s easy to tell when she’s close to the location of the murder. The London street changes colour, multi-coloured residents’ cars replaced, or blocked in, by the fluorescent yellow of emergency vehicles. Those at home are twitching their curtains. Those at work will return to a very different street to the one they’d left, but one which will temporarily be united in neighbourly gossip. People who’ve not said as much as ‘good morning’ to each other in years, will stop and chat about the terrible goings on.

  Despite it being a Friday a small crowd has gathered outside the flats where the murder took place. Among them Claire can see a couple of local journalists, already tweeting something, desperate to be the first with the next update. They won’t have much to go on yet and she certainly isn’t going to give them anything. Nevertheless, as she walks past and into the building she sees their phones go up and hears the electronic clicks of their cameras.

  ‘DI Falle, can you tell us who it is?’ They know she isn’t going to, but guesses they’re hoping she’ll turn round for a better shot. She won’t give them that pleasure. Her colleagues are bad enough as it is about the media attention she gets. Some sleazy tabloid had named her ‘Baton Babe’ last year. Armed only with her truncheon, she’d risked her life to overpower and arrest some knife wielding nutter as he threatened a playground full of terrified kids. They wouldn’t have given a male copper that tag would they? Yet in the same sentence as commending her bravery, they’d commented on her ‘arresting good looks’ and great figure. It wasn’t fair. She works hard to be seen as an equal and they smash that down with one badly written article.

  A young PC directs her up to the third floor where Scenes of Crime Officers have taken over half the corridor. She dons the protective clothing and goes in search of Bob.

  The flat is nice, expensive TV and sound system, quite minimalist in other ways, especially the galley kitchen. She guesses it’s probably a bachelor pad for a young but well-paid professional.

  A pack of cleaning materials and cloths are scattered on the floor just outside the bathroom. Claire quickly surmises that the distraught Eastern European woman being calmed down in the corridor, is probably Neil’s cleaner who discovered his body.

  Bob spots Claire and beckons her towards the bathroom. Inside two Scenes of Crime Officers are working: marking, measuring, photographing and taking samples. The corpse is still upside down in the tub. He’s only wearing boxers so it’s easy to see just how much blood has drained down the plughole, more of it sprayed around the walls. There is one large puncture wound in his back, the bloodless skin giving the impression of cut pastry.

  ‘Looks like the attacker stabbed him in the back while he was standing, and he then fell into the bath.’ Bob doesn’t waste time with pleasantries, she can see him logging and assessing the scene like a well-programmed scanner.

  ‘Why didn’t he see them in the mirror?’ Claire is standing in the doorway and it’s clear that the large mirror above the sink gives a good view of the whole bathroom.

  ‘Tap was still running when the cleaner got here, so perhaps he had his head down over the sink. Maybe he knew the attacker. There’s no sign of forced entry.’

  Claire nods in thought. ‘Mirror could have been steamed. What’s that smell?’

  ‘Creed. Expensive stuff.’ Bob motions to the smashed bottle that can just be seen under the corpse.

  ‘Nice.’ She takes another look at the scene, recording the details: the tweezers on the floor by the sink, the row of expensive hair and body treatments. This is a man who took pride in his appearance.

  She looks at the upside down corpse again. She can’t see his face, but from the toned body she can tell he was a young man. For a moment Claire allows herself to see him as a person, not a case. Then her eyes move on.

  The drips of blood running down the white tiles remind her of a poem she used to love as a child. Something about two raindrops having a race down the window pane. She can even remember the book, ‘When we were six’ by A A Milne. But this isn’t a scene for a child’s eyes. The drops of blood have dried and congealed in place. Race over.

  When it’s clear in her head she backs out and takes a look around the rest of the flat. A mobile phone has been dusted for finger prints and is being bagged ready to be given to the investigating team.

  ‘Three missed calls,’ Margaret Taylor, the senior SOCO says to Claire. ‘All from the same woman.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  In the kitchen, she se
es one plate on the side next to a single wine glass.

  ‘Looks like he ate alone,’ she says to Bob, who has come up alongside her.

  ‘Unless the killer took away their plate and glass knowing we’d find their DNA!’

  Claire frowns and nods, these days the level of information on the internet and in crime dramas means even the less cerebrally endowed criminals can make their job harder.

  ‘The flat belongs to a Neil Parsons,’ says Bob, leafing through some letters and paperwork. ‘Looks like our bathtub man. Likes the camera,’ he adds, nodding at a gallery of photographs showing a handsome young man with various gorgeous women and groups of drunken men. In every photograph Neil’s centre of attention.

  Claire sees the face of their bathroom corpse for the first time. Twinkling blue eyes, all-year round suntan and meticulously quaffed hair. Good looking, but in a self-absorbed kind of way.

  ‘Maybe his ego was his downfall,’ she replies.

  ‘Crime of passion. I’ll bet fifty quid on it,’ says Bob.

  Claire raises her eyebrows at his certainty. Then something draws her attention to the small desk by the window. Neil’s laptop sits waiting to be collected for evidence, but it’s the papers that catch her eye.

  ‘SoulMates dating agency. You wouldn’t have thought someone like him has a problem meeting women would you?’ She flicks through the pages of profiles, smiling women all hoping to meet their Mr Right. They’ll be disappointed if they were pinning their hopes on Neil. Some of the pages have ticks or crosses on them.

  ‘Any sign of drugs?’ Claire asks to the room.