THE KINGS COPSE KILLER an enthralling murder mystery with a twist (Detective Inspector Jack Dawes Mystery Book 10) Read online

  THE

  KINGS COPSE

  KILLER

  An enthralling murder mystery with a twist

  FRANCES LLOYD

  DI Jack Dawes Mystery Series Book 10

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  First published in Great Britain in 2022

  © Frances Lloyd

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Frances Lloyd to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  Cover art by Dee Dee Book Covers

  ISBN: 978-1-80405-520-5

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ALSO BY FRANCES LLOYD

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  GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH USAGE FOR US READERS

  No one is good; no one is evil; everyone is both, in the same way and in different ways . . .

  Paul Gaugin 1848–1903

  CHAPTER ONE

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  Zizi Starr drove a fluorescent yellow Mini. It was covered in flower decals, signs of the zodiac and branded The Galaxy Boutique — a mobile advertisement for her shop. She sold quirky jewellery, aromatherapy oils and candles, mystic stones and healing crystals — cool stuff for cool people. She also read horoscopes and tarot cards based on a loosely acquired knowledge of astrology. But despite her claims to clairvoyance, when she set out on that sunny afternoon in August, she’d had no premonition of the gruesome, sickening horror that was about to engulf her.

  It was ten minutes to two and Zizi was sitting at a table in Chez Carlene, a French bistro in the trendy food and drink quarter of Kings Richington. She was wearing a breezy print blouse with a long, flowing skirt and a wide-brimmed hat with sunflowers on it. She favoured clothes that made a statement — designs that said something about her lifestyle. The crossbody bag and hippy shades completed the look. She’d been there since one o’clock, nibbling bread dipped in aioli and waiting for her friend Allegra to join her for lunch. They’d been friends since they were children. Allegra’s mother had died when she was five, and Zizi had lost her father at around the same age. They used to complain that they had only one set of parents between them. Then, when Zizi’s mother died in a car accident in the Italian Alps and Allegra’s lawyer father, Grafton Parnell, had succumbed to heart failure, they had declared themselves mature orphans and become even closer. Allegra’s apparently random wedding to Brian Roberts, which she flippantly described as a “starter marriage”, had had no impact on their friendship whatsoever — neither positive nor negative.

  When Allegra still hadn’t put in an appearance by two o’clock and all Zizi’s calls had gone straight to voicemail, she became slightly concerned. Allegra was never late. As a successful divorce lawyer with a heavy workload, she kept to a tight schedule. Since Grafton Parnell’s demise, only weeks ago, the law firm of Parnell & Parnell in which Allegra had been a partner had become her sole responsibility, along with all the staff. She worked hard – but she still found time to play hard.

  Zizi decided to drive the ten miles out into the country to Allegra’s house in Richington Mallet and find out what had happened to delay her. She parked her Mini in front of the ivy-clad barn conversion that Allegra Parnell shared with “starter husband” Brian. Allegra’s ostentatious flame-red sports car was parked in the drive, so she hadn’t yet left home. Even before Zizi climbed out of her Mini, she could see that the heavy oak front door was ajar, which was unlike her security-conscious friend.

  She walked up and pushed it open. ‘Ally, where are you, you dozy tart? You’ve left your door open. We were supposed to be meeting for—’ She stepped inside then screamed, nonstop, for a full half-minute.

  * * *

  Sergeant Norman Parsloe was on the desk at Kings Richington police station when the emergency call came through. The member of the public on the other end was clearly distraught, and he was having trouble understanding her. ‘Please try to calm down, madam. Tell me your name and where you are and I’ll send some officers to help you.’ After he’d ended the call, having assured the lady that the police would soon be with her, he looked on the computer to see who was nearest in the area car. He radioed them.

  ‘Walker, Johnson, there’s something weird going on at a house in Richington Mallet.’ He gave PC “Johnny” Johnson the address. ‘It’s probably nothing — the lady was hysterical — kept going on about all the blood and a man with no head.’

  ‘Sounds like she’s on something, to me, Sarge,’ suggested Constable Walker. ‘Did you get her name?’

  Parsloe looked at his notes. ‘Zizi Starr.’

  ‘Well, that explains it,’ grinned Constable Johnson. ‘She owns that wacky shop in the high street. It’s full of psychedelic bollocks. She’s probably been sniffing her own joss sticks.’

  ‘Well, get over there and sort her out. Call an ambulance if you think she needs it. Report back when you’ve contained the situation.’

  In the area car, speeding towards Richington Mallet, Constable Walker asked, ‘What was the address again, Johnny?’

  ‘Oak Lodge. It’s one of those new, classy barn conversions down by the river. It’s virtually crime-free, that village. No burglaries or assaults, just lost cats and stolen garden gnomes. Why? Do you know it?’

  ‘No,’ replied Walker. ‘I’ve never been to Richington Mallet.’

  They spotted Zizi’s car as soon as they turned into the lane. ‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Johnson. ‘Fancy driving around in a motor like that. It wouldn’t do if you had a hangover.’ They pulled up alongside the Mini and climbed out, putting on their flat peaked caps.

  Zizi was sitting in her car with all the doors locked. When the officers approached, she wound down her window, but all she could do was point and croak, ‘In there. They’re in there.’

  ‘OK, madam,’ said Johnson. This lady wasn’t “on” anything – she was severely traumatized. Her makeup was smeared all over her face, her eyes were red and swollen and she was trembling. ‘You just sit there, Ms Starr. Leave it to us, now.’

  It was the abattoir smell that hit them, even before they were inside. Pungent, metallic and slightly sweet. There was blood everywhere — up the walls, over the floor, spattered on the hall mirror and sprinkled over a vase of white roses, giving them a bizarre, speckled effect, like tiger lilies. A grisly trail of blood from the body of a woman lying face down halfway up the stairs had congealed into a pool on the oak flooring below. She’d been shot in the back. Another body, a man, was slumped against the kitchen door. A shot at point-blank range had effectively blasted his head from his shoulders and splattered his brains and pieces of his skull in all directions.

  Wayne Walker took one look and dashed outside, where he threw up, violently, on the step. Johnny Johnson grabbed his radio. ‘Sarge, we’ve got a major incident and a bad one. Two people dead, killed most probably with a double-barrelled shotgun. I reckon this is one for the Murder Investigation Team.’

  * * *

  The incident room of the MIT was spectacularly short of incidents. The whiteboard was blank and detectives were going through cold, unsolved cases. Advances in forensics, technology and information-sharing capabilities meant that cold cases were reviewed in order to determine the potential for further investigation and a possible resolution. Many of the murders dated back several years and, in some cases, the police hadn’t even found a body. Not much to go on, but Chief Superintendent Garwood, the head of MIT, liked to report to the commander that he was giving the taxpayer value for money, even when things were quiet.

  Detective Inspector Jack Dawes was hoping for an uneventful afternoon, so that he might go home at a reason
able hour to watch the rugby on the television. His misaligned features bore witness to his own rugby-playing days, when he was still young and fit enough to get stuck in with the pack. Nowadays, the only game he played with a pack was poker. When Parsloe appeared, looking grim, he suspected his hopes of knocking off early were under serious threat.

  ‘Norman, what can we do for you?’ asked DS Mike “Bugsy” Malone, biting into a jumbo iced bun. It had only been two hours since he’d had a full canteen lunch, but already he reckoned he could feel his blood sugar dropping. ‘I can tell from your face you haven’t come up here to tell us that a funny thing happened to you on the way to the station.’

  ‘You’re needed out at Richington Mallet. My officers were called out to a major incident — a nasty one. Two people killed with a shotgun. Blood all over, apparently. Very messy, according to Constable Johnson. Constable Walker’s still throwing up.’

  ‘It’d better not be all over Big Ron’s crime scene or the lad will get the sharp edge of her tongue,’ said Bugsy, who had himself been on the receiving end of this many times.

  “Big Ron” was the affectionate nickname the team had for the pathologist, Dr Veronica Hardacre. She was not only big in stature but had a superb scientific brain. Her appearance was similarly impressive. Tall and muscular with bristling black eyebrows and a matching moustache, Big Ron did not suffer fools, nor did she tolerate impatient senior police officers who asked “damn fool” questions and expected her to speculate about important issues before she’d had time to evaluate them properly.

  Jack reached for his coat. ‘Right, I want Doctor Hardacre and a full SOCO team out there straight away before random people start contaminating everything and the blasted media get hold of the story. Bugsy, you’re with me.’

  Detective Constables Gemma Fox and Aled Williams looked up, hopefully. Trawling through cold, long-abandoned cases was not the most interesting of jobs. Jack took pity on them. ‘OK, you two. You’d better attend as well. There’ll be statements to take while memories are still fresh.’

  ‘And wading through blood and guts will be a good experience for you,’ quipped Bugsy. Detective Sergeant Malone knew all about experience, having been a copper for more years than he cared to remember. He’d recently had a spell of Acting Detective Inspector while Jack had been on holiday. It had been challenging and he’d earned a commendation, but he was much happier as Jack’s wingman, especially at times like this.

  * * *

  ‘Good of you to turn up, DI Dawes.’ Dr Hardacre had arrived first, together with her assistant, Marigold Catwater. ‘I trust we haven’t disturbed your afternoon nap.’ They were both wearing full protective clothing and it would have been difficult to tell them apart except tiny Marigold was half the size of Big Ron. The pathologist was at work, meticulously analysing the crime scene, which was now cordoned off by blue police tape. Clenched-faced but steady, Miss Catwater was following her around with tamper-evident containers, various disposable tweezers and scissors and a voice recorder.

  ‘Don’t touch that!’ Dr Hardacre yelled through her mask at DS Malone, who looked as if he was about to pick up the victim’s handbag. ‘Yes, I know you’re wearing gloves, but I’d prefer it if as few people as possible handle anything in the room. The team will need to check the bag for fingerprints in case this was a robbery gone wrong. But somehow, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Do we have the identities of the victims?’ asked Jack. He understood why PC Walker had vomited — smells affected him the same way, never mind the carnage all around them.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ DC Fox consulted her notes. ‘They are Allegra Parnell and her husband, Brian Roberts. I got that much from Zizi Starr before they took her away in an ambulance. She discovered the bodies. She said she was alerted to a problem when Ms Parnell didn’t turn up for a lunch date, so she drove here and this is what she found. They have apparently been close friends since they were children and she’s very upset. I’ll get a full statement from her when she’s feeling better.’

  Jack turned cautiously to Dr Hardacre. ‘Any initial thoughts, Doctor?’

  ‘A few. This is really a job for Ballistics but it’s fairly obvious the injuries were inflicted using a shotgun — most probably a twelve-bore but not a semi-automatic. We didn’t find any ejected cartridges, so I assume they are still in the chamber, unless the perpetrator has removed them manually. Given the nature of the wounds, I’d say the woman was shot first, running away from the gunman who was standing in the doorway. She got halfway up the stairs when he fired. The central mass of shotgun pellets tends to break up at around the two-metre mark so you get the widespread pattern of individual holes that you see here, but no discernible central hole.’

  DC Williams was fascinated. ‘That’s why there are all those spots on the walls around her?’

  ‘Correct, Constable. A lot depends on the characteristics of the weapon involved. Forensic ballistics experts can carry out tests to discover whether a suspect weapon was responsible for this particular pattern and from what distance the discharge was likely to have occurred. The only problem with that, of course, is that we haven’t yet found the weapon. Uniform and SOCOs are still searching.’

  ‘What about this poor devil, Doc?’ Bugsy indicated the headless body slumped against the door.

  Dr Hardacre was, as always, dispassionate. ‘This man was almost certainly shot at point-blank range. I’d say fifteen to thirty centimetres. At this distance, the pellets in the cartridge don’t have time to spread so they enter the head as a single mass. A large volume of gas enters the cranium at the same time and as you will observe, the effect is one of massive destruction. Pieces of skull and brain tissue have been spread over a wide area. Determining the point of contact will require meticulous gathering of skull fragments and attempting to reconstruct the head in order to find the hole. As I say, this is really a job for Forensic Ballistics.’

  ‘Time of death, Doctor?’ Jack knew he was pushing his luck.

  She pursed her lips. ‘I’d say sometime between seven and midnight yesterday, but don’t hold me to it. I’ll know more after the post-mortem. Now, please will you bugger off and let me get on with my job?’

  CHAPTER TWO

  The whiteboard in the incident room was filling up rapidly with names, times and the little they knew about the murders. It had also been populated with photos of the two corpses, their locations and a wedding photo of Allegra Parnell and Brian Roberts when Brian had still had a head.

  ‘OK, team,’ said Dawes. ‘What do we think happened here? Remember the three essentials — Means — Motive — Opportunity.’

  ‘The means is pretty obvious,’ said Malone. ‘Ballistics have described the potential weapon as a long-barrelled, probably smoothbore firearm designed to shoot a straight-walled cartridge. SOCOs didn’t find any spent cartridges so the killer didn’t eject them. They could still be in the gun, wherever it is.’

  ‘Maybe the killer took it away and dumped it somewhere,’ suggested DC Fox. ‘The River Richington is close by.’

  ‘Would he or she have had the presence of mind to do something that rational after slaughtering two people?’ asked DC Williams.

  ‘Self-preservation is instinctive, son. His first thought, seconds after he did it would have been, “How can I get away with it?”’ said Bugsy.

  ‘And I’ll bet you next month’s salary, the killer was a bloke,’ added Jack.

  ‘Are you saying that a woman wouldn’t be capable of doing this, sir?’ asked DC Fox.

  ‘No, Gemma, I’m saying that most women would find a more considered, less frenzied way of getting rid of two people, whatever the motive. They’d think it through and weigh up the consequences, not come in blasting away like Butch Cassidy.’

  ‘What about opportunity?’ asked Bugsy. ‘SOCOs said they didn’t find any evidence of a break-in, so how did the killer get in?’

  ‘From what I was able to get from Zizi, she found the door ajar, which she said was most unusual, as Allegra was very security conscious,’ reported Gemma. ‘Apparently, she only bought the barn conversion recently and hadn’t yet got around to having CCTV and burglar alarms fitted, but it was to be a priority.’