Blood Lines Read online

  BLOOD LINES

  LIN LE VERSHA

  This edition produced in Great Britain in 2022

  by Hobeck Books Limited, Unit 14, Sugnall Business Centre, Sugnall, Stafford, Staffordshire, ST21 6NF

  www.hobeck.net

  Copyright © Lin Le Versha 2022

  This book is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in this novel are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Lin Le Versha has asserted her right under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the copyright holder.

  A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-913-793-63-0 (ebook)

  ISBN 978-1-913-793-64-7 (pbk)

  Cover design by Jayne Mapp Design

  https://jaynemapp.wixsite.com

  Created with Vellum

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  PRAISE FOR BLOOD LINES

  ‘This is a cracking book … It’s a book that will keep you glued, and the twist at the end even surprised me!’ Carole Gorlay

  ‘An enjoyable read … Believable characters in an interesting and entertaining story.’ Sarah Leck

  ‘Lin has captured the seemingly happy family who, when you dig deeper, are dysfunctional as well … a very readable book.’ ThrillerMan

  For Gerry

  CONTENTS

  1. Saturday 26th August: 5.30 am

  2. Tuesday 3rd October: 7.30 pm

  3. Wednesday 4th October: 7.40 am

  4. Wednesday 4th October: 11.00 am

  5. Thursday 5th October: 7.30 am

  6. Thursday 5th October: 5.30 pm

  7. Thursday 5th October: 9.00 pm

  8. Thursday 5th October: 10.00 pm

  9. Friday 6th October: 12.45 am

  10. Saturday 7th October: 5.00 am

  11. Saturday 7th October: 8.00 am

  12. Saturday 7th October: 9.15 am

  13. Saturday 7th October: 9.45 am

  14. Saturday 7th October: 8.00 pm

  15. Saturday 7th October: 11.00 pm

  16. Sunday 8th October: 12.30 pm

  17. Sunday 8th October: 5.00 pm

  18. Sunday 8th October: 7.00 pm

  19. Sunday 8th October: 9.30 pm

  20. Monday 9th October: 8.00 am

  21. Thursday 12th October: 7.30 pm

  22. Friday 13th October: 10.00 am

  23. Saturday 14th October: 9.00 pm

  24. Saturday 14th October: 10.00 pm

  25. Sunday 15th October: 1.30 am

  26. Tuesday 17th October: 11.00 am

  27. Tuesday 17th October: 12.45 pm

  28. Tuesday 17th October: 2.00 pm

  29. Tuesday 17th October: 7.00 pm

  30. Wednesday 18th October: 9.30 am

  31. Wednesday 18th October: 11.00 am

  32. Wednesday 18th October: 12.30 pm

  33. Wednesday 18th October: 1.00 pm

  34. Wednesday 18th October: 5.30 pm

  35. Wednesday 18th October: 8.00 pm

  36. Thursday 19th October: 1.00 pm

  37. Thursday 19th October: 5.30 pm

  38. Thursday 19th October: 7.30 pm

  39. Thursday 19th October: 10.30 pm

  40. Friday 20th October: 6.30 am

  41. Friday 20th October: 8.30 am

  42. Friday 20th October: 10.30 am

  43. Friday 20th October: 2.20 pm

  44. Friday 20th October: 3.00 pm

  45. Friday 20th October: 3.15 pm

  46. Friday 20th October: 7.00 pm

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Hobeck Books – the home of great stories

  Blood Notes: The First Steph Grant Murder Mystery

  1

  SATURDAY 26TH AUGUST: 5.30 AM

  ‘Where’s the body?’

  She nodded towards the half-open door. He reached for the black-and-white chequered scarf draped around his neck and dragged it up to cover his nose and mouth so he could breathe without throwing up. He gagged at the disgusting smell of urine, and worse, trapped at the bottom of the concrete steps leading down into the basement flat.

  Standing in the doorway, he found it hard to believe she’d been in a dump like this. It was filthy. Crap everywhere. His phone torch beam revealed the floorboards littered with needles, overflowing ashtrays, old water bottles, burnt spoons and fragments of silver foil. He leaned in, flipping the light switch with his elbow, and the bare bulb stripped away all secrets.

  The filthy mattress in the far corner was splattered with brown stains. Blood? How had she stayed here overnight? Where was the body? He turned to her, his eyes above the mask showing his puzzlement.

  She answered before he could ask. ‘I sat out here, on the steps, away from… Waiting for you… It’s in the bathroom.’

  She slumped on the bottom step, exhausted and shivering. Dawn picked out the grey shapes of cars and houses in the London street. The early morning light was getting stronger and hints of pale blue skies emerged in the rectangle above the stairwell, promising another hot day.

  A car turned off the main road, and they ducked down as headlights shone above them and penetrated the stained lemon sheet pinned to the top of the window frame. For a moment, the room was filled with a noxious yellow gloom. The engine noise disappeared up the street. He climbed up a step to peer over the edge of the pavement and look up the road to check no-one was around.

  ‘We need to get a move on.’

  She nodded, but didn’t move.

  Aware that as soon as he stepped into the room he would leave his DNA, he pulled on his black leather gloves, walked over to the gun, wiped it with a rag he found on the floor and returned it to exactly the same spot. He shoved the rag in his pocket. Trying not to disturb the rubbish that carpeted the bare boards, he picked his way to the far end of the room and into the bathroom.

  Bile erupted from his gut and he forced his hand over his scarfed mouth to keep it in. A dark red trail led along the floor and smeared down the inside of the stained enamel bath to a sticky puddle that framed what was left of the top of the man’s head. His eyes were closed and the rest of his face looked asleep. Not even a splash of blood on his skin.

  How had she managed to drag a body so big into the bath? He was over six feet and fit, with gym sculpted muscles on show where his tee shirt had ridden up under his armpits. His skin was dull, his body empty. The metallic, stink of rancid dog-meat soaked into his scarf. He swallowed sick as he stepped back and gulped for breath in the less rank air of the stairwell. He leaned in, switched off the light and pulled the door to.

  ‘Fuck! We should phone the police.’

  Terror crossed her face. ‘No. We can’t. I wiped everywhere I’d been. They can’t find out I’ve been here. If they find us, we’ll say we left last night before it happened. I turned my phone off after I called you.’

  ‘We should go.’

  He climbed up to the second step and, looking both ways above the concrete wall, scanned the road. No cars yet. A
few yellow lights glowed in downstairs bay windows. Lucky it was Saturday. Few early risers and no joggers. He gave in. No police.

  ‘Right, let’s go.’ Had she heard him? He nudged her. ‘You got everything?’

  She nodded and indicated a bulging knapsack by her feet. He was impressed. She’d kept her cool despite everything. He pulled her to her feet, then helped her climb up the steps and into the car. Her hands wouldn’t stop trembling. He leaned across and clicked her seat belt for her.

  TUESDAY 3RD OCTOBER: 7.30 PM

  STEPH

  The razor blade sliced through the eyeball with clinical precision. A horrified intake of breath rippled through the cinema. Steph had bought the ticket by mistake for the arty Spanish film at the Electric Picture Palace, a jewel of a cinema in Southwold. The ex-cart shed transformed into an elegant 1930s plush red velvet and gilt cocoon, magnified the shock of the violent image. She felt the woman beside her grasp the arm of the seat and was aware of her lowering her head. Maybe her purchase was also in error?

  Steph was a regular at the EPP, as it was known. Oakwood was cinema-free and the selection of films here, from the great Katharine Hepburn to the latest releases a little later than the large chains, suited her perfectly. As usual, she’d booked her ticket at the last minute and in her rush had written the wrong date on the form but after the shock of the opening few shots, it settled into a rather good film, and she noticed the woman beside her relaxing too.

  Without warning, the room was plunged into darkness as the film was stopped for the interval at what the manager had promised would be ‘an inopportune moment’.

  Steph turned to the woman on her right. ‘That was quite an opening!’

  ‘Terrifying, wasn’t it? I’m not sure what made it so horrific. Maybe it’s eyes – their vulnerability?’

  They were interrupted by appreciative applause as a trapdoor in front of the screen opened and a Whurlitzer organ rose from beneath the stage, with the organist playing a jaunty version of I do like to be beside the seaside.

  ‘Perhaps not the most appropriate music?’ Steph pulled herself up and out of the low seat. ‘Would you like to join me for a drink?’ She had noticed that the woman, like her, was alone.

  ‘That would be lovely, thank you. I’ve lived here for three years but this is my first time here.’

  Steph followed the petite figure into the bar. It was difficult to guess her age as her long dark hair, held back by a tortoiseshell barrette, framed a pale face with a perfect complexion and few wrinkles. Fixing on mid-forties, Steph admired her elegant, individual dress sense; long claret velvet dress and paisley shawl. This woman appeared to have the confidence to be her own person and presumably she didn’t need to visit Miranda Modes for professional advice, as Steph had done when she started her new job.

  During the interval, Steph discovered that Esther was originally a local who had moved around the world with her husband’s job but returned when she inherited her grandmother’s Edwardian house on North Road by Southwold pier. Steph found Esther easy company, decided she was her blood group and was pleased that she’d met her by chance.

  They watched the rest of the film and stood obediently for the National Anthem, with accompanying film extract of a tiny-waisted Queen leaving Westminster Abbey after the Coronation. Esther looked puzzled.

  Steph smiled. ‘Traditions of the silver screen are honoured here.’ Shuffling out of the tiny cinema, they bid ‘Good night’ to the dinner jacketed manager and stepped through the tiny double doors into torrential rain.

  Steph looked up at the sky, now iron grey with no promise of the downpour relenting. Esther pulled her shawl around her shoulders and shuddered. ‘Oh no! I’d no idea we’d have a storm. I decided to up my step-count so I walked here.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll give you a lift. My car’s parked opposite.’

  They drove down a deserted High Street, past several shops with To Let signs stuck to their windows. Where had all the little independent shops gone? A man who appeared to have given up the struggle to ride his bike against the fierce October wind waved his hand as they stopped to let him cross the road.

  ‘He didn’t plan on this storm either,’ said Esther, nodding towards the transparent tee shirt glued to his chest. ‘How stupid thinking I could walk! I’m so grateful, thank you.’

  ‘We’ve gone from salad to soup in a day!’ Steph passed a pub, lights blaring into the dark but no one inside. They drove beside the boiling sea, the waves whipped up by the wind and past the dark pier, then Esther directed Steph into a tunnel of dripping trees beside a row of elegant Edwardian houses.

  ‘Over there.’ She waved her hand. ‘The light in the porch.’

  Steph parked opposite some ornate metal gates, through which bleached blobs of dripping hydrangea blooms glowed in her headlights. The crashing of the waves against the piles of the pier sounded loud enough to uproot them. She envied Esther, living within the sound of the sea.

  ‘You’ve been so kind. Thank you, Steph. Fancy a drink? It’s not late.’ Esther’s warm voice was persuasive.

  Steph paused. She had to be up early the next day as they were expecting visitors from the Department for Education at the college, but just one wouldn’t hurt, would it? ‘Thank you. That would be lovely.’

  Steph followed Esther to a brick porch, large enough to be a room, and they were just about to go through the front door when a Fiat Uno sploshed into a huge pothole, scrunched out and parked behind her car. A girl with a jacket draped over her head dashed into the house through the driving rain, followed by the driver, also trying to keep dry. The wind caught the door, and it slammed behind them.

  Esther tutted. She had stepped aside as they dashed past. ‘Sorry. Children! Hopeless, aren’t they?’ She opened the door once again. ‘Just dump your mack on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs and let it drip there.’

  Steph shook it, splattering tiny drops over the tiles, and did as she was told, slightly concerned about leaving her soggy coat on the delicately carved acanthus leaves at the end of the oak staircase. She raked her hands through her damp hair, glanced in the gilt mirror to check she was half decent and followed Esther down the black-and-white diamond-tiled hall into a massive sitting room full of antique furniture. The old oak floors glowed and were softened with enough rugs to fill a Persian market stall. Steph gasped as she walked towards one of the enormous sofas. ‘What a beautiful room!’

  ‘Not so fashionable now though – all this brown furniture. Gin? Scotch? Wine?’

  ‘G&T, please.’

  Esther appeared to have become more confident and relaxed in her hostess role. She’d seemed a little tense at the cinema. The clink of glasses and the bashing of an ice cube tray against something sounded promising.

  She looked around the room with her practised eye, sussing out who lived there and how. Oil paintings in gilt frames and gentle watercolours filled every space on the long walls and ranged from Constable-type Suffolk landscapes to modern, brightly coloured abstracts. An eclectic mix, but somehow it worked. No photos of weddings, babies or holidays were displayed anywhere in the room.

  The bookshelves on either side of the marble fireplace were crammed with books on Jane Austen. She couldn’t resist it – she had to have a closer look. First editions, or anyway, very old copies of all Austen’s books, filled the top shelves with folio editions and newer hardbacks of her novels below. The bottom three shelves housed a collection of biographies alongside about thirty DVDs of film and TV adaptations.

  ‘I see you’ve found my collection.’ Esther returned carrying two large cut glass tumblers, ice cubes clinking tantalisingly.

  ‘Sorry. I hope you don’t mind? It looks fascinating.’

  ‘Not at all. My grandmother started collecting and I’ve carried on. I’m a passionate Jane-ite. Constantly have one of her books on the go and lose myself in a film or series at least once a week. So calming. Do you read her?’ Esther’s delicate hands were constantly
moving to emphasise her speech.

  ‘Well, I did Pride & Prejudice for GCSE but that’s it.’

  Steph resumed her seat and sipped the rocket fuel G&T Esther handed to her. She had only drunk fizzy water at the interval, so she shouldn’t be over the limit.

  Esther fiddled with a discreet brass tap beside the fireplace and a gas log fire popped into life, the blue flames rapidly turning yellow. In the firelight, with her long dark hair, her elegant velvet dress and dangling pearl earrings, Esther could easily be one of the Jane Austen women on her bookshelves.

  ‘Have you lived in Oakwood long?’ Esther cut through Steph’s thoughts.

  ‘Just over a year. Moved from Ipswich. Lived there for almost fourteen years and before that London.’

  ‘Oh, where? We lived in Kensington before moving back here.’

  ‘Wandsworth. Just south of the river. Our first house, a small Victorian terrace – quite close to the river. Be worth a fortune now.’

  ‘What did you do in London?’