None the wiser, p.1
None the Wiser, page 1
None The Wiser
A Detective Mark Turpin novel
Rachel Amphlett
Copyright © 2020 by Rachel Amphlett
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. While the locations in this book are a mixture of real and imagined, the characters are totally fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Contents
Also by Rachel Amphlett
Reading Order & Checklist
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
About the Author
Also by Rachel Amphlett
The Detective Kay Hunter series
* * *
Scared to Death
Will to Live
One to Watch
Hell to Pay
Call to Arms
Gone to Ground
Bridge to Burn
Cradle to Grave
Turn to Dust
* * *
The English Spy mysteries
* * *
Assassins Hunted
Assassins Vengeance
Assassins Retribution
* * *
The Dan Taylor spy novels
* * *
White Gold
Under Fire
Three Lives Down
Behind the Wire
* * *
Standalone titles
* * *
Look Closer
The Friend Who Lied
Mistake Creek
Before Nightfall
* * *
Connect with Rachel Amphlett
www.rachelamphlett.com
Missed a book? Download the FREE Official Reading Order and Checklist to Rachel Amphlett’s books here
Also available in audiobook
Chapter One
Seamus Carter dropped to his knees.
His voice was little more than a murmur, rising and falling with the rhythm of the prayer.
Exhaustion threatened, and he tried to take strength from the subtext, a momentary sense of calm easing the guilt that had gnawed away at him for days. He kept his eyes closed in meditation a while longer, savouring the tentative peace that enveloped him.
No-one would disturb him.
He was alone – the pub that stood on the other side of the boundary wall with his church had a live band playing tonight. He had heard the thumping bass line as he had been praying, and none of his parishioners were likely to visit at this time of night.
Easing himself from a kneeling position, he genuflected as he gazed up at the wooden crucifix above the altar, and then bowed his head in a final, silent prayer.
Seamus blinked, his trance-like state leaving him as soon as he moved away from the altar.
Despite his efforts, the self-loathing remained, and he scowled.
It wasn’t meant to be like this.
He stomped along the aisle towards the vestry, reached into his pocket for a bubble pack of antacids, then popped and swallowed two.
His thoughts turned to the Sunday morning service, and the uplifting sermon he was struggling to write.
The events of the previous week had shaken him, and he needed to excuse his fear.
Addressing the congregation would be a tincture, a way to soothe the wound that had been opened.
Crossing the remaining length of the nave, he pushed through the door to his office and sank into the hard wooden chair at his desk. It faced the wall, a plain wooden cross above his head.
The room had no windows, which he preferred. The setting enabled him to meditate upon his words as he crafted carefully phrased sentences to spread the word of his God.
He tapped the trackpad on the laptop, and, as the screen blinked to life, he manoeuvred the cursor over the music app, selected a compilation of violin sonatas, and closed his eyes as the music washed over him.
He smiled.
Two years ago, the church cleaner had entered the room and emitted a sharp, shocked gasp at the loud trance music emanating from the computer. After he’d calmed her and tried to convince her that, often, his best sermons were written at one hundred and twenty beats per minute, she’d continued with her dusting, although she’d eyed him warily. He’d resisted the urge to educate her musical tastes further with the progressive rock of 1970s Pink Floyd.
Seamus read through the words he had typed an hour ago, and frowned. He deleted the last sentence, cracked his knuckles and then stabbed two fingers at the keyboard in an attempt to convey the thoughts that troubled him.
Perhaps in sharing his own foibles, he would find retribution.
The stack of paperwork at his elbow fluttered as a cold breeze slapped against the back of his neck, and he rubbed the skin, his eyes never leaving the screen.
He would check all the doors and windows before leaving tonight, but now he had found his flow, the sermon was almost complete.
A shuffling noise reached his ears before he became aware of someone standing behind him, a moment before a rope snaked around his neck.
Seamus lashed out in fear, shoving the chair backwards. Terror gripped him as the noose grew taut.
A gloved hand slapped his right ear, sending shards of pain into his skull, and he cried out in pain as his assailant moved into view.
Black mask, black sweatshirt, black jeans.
‘There’s money in the box in the filing cabinet over there. My wallet is in my trouser pocket.’
Before he could recover from the shock, his right wrist was fastened to the arm of the chair with a plastic tie.
His left fist flailed, then Seamus cried out as he was punched in the balls, all the air rushing from his lungs in one anguished gasp.
He panted as his left wrist was secured to the chair, and tried to focus his thoughts.
‘What do you want?’
The words dried on his lips as he heard the warble in his rasping voice, the unsteadiness that betrayed the lie.
Eyes glared at him from slits within a black hood, but no words came.
Instead, the figure moved behind him.
Bile rose in his throat as the rope tightened under his Adam’s apple.
‘Help!’
His cry was instinctive, desperate – and useless.
Restricted by the rope around his neck, his voice was little more than a croak, broken and shattered.
He twisted in his seat, nostrils flaring as he tugged at the ties that bound his wrists to the arms of the chair.
He couldn’t move.
He gagged, struggling to swallow.
Without warning, the rope jerked, forcing his chin towards the ceiling and burning his throat.
A single tear rolled over his cheek as a wetness formed between his legs, heat rising to his face while his attacker crouched at the back of the chair, securing the rope.
He had known it would come to this, one day.
The figure said nothing, and edged around his body, peering into his eyes before raising a knife to Seamus’s face.
A gloved hand gripped his jaw, forcing his mouth open as the priest panted for air.
The blade traced around each eye socket, millimetres away from his face.
I don’t want to die.
His eyes bulged as the knife moved to his cheek, his plea little more than a whimper.
Seamus gagged at the rope cutting into his neck, fighting against the pressure in his lungs.
I can’t breathe.
A searing pain tore into his tongue, slicing through sinew and tendons before the knife flashed in front of his eyes, blood dripping from the blade, and, as Seamus’s body convulsed, the figure before him began to speak.
‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…’
Chapter Two
Jan West aimed the key fob at the car, and only relaxed once she saw the indicator lights flash.
The area had developed a reputation for petty theft, and given the car wasn’t hers to start with, she wasn’t prepared to take any risks. Nor was she prepared to pay the extortionate parking fees demanded by the local c ouncil for what would be a short stay.
She turned away from the vehicle, slipped her keys into her leather handbag and buttoned her woollen coat while making her way across the cracked surface of the car park.
Pushing through a gap next to the barred metal gate, she swore under her breath as she slipped in mud-flecked gravel that had congealed next to the verge due to the number of dog walkers who used the route on a regular basis and had churned up the rudimentary path.
She regained her balance, throwing her arms out to her sides, and hoped to hell no-one she knew had seen her. She glanced over her shoulder but the car park remained deserted, save for her vehicle. Peering at the mud clinging to her month-old black suede shoes, she groaned and tried to wipe off the worst on the long grass beside the path. Her eyes fell to her wrist, her watch catching the weak sunlight.
‘Crap.’
She could have saved time and cut across the middle of the meadow to the river that twisted and turned its way through the market town, but one look at the boggy earth and she decided she’d take the long way around.
The narrow gravel path soon disappeared, making way for a grassy route worn away by walkers, the stench of rotten vegetation pungent on the damp morning air.
She stood to one side as she spotted a pair of brightly clothed men jog towards her, eyeing them warily as they drew closer and removing her hands from her pockets.
Their heavy breathing sent faint clouds of vapour into the air, and one of them nodded to her as he passed before he set his focus back to his route, several steps ahead of his companion.
The two figures receded into the distance, and Jan noted that instead of going through the gate to the car park, they continued towards an archway under the stone bridge that spanned the river further downstream.
To her left, the backs of a row of cottages flanked the meadow, the landscape a bleak contrast to the busy main road the buildings faced.
She peered over the low wall into the different gardens, taking in the rubbish bins, children’s toys discarded haphazardly, and brightly coloured laundry hanging out to dry on washing lines.
Raising her gaze to the clouds tumbling overhead, she thought it a little optimistic of the residents to expect anything to dry that day.
The noise of traffic reached her ears, the narrow bridge over the river adding to the morning congestion problems, despite having been widened three times over the centuries. The market town simply wasn’t designed for the number of cars, trucks, and people that descended on it every day.
When she reached the end of the row of cottages, she turned right and began to follow the towpath, with the river to her left.
The waters had receded considerably since the early spring floods, although a pervading stench of damp assaulted her senses as the earth continued to dry out. She eyed a swan as it floated past. It glared at her disdainfully before paddling off towards its mate that bobbed about on the water near the opposite bank.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she turned her attention to the row of boats further up the towpath.
Modern cruisers dipped and rose on the water alongside brightly painted narrowboats, the creak of ropes on moorings breaking the silence. As she passed the boats, she kept her senses alert while her eyes roamed over the different shapes and sizes.
She glanced over her shoulder, but no-one followed.
She slowed and pulled out a scrap of paper from her pocket, and then lifted her gaze and squinted towards the boats, realising the one she sought was at the far end of the row.
‘Bloody typical.’
She shoved the paper back in her pocket, cursed the mud that was clinging to her shoes, and rummaged in her bag.
As she approached the last narrowboat, she ran her gaze over the dull blue paint around the windows and the worn timber gunwales.
A figure stood on the stern, coiling a rope, his head bowed as he worked. Dark curly hair lifted on the breeze as he turned away from her and threw something on the deck, a soft thud reaching her ears.
He wore a navy sweatshirt and jeans, his feet covered by boots that appeared to have seen better days. The sort that Scott would call his “gardening boots” whenever she suggested throwing them away.
Before she could open her mouth and call out to him, a dog barked. A split second later, a dark shape launched itself from another boat at her.
‘Hamish, no!’
The man’s voice carried across to the animal too late to save the hem of her trousers. Muddy paw prints soon peppered the charcoal-grey material, and she groaned.
‘Come here!’
The dog trotted off towards the narrowboat, the man’s voice sounding more amused than cross to her ears.
He straightened as she drew near, a frown creasing his brow while he kept his fingers looped through the dog’s collar.
‘Can I help you?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Detective Sergeant Mark Turpin?’
‘Who are you?’
She held up her warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Constable Jan West. There’s been a murder, and the guv needs you at the crime scene.’
Chapter Three
‘Why rent a boat, not a house?’
‘There was nothing else available at short notice. I figured I’d rent it for six months while I scout around for something more permanent.’
Mark moved through the narrow wooden cabin, shedding his walking boots and sweatshirt while trying to continue the conversation with the detective constable.
He could hear her on the other side of the minuscule window, hovering on the shallow deck while she waited, her heels clomping on the wooden surface every few seconds as her shadow passed across the net curtain.
‘I’d never have thought to rent a boat,’ she said.
‘It was easy. I made some phone calls, introduced myself to a few of the regulars at the marina in town, and signed the lease three weeks ago.’
‘Why don’t you moor closer to town? It’d be easier to get to.’
‘That’s the whole idea. It’s not easy to get to. I need peace and quiet.’
He balanced on one foot and removed his jeans, knocking his elbow against the timber-panelled wall before opening the single cupboard that served as his wardrobe and tugged a pair of black trousers off a plastic hanger. The movement sent it clanging against the back of the wardrobe, echoing off the walls.
‘Won’t it be cold in the winter?’ said Jan. ‘I can’t see a chimney like your neighbour’s boat has.’
‘It’s only temporary. I plan to move into a house before it gets too cold. Anyway, lots of people live on narrowboats, don’t they?’
A shirt hung over the back of a chair next to the window, and he snatched it up, holding it to his nose for a moment.
It would have to do.
‘What about all your stuff?’
‘Storage place on the outskirts of town.’ He grimaced. ‘Costs a fortune.’
He hopped about, pulling on a pair of smart black boots he’d found on sale in a shop in Oxford prior to his formal interview. That done, he reached out for a jacket he’d left lying on the duvet, and made his way along the main cabin while he secured a tie under his shirt collar, past the boxes that lined the seats each side and filled the galley, and pushed open the door.
Jan was standing with her back to him, tying her mid-length brown hair into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She turned at the sound of the cabin door closing and dropped her hands to her sides, green eyes appraising him.
