Prologue

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The woman picked up the phone slowly. Her hesitation came from all the expectations churning in her gut – possibilities ranging from those which would leave her sobbing, to those which would break her heart forever.

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She held the handset to her ear and said in a quivering tone:

“Yes?”

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There was a click and a faint whirring sound. A synthesised voice rasped, akin to a robot from an old sci-fi movie.

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“This is a recorded message. We have your son and at present he is unharmed.”

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Uttering a gasp, the woman collapsed to her knees. She managed to keep a tight grasp on the phone – onto the lifeline to her single, cherished child.

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“Do not call the police or he will die.

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“Do not attempt to find him. You will not. And he will die.

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“Be prepared to make a transfer of one million pounds to an account we will specify when we call tomorrow.

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“If you attempt to haggle the price or try to cheat us, your son will die.

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“We will offer you no proof of life. We will not allow you to speak to your son. Accept our arrangement or your son will die.

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“If you understand these terms and accept them, then when this phone call ends, go to your front door and open it wide. Leave the door open for the next half-hour to signal your acceptance.

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“This message will now repeat twice. Listen carefully and understand the consequences of obeying our demands completely…

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“We have your son and at present he is unharmed…”

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1: “You Really Have To See This”

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Monday. Day One.

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Those of you who have read my account of the series of murders which began at Goodman’s Haven, will know I’m a newspaper reporter who has a knack for investigation. From a story-telling point-of-view, I won’t spoil that first narrative. From a personal point-of-view, I simply don’t want to relive it in detail again. It’s enough to say – after events including kidnapping and the threat of torture, explosions, being shot, and deadly hand-to-hand combat – I’d only been out of hospital for a few weeks and was still recuperating.

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Goodman’s Haven, a high-security ‘townette’ for millionaires, had proved to be a festering core of malevolent secrets and gruesome violence. Both had spread into the nearby city of Prestford where I’m based. My experiences there could have given me a pathological distrust of the rich – were it not for the assistant I was assigned on the first day of the murders. Jessica Summers is the daughter of the millionaire owner of The National Gazette, my newspaper. She had been enduring work experience in various departments at The Gazette and had been asked to assist me on an interview at Goodman’s Haven. Together, we grew involved in the murder investigations and quickly became partners on the case.

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Jessica is one of those rare people who truly shines. Until ten years ago, she had lived in poverty; she had no siblings and her mother had passed away. Her father, Ralph, had owned a small area of Canadian forest and had struggled to make a living there. The discovery of a gold vein on his land changed their lives forever. He went from pauper to millionaire in a year, and added to his wealth with good investments. Ralph Summers’ personal desire to own a British newspaper led to him emigrating and beginning a new life in Prestford. Neither poverty nor sudden wealth had ruined Jessica as a person. She had relished being able to get a good education and had later agreed to spend a year at The National Gazette, learning the business to see whether she wanted to join it. In character, Jessica was level-headed, fun-loving, caring and inquisitive. Other girls in their mid-twenties might have indulged in a lavish celebrity lifestyle, wild parties and gossip-column notoriety.  Jessica was determined to spend her life doing something positive. She shunned expensive jewellery and clothing labels, preferring jeans, a T-shirt, a casual jacket and sneakers.

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When I first met Jessica, I’d been in a lousy mood – tricked by my editor into interviewing someone I hated. The warmth of her smile had been contagious and dissolved my ill-humour. Her face is one of those remembered for a long time: distinctively beautiful in an almost elf-like way, slim and graceful in shape, with dark eyes and a button of a nose. A fresh, natural look suggests she wears no make-up at all, and it certainly isn’t needed. Her long auburn hair is usually swept back into a ponytail. Compared to my own six foot two height, she is tiny – just over five feet tall; and she has the slender, curvaceous build of a dancer or athlete.

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Soon after embracing her wacky sense of humour, I discovered something surprising about my pint-sized sidekick-for-a-day. When we were attacked by two would-be assassins, she unleashed a display of fighting skills which left me stunned. After that, dead bodies began to appear on our scene and we found ourselves in the thick of an investigation. My editor, Fitzgerald MacKintyre, had initially been desperate to have Jessica back in the safety of the office – he relented after recognising the quality of our partnership.

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We made a good team. After witnessing her kick ass, I imagined us as a combination of her brawn and my brain, until I realised just how smart she is too. We complemented and gave strength to each other. My experience as an investigative reporter, with connections and an established working relationship with local homicide detectives, balanced against her cleverness, raw enthusiasm, inexperience and occasional naivety. I’d always worked alone before, then abruptly I had the ideal partner. My only regret was leading Jessica deeper into danger, but there was no way she would have abandoned me. We became close friends, kept saving each other’s hides, and both of us somehow managed to scrape through things alive.

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The resolution of the murder case put us both in hospital. I had a series of operations to repair ribs destroyed on my lower left side, and was bedridden for a fortnight. Jessica was whisked away by her father to a private clinic to recover fully from her own injuries, and, as I lay in my hospital bed, I imagined I’d never see her again. I also imagined that after endangering the daughter of The Gazette’s owner, I’d lose my job too.

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After further recuperation at home, I limped into The Gazette to take my punishment. To my amazement, my editor – ‘Fizz’ to everyone who knew him – reunited Jessica and I, and made our partnership permanent. It seemed Ralph Summers didn’t hate me as I’d assumed he would. In fact, I was invited for supper (Jessica called the invitation “kinda mandatory”), since Ralph wanted to meet the man who’d saved his daughter.

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Later the same afternoon, Jessica and I made another visit to Goodman’s Haven – to close the murder case completely. It wasn’t a pleasant visit, but it was one we’d both remember for the rest of our lives.

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The gates of Goodman’s Haven were behind us for what I believed would be the final time. I sat there in the front passenger seat, my recently-mended side aching, my mind wandering across a range of thoughts: The conversation we had just had. Happiness at being beside my friend again. Trepidation about meeting her father. And…

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Jessica’s phone rang in its cradle on the dashboard.

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She tabbed it to speaker mode. Her attention remained focussed on the winding country road leading back to Prestford.

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“Hello…” Jessica said in that chirpy, sing-song voice of hers.

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The deep tone of the caller was instantly recognisable. Detective Inspector Matt Dean, another friend and our closest ally on the Prestford Police force.

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“Jessica, is Ray with you? His phone isn’t on and I guessed…”

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After a disapproving glance from Jessica, I shrugged in response before lying: “Battery..?”

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“His phone’s never on,” she told Matt. “I think it frightens him. He’s here…”

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“Hey, guys,” I complained. “Show a little compassion to the invalid, okay?”

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I got ignored.

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“Ray,” continued Matt, “I’m a few miles east of the city near a village called Neefill. We’ve got a death here. A real weird one. You might want to take a look.”

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Jessica cut in: “You do know he’s still mending, don’t you? He’s supposed to be resting in bed…”

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Well, at least one of them has remembered, I thought.

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“I know. I called Fizz, and he said you might be available.”

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“Fizz,” I commented, “would send me out on a job if I was in an oxygen tent. His lack of scruples knows no bounds.”

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“Fine… Fine…” Matt replied. “I just reckoned you wouldn’t want to miss this. It’s right up your street.”

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It went unspoken that Matt also needed help. We had a special arrangement, a quid pro quo.

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“So what’s happened?” I realised I was getting drawn in against my will. Curiosity is my greatest weakness. Well, other than my hatred of mobile phones.

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“You really have to see this to appreciate it.”

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Jessica looked across at me, grinned and then sighed: “We’re on our way, Matt. See you soon.”

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“You won’t regret it, I promise.”

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Oh yes we would.

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*     *     *

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The guy who was reflected back at me from the passenger window was incredibly handsome, in immaculate physical condition and had the steely eyes of a born hero. No, actually, he looked pretty terrible that day. I’m usually quite happy with my face: it has all the right components, in reasonable locations; I preferred being clean-shaven, and was today; the nose isn’t too big or wide, nor my cheekbones too prominent; and my dark brown eyes have interesting green flecks in them. Today my lean face looked a little gaunt from pain and discomfort; my expression suggested I had a piercing migraine; and my eyes seemed to be in dark hollows. I gave my reflection a quick smile and got a sour grimace back. The curly black hair was the same, at least. And the glorious profusion of colours on the Hawaiian shirt under my pale grey suit added a modicum of cheer to my reflection.

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This morning, I’d felt fine. It was frustrating that visits to The Gazette, a café and Goodman’s Haven had worn me down so fast.

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“You okay?” Jessica asked – and I realised she was repeating the question, as I’d not heard it the first time.

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“Yeah,” I replied. “Got lost in thought for a minute. Where are we?”

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“On the outskirts of Prestford. I’m going to turn east on the ring road and see if I can find signs for Neefill. If I can’t, I’ll pull over and check my iPhone or the Sat-Nav for directions.” She tried to suppress a grin, but failed: “Try the glove compartment.”

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I obeyed. At a touch of the switch, the compartment door dropped open and a tidal wave of chocolate bars tried to explode onto my lap. I reacted too slow and it took me a minute to put the bars back – minus one – and jam the door shut again. My companion chuckled at my efforts.

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“I thought you didn’t know whether or not I was over my sugar condition,” I said.

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“You know me, I like to cover all eventualities. If the doc’s had managed to sort you out, we’d have just had a stash of chocolate for a month… or three.”

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My condition was basically low blood sugar. I kept it topped up with sugar cubes, chocolate and other stuff that was bad for most people; every day I checked my glucose level using a gadget and made a record. I’d had slews of medical tests, but no firm diagnosis had been made yet. A biopsy of my pancreas had been scheduled, then cancelled at the last minute. On the positive side, all the worst causes – like cancer – were ruled out. But if my blood sugar dropped and I failed to correct it, I could fall into a coma, as I had once before.

I unwrapped the chocolate bar and took a bite. Since confectionary sizes were shrinking every year, that left just two bites left.

“I like the shirt,” Jessica said as I wolfed the snack. “Makes you look cool and relaxed. Less formal.”

“It’s the impression I was going for when I went to see Fizz. I had a feeling I was going to be sacked.”

“Because of…” She considered, guessed my reason and frowned. “Oh, I’m sorry about that… Well, you got the shirt, I got the tan, and we’re back on a murder case again.”

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“Oh, no. We’ll take a peek at Matt’s ‘interesting’ scene, try to be helpful and then bug out. If we can take photos with your iPhone, maybe we can put together a piece for Fizz. This won’t be like last time.”

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“Good. You definitely need more time to recover.” She changed the subject: “Anyway, what do you think of my car?”

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On the Goodman’s Haven case, I’d proven myself capable of noticing the smallest detail. Now, I tried to remember what her car had looked like when I’d seen it from the outside. I was blank. I cheated a glance out of the windscreen and noted the bonnet was white. From the seating I deduced it was a medium-sized car. The logo badge on the steering wheel proved the vehicle to be a BMW, and the high quality of the interior was typical of that brand.

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“It’s very nice,” I answered sheepishly. “Sorry, for some reason I thought it was a Gazette pool car at first. It’s your own?”

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“Yup.” Her expression held a mixture of pride and pleasure. “My first car – a present from my dad for… err… not getting killed.”

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“Well, after all you went through, it’s well-deserved.”

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We reached the ring road. Jessica took us east and we passed a sign detailing that a turnoff for Neefill was seven miles ahead.

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I tried not to anticipate what we would find in Neefill. It really was my intention to make our meeting with Matt as brief as possible. Yet, like the muscles of a racehorse longing to leave its stable, my brain grew eager for a workout. The idea of such a challenge helped to overcome my weariness. And I didn’t need to ask Jessica how she felt – this was one of the many ways in which we were very alike.

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The turn took Jessica’s BMW onto country roads similar to those we had travelled along on our way back from Goodman’s Haven. After two miles, we passed through the village of Beatley. Road signs lured us into a region of rolling hills. Herds of cows and sheep roamed in the fields either side of us. Under the pleasant late summer sun, surrounded by lush greenery, it was hard to imagine we were on our way to the scene of a lethal crime.

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After near-missing a psychotic tractor-driver, we closed in upon Neefill. Jessica was taking us down a long, gentle slope towards a T-junction. According to a rusty sign, right led to Neefill and left to Angel Park Hall. We turned toward Neefill and entered a small woods. For a few minutes the sharp aroma of pine permeated the car from the trees surrounding us. A right-hand bend took us out of the woods and brought us into sight of the village.

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The scene was almost picturesque. A village of between thirty and forty buildings, nestled in a gently sloped, natural basin. I could see plenty of old cottages with thatched roofs and a few larger structures interspersed amongst them; none of these had been built during the last hundred years. The cottages each had tiny front gardens and much larger rear gardens, many of these boasting colourful flowerbeds. Grassland surrounded the village and there were small stands of fruit trees. It looked calm and peaceful from our distance of two miles – a tiny oasis of rural Britain, safe from the ever-expanding urban rush.

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What brought the almost into the scene was where the road led to after it ran from the woods into the village. About a mile from Neefill, it snaked up a large hill, rising to three hundred feet. Upon the hill stood an old church. From our position, the church’s shape and prominent spire were distinct. I couldn’t make out further details. Surrounding the church grounds were a cluster of police cars, and it was the pulsing flashes from their lightbars which polluted the idyllic view.

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“A church?” I exclaimed.

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It disgusted me that a holy building should be the site for a murder. Although, after all the evil and depravity I had encountered, I shouldn’t have been surprised.

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“This is gonna be bad,” Jessica said with unhappy certainty.

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She took us through the village. Half of the cottages had ‘For Sale’ signs fixed outside them. We saw not a living soul, either on the streets or peering from behind curtains – the place could have been a ghost town. I began to get a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach.

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The road to the church was much older than the highways that had brought us to the area: worn, cracked and pot-holed. Some local had filled-in a few of the worst potholes using cobbles in an effort at improvement.

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As we reached the flat top of the hill, my eyesight shifted to take in the church.

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And I knew immediately why we were here.

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