DCI Warren Jones. Paul Gitsham

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СКАЧАТЬ bit of squeamishness. An afternoon spent trawling through her Facebook and Instagram posts had revealed her favourite music – death metal bands, all of which sounded the same to him when he’d streamed their albums on Spotify. The T-shirt he’d ordered online had arrived that morning – all shiny and smelling of plastic packaging. He hoped it wasn’t obvious that a week ago he’d never even heard of Flesh Kitchen.

       The graveyard was in the centre of the abbey’s grounds. Nathan dimly remembered the layout from school visits, but it looked different in the dark with only a sliver of moon to light their way. The glow of Middlesbury town centre behind them did little to pierce the gloom. He stumbled along behind Rebecca, hoping it wasn’t much further. The weather had been dry and the skies clear, but February was February and the cold was beginning to bite. Rebecca had promised that she knew a cosy spot inside one of the crypts, and that they could light a fire with no one noticing.

       His mates were right. She was definitely weird.

       But she was also cute and interested in him, and right now, that was all that mattered.

       Finally, the low wall that surrounded the graveyard started to emerge out of the gloom. A few more paces and the ghost-like statues adorning the tombs of Middlesbury’s most prominent citizens from centuries past also appeared. Nathan repressed a shudder. Rebecca was marching confidently onwards and he wasn’t going to show any sign of weakness.

       To the left, a squat building was black against the night sky. Suddenly, Rebecca stopped dead and Nathan barely avoided knocking her over.

       ‘Can you smell that?’

       He sniffed the air.

       ‘Smoke.’

       He groaned internally. Somebody else had clearly had the same idea as them. He doubted Rebecca would want to get too … cosy … if there were other people about. He started frantically thinking of a plan B, somewhere else they could go. His mum and dad were both in, vegetating in front of the TV, and her place was out of the question – she’d said her parents were really strict.

       ‘I think the fire is in that building.’

       She was right. A faint orange glow was visible through ground-level windows.

       ‘We should go, before somebody calls the fire brigade.’

       If somebody had set the building on fire, it wouldn’t look good for them if they were found trespassing with a bag full of fire-making equipment. Not to mention the weed in his back pocket.

       Rebecca ignored him, taking a few more paces towards the building, as if drawn to the light and warmth.

       ‘I think that’s the old chapel. There’s an undercroft, that’s where the glow is coming from.’

       The crackling of the flames was now clearly audible, the glow becoming brighter.

       ‘We need to go,’ repeated Nathan.

       The evening was ruined already. It was too cold to go and sit on the common and the youth club would be packed full of losers this time on a Friday night. Besides, they wouldn’t get in if they were drunk or stoned. The best he could hope for was a slow walk home and a goodnight kiss. The last thing Nathan wanted was for the evening to end in a police cell.

       ‘Becky?’

       She let out a sigh. At least she sounded as disappointed as he did.

       They turned to leave the way they had come, before she stopped again.

       ‘Did you hear that?’

       Nathan heard nothing; he shook his head.

       ‘There it is again.’

       He strained his ears.

       Still nothing.

       No, wait.

       They both heard it now.

       Louder.

       Clearer.

       ‘Oh my, God, Nathan. There’s somebody in there!’

       Chapter 1

      The light drizzle had started within minutes of DCI Warren Jones’ arrival at the scene of the fire. He’d almost welcomed the phone call at first, an hour and a half after the alarm had been raised at twenty past nine that night; he was well on his way to yet another comprehensive Scrabble defeat by his wife Susan. Now, even though the precipitation slid off his plastic-coated paper suit, he’d changed his mind.

      ‘You’re clear to enter the scene, sir.’ The familiar, portly figure of Crime Scene Manager Andy Harrison was easily identifiable, even with his facemask on. ‘Professor Jordan has done his preliminary examination of the body, and it’s ready to be transported.’

      ‘Tony, do you and Moray want to join us?’

      DI Tony Sutton was standing a little way off, also dressed in a paper scene suit. Beside him stood DC Moray Ruskin – whose huge bulk meant he had to bring his own suits to crime scenes in case the CSIs didn’t have his size in the back of their van.

      The path between the outer cordon and the doors to the old chapel was shielded from the rain by a hastily erected tent, and the proscribed route to the front entrance was covered by raised plastic boarding to protect any undiscovered shoe prints or other trace evidence.

      ‘What did the kids who phoned it in have to say for themselves?’ asked Warren as the three police officers carefully picked their way along the walkway. A slip now would not only be undignified, it might also destroy evidence.

      ‘Not much.’ Ruskin had replaced his facemask. This combined with his thick beard and broad Scottish accent, meant Warren had to listen carefully to the man’s report.

      ‘They were a bit cagey about why they were here; they’ve admitted that the carrier bag of nasty-looking cider is theirs. They also had some matches and fire-lighters, both still sealed in their original packaging and unused. They’re only fifteen and wearing death metal T-shirts, so I’m guessing tonight’s plan was a bit of drinking in the local graveyard, perhaps a bonfire to keep warm, and if all went well, a bit of hanky panky.’

      ‘Hanky panky? I’m pretty sure the last time anyone used that phrase was before you were born,’ scoffed Sutton.

      ‘I was trying to use language that you old folks would understand.’

      ‘Cheeky sod.’

      ‘What did they see?’

      ‘Very СКАЧАТЬ