Dead in Time (The Sara Jones Cycle Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  ONE

  ‘D’you know what, Detective Inspector Harding?’ Inspector Ceri Lloyd glowered at the Englishman. ‘There are windows in this building harder to see through than you.’

  James Harding smiled tightly and straightened his shoulders. The way to win with this old bird was to stay stiff. Be blandly professional and don’t play her game. That should have the added attraction of annoying the hell out of her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m rubbish at innuendo. Exactly what are you saying?’

  Lloyd’s eyes narrowed in contempt. ‘I am saying I don’t want you to contact her. I don’t want her to hear anything about this investigation she can’t read on Wales Online.’ She shoved open the double-glazed window, inviting a waft of air into the room. ‘I do not want her involved in this. And I don’t want you involved, either. I question your motives, Detective Inspector Harding. Is that clear enough?’

  Harding raised his eyebrows with what he hoped was studied speculation. Coolly, he nudged back the vertical blinds on the interior window overlooking the corridor. ‘You run the Penweddig police station, don’t you, Inspector Lloyd?’

  ‘When it’s open, yes – but I’m spending more and more time up here.’

  ‘I imagine they need you in Aberystwyth, considering all that’s happened.’

  She furrowed her brow. ‘We’re coping perfectly well. Officers from all over Wales are assisting.’

  Out in the corridor, a young constable approached a photocopier. Through the glass, she nodded cordially to Harding.

  ‘Let me put your mind at ease,’ he said. ‘I’m here because of my expertise in this area; nothing more.’

  Lloyd snorted. ‘Malu cachu,’ she swore.

  The detective inspector drew a steadying breath. He didn’t know what she’d said, but it wasn’t a compliment.

  ‘Harding, you don’t have any expertise! All the attention you’ve had in the last couple years is a result of the help she gave you.’

  Harding felt himself flinch, and watched Lloyd’s eyes twinkle in response. She seized her advantage.

  ‘Without her, you’d still be chasing iPhone thieves in Hammersmith, and you know it. So enjoy your reputation while it lasts, Detective Inspector Harding, because you are now on your own – professionally and personally.’

  She moved to the door, and jerked it open. The constable at the copier looked up, startled.

  ‘As for Sara Jones,’ Lloyd said, ‘she’s finally back where she belongs.’

  Even with a steady sea breeze and two electric fans whirring, the room felt oppressive: too many bodies crammed into too small a space, the fug of heat raised faster than it could be expelled.

  The Mid Wales Task Force on Mental Health met here, in this Aberystwyth seafront flat that served as a drop-in centre, once a month. The local worthies who comprised the board converged from all over the county of Ceredigion, and rarely saw each other between meetings. Most were retired, and looked forward to these monthly conclaves for gossip. Although they never failed to discuss actual business – how to get a Lottery grant, whether to launch a new Children’s Club – they also compared illnesses, and shared intelligence about who had passed away, or might be about to.

  This evening, however, their standard topics had been shelved; in hushed tones; they were discussing murder.

  A skeletal woman scanned the others with bright, clear eyes. ‘The police didn’t want anyone to know the body had been burnt,’ she said, ‘but my son told me. He works for the Cambrian News. He hears the most awful things.’ At her feet, two bug-eyed Chihuahuas quivered.

  ‘Everyone knows the body was burnt, Mrs Davies,’ huffed a retired English solicitor. ‘It happened in the fellow’s car, for heaven’s sake. Right out in the street.’

  ‘The second body wasn’t burnt,’ offered someone else.

  ‘No, not the second,’ agreed the solicitor. ‘It was the first fellow who was burnt.’

  ‘Honestly, I’m terrified to be alone,’ Mrs Davies added. ‘I know there’s been a prowler in my garden. I rang the police two nights running.’

  ‘Find anyone?’ someone asked.

  She shook her head. ‘That doesn’t mean no one was out there. I heard what I heard.’ She dropped her hand and snapped her fingers. Both Chihuahuas leapt to their spindly legs and snuffled at them. ‘Aglaeaand Thalia were so frightened they hid under the bed.’

  At one end of the table, the charity’s newest employee, Dr Sara Jones, sat with a fixed expression, trying to mask her discomfort. At thirty-four, she was the youngest board member by half her age; a qualified GP and psychiatrist, she had been hired three months earlier to run this mental health drop-in centre.

  Mrs Davies craned her neck and raised her pencilled eyebrows. ‘How have the murders affected our clients, Sara?’

  Sara glanced up from her paper. ‘Well, when the first one happened,’ she said, ‘everyone assumed it was a single, horrible event. Now there’s been a second, they’re starting to get frightened.’

  ‘I imagine they are,’ Mrs Davies said. ‘And what do you know about the murders?’

  Sara blinked. ‘Nothing. Why should I?’

  The old woman shrugged coyly. ‘Everyone knows you’re an expert on this sort of thing.’

  Sara closed her eyes wearily. When she’d lived in London, she had been an occasional consultant on certain types of crime – but she had hoped to escape those conversations when she fled her old life. ‘Sorry, I don’t know anything.’

  The English solicitor frowned. ‘Surely you must have an opinion?’

  Sara remained silent, reluctant to feed their speculation.

  ‘Just from your experience,’ someone else prompted. ‘What kind of person could have done it?’

  ‘Without knowing the motive,’ she said haltingly, ‘that’s hard to answer.’ They waited for her to continue, and she sighed. ‘Murder can be the result of different drives. There’s crime, such as robbery. Then there’s sex, or some personal reason. Sometimes it’s a group cause. Each motive suggests a different kind of killer.’

  The solicitor encouraged her with a nod.

  ‘As I said,’ Sara concluded, ‘I don’t know enough to speculate. I’m not involved in the case. Inspector Lloyd has not discussed it with me.’

  Nobody looked convinced; they all knew that Ceri Lloyd was Sara’s closest friend.

  ‘Now,’ Sara said sharply, ‘it’s late, and there are three items left to cover. We ought to rush through them.’

  To her relief, Mrs Davies nodded. ‘That would be sensible,’ the old woman agreed, and looked down at her feet. ‘My babies would feel safer if they could walk home while it’s still light.’

  Jamie Harding had thought this would be easy: he’d pay Lloyd the visit required by protocol, glide over her rudeness with cool detachment, then move on to the seafront, and Sara’s office. Trouble was, they were arguing about too many things at once. This woman could not separate the personal from the professional. It was time to turn the tab
les.

  ‘Inspector Lloyd,’ he said, ‘I’ve worked with forces all over England, Scotland and Northern Ireland.’ He glared into her implacable face. ‘Everywhere I go, I find that professionals don’t let their personal lives threaten an investigation. If you trust Sara’s abilities, then I’d say you should have had the professionalism to hire her yourself.’

  Lloyd stiffened – then without warning slapped her hand against the wall. ‘Pisho bant,’ she snarled, locking her eyes onto his. ‘You know full well why I haven’t called her – and why I won’t let you do it either.’

  He felt a pulse of satisfaction at her loss of control, but when Lloyd spoke again each word was like a bullet fired with deadly precision. ‘Sara doesn’t need this right now,’ she said, ‘and she doesn’t need you either. If you had any decency, or morality, or willpower, you’d realize that. And you would never have come here.’

  She tugged at her uniform, drew herself up to her full five feet, six inches, and stared into his tie. ‘Your presence on this investigation is not required. I’d be grateful if you’d leave now.’

  She gazed into the again-empty corridor. Waited.

  Harding listened to her laboured breathing; in the wake of her words it sounded unnaturally loud. He swallowed; in a battle between the personal and the professional, the personal usually wins. ‘Shut the door,’ he whispered. ‘We need to talk.’

  Lloyd remained still. Harding closed his eyes. ‘Please, Ceri.’

  She started, then glared. Somehow the presumption of using her first name changed the ground rules. Reluctantly, she pushed at the door; it clicked gently. Harding shrugged helplessly. ‘I should’ve expected I couldn’t come in here and get my way by insulting you. It was stupid of me.’

  Lloyd nodded once.

  ‘People say you can be difficult.’ He tried to smile. ‘And I have a feeling you’re rather proud of that reputation. But I’ve heard other stories too. About the acts of kindness you perform all the time without hesitation, and later deny.’

  He waited for a response, and Lloyd tongued her teeth with bland deliberation. She’d been flattered before.

  ‘You question my motives,’ he continued. ‘Let me be honest – I’m not really sure what they are either. Maybe they’re so tangled, it’s hard to see where one ends and the next one begins. But I do know one thing: you won’t let more people die just because you don’t like me. You’re not like that. She’s told me.’

  The Inspector’s frozen stare melted slightly.

  ‘As for my reputation,’ he added, ‘maybe it’s true. What if I do need help on cases like this? We both know that there’s only one place for me to get it.’

  He held out his hands. ‘Let’s face the truth, Inspector Lloyd ... maybe both of us need Sara Jones.’

  In the past half-hour, the Steering Committee had, with painful deliberation, agreed the contents of a report to the Bronglais Hospital, and Sara had completely covered her agenda paper with spirals. Now, Mrs Davies held court about a meeting she’d had at the University’s Student Centre.

  Sara paid her little attention; the details of the murders were nagging at her. According to reports, both dead men had almost certainly been victims of the same killer. They were murdered within two miles of each other, and each had had his throat cut cleanly. There were few signs of a struggle in either case, indicating planned and carefully executed assaults. Yet the first body had been burnt, and the second had not. Had the killer meant to incinerate the second man, but failed? Why burn them at all? To remove evidence? That was the speculation after the event, but it seemed a crude attempt for someone so meticulous ...

  Sara drew a slash across her doodle, and dropped the pen onto the Formica tabletop. Stop it, Sara, it’s not your responsibility.

  The meeting room door creaked open a crack, and Mrs Davies’ precise words faltered, then faded. The hesitant face of Inspector Ceri Lloyd peered into the room. Sara raised her eyebrows to the older woman. Ceri had been one of the few unfailing sources of support in Sara’s life, and was the main reason she had been able to leave her old life in London for this new one in Wales. Not only had Ceri recommended Sara for this job, she had also found her an inexpensive farmhouse in Penweddig, a town just down the coast. Now and again, Sara would spend time with a group of community psychiatric nurses and social workers who enjoyed a night out, but Ceri was the only true friend she had in Wales.

  Ceri spoke with an unsettled smile. ‘Maen flin da fi tori ar eich draws,’ she said. Sorry to interrupt, everyone. The English solicitor furrowed his thin white brows in irritation at her speaking Welsh. The rest of the group waited with prurient interest to hear why she had come.

  ‘Sara,’ she continued, in English now, ‘there is a gentleman looking for you.’ She placed a flat emphasis on the word ‘gentleman’; in her eyes, there was a trace of annoyance and distaste. ‘He says it’s important.’

  Before Sara could respond, the door swung open, and Detective Inspector Harding breezed past Ceri, striding into the room.

  ‘Evening, Sara.’

  She caught her breath, and groped stupidly for her pen, as if it could give some sort of support. What is he doing here?

  Jamie worked for the Metropolitan Police’s Special Branch. Although multiple murder was virtually non-existent in rural Wales, it was still unlikely that the Dyfed-Powys Police Authority would have requested assistance from Scotland Yard. As far as Sara knew, they had never done so.

  And even if they had, the odds that the Met would send Jamie were astronomical.

  And yet here he was.

  Sara lowered her gaze, and crumpled her agenda into a ball. ‘I think that’s all for tonight,’ she whispered to the other board members. Hesitantly, they began to rise.

  Jamie smiled kindly as they drifted from the room, silently thanking them for their understanding. Soon, only Mrs Davies remained, placing documents in a plastic file folder one by one, then removing them again as her dogs trembled at her feet. She blithely ignored the room’s hollow silence until Ceri Lloyd intervened.

  ‘Mrs Davies?’ she said respectfully. ‘Why don’t we go outside? I need to ask about that prowler you’ve been hearing.’

  The old woman pursed her lips in disappointment, then nodded, scooping up Aglaea and Thalia. The door squeaked as it swung shut and closed with a muffled rattle. Sara was alone with Jamie.

  He slid into a chair opposite her, and smoothed out the balled-up agenda, staring at her scribbles.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said with a smile.

  Sara reflected on how she had only just begun to enjoy her life again. Finally, she raised her eyes to connect with his. Their silence lasted longer than was comfortable, until Jamie’s grin finally melted into a look of hopeful trepidation. Finally, Sara sighed.

  ‘What?’ he responded, too quickly.

  ‘You have to admit,’ she said, ‘your timing has always sucked.’

  TWO

  An iPad sat on the tabletop, showing a grid of thumbnail photos. They revealed wide shots of a street, which Sara recognised as a residential area up the hill, behind the University. A car could be seen parked alongside a pavement; it became more prominent with each photo, the series ending with close-ups of the sooty black interior, a charred corpse in the driver’s seat.

  Jamie ran his fingers through his copper hair, and tapped on one of the photos, which enlarged to fill the screen. ‘This was Navid Kapadia,’ he said. ‘Married, with two children. He lectured in Geography at the University. He was well-liked, and had no enemies that we’ve heard of.’ He looked down at the photo, and Sara’s gaze followed; even upside-down, she could see that the body’s chest and stomach had been burned completely black. The charred tissue had hardened into a shell of stiff sheets, separated by wide cracks revealing shiny gullies of drying blood. Congealed white fat clung to the edges of the eschar; in the heat of the blaze, it had bubbled up through the fissures in the cracking skin, and dried once the fire had died out.

&n
bsp; Despite Jamie’s years of professional experience, the skin of his face tightened into an expression of pity and distaste. ‘We’re pretty sure his death wasn’t the result of a mugging,’ he continued. ‘He was still wearing some gold jewellery, and Dr Hefin, the forensic pathologist, found about sixty pounds in his wallet. It was in his back pocket, underneath him, so it survived.’

  Sara slid Jamie’s iPad closer to her, and enlarged the section of photograph that revealed Mr Kapadia’s face. The man’s head lolled to the left, against the blistered leather head rest of his car. The right side of his face was as badly damaged as his torso: the eyelid had been burned off, making the eye appear to bulge. Sara noted that the heat had turned the pupil an opaque, creamy colour. Mr Kapadia’s cheek had been burned through, exposing shining white molars, and his right ear had been entirely consumed by flame, leaving only a remnant of the auricular cartilage ringing the naked otic canal. The left side of the face had been largely spared, with parts of it bright red from second and third degree burns. The contrast between the two sides of the face made the corpse’s appearance even more horrific.

  Sara returned the photo to its usual size, so she could see all of Mr Kapadia. His posture revealed no signs of the usual agony that accompanied death by fire: the arms were not raised before the face, the fists weren’t balled, the teeth weren’t bared. He had not suffered, because he had already died before being set alight.

  ‘From the appearance of the body,’ Sara said, ‘I’d guess the offender killed him, doused him in petrol, dropped a match in his lap, and then closed the car door. That’s why part of the face is intact – the fire burned up all the oxygen in the car and died before it could consume the corpse completely.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ Jamie said, nodding. ‘So now we know how it was done. What about the why?’ He dragged the iPad back across the table towards him. ‘At first,’ he added, ‘the police wondered if it might be a racist killing.’

  Sara shook her head. ‘That’s unlikely. He died from one slash to the throat, right?’

  Jamie made a small sound of agreement.

  ‘Hate crimes are never that meticulous.’