Dead By Design Read online

  Also by James D Mortain

  STORM LOG-0505

  (Detective Deans Book One)

  A missing college sweetheart. A detective on the brink. Four souls desperately linked by murder.

  The wait is almost over for Detective Andrew Deans; years of agony and despair hanging on the results of his wife’s fertility treatment. But a student is missing. And he must find her.

  Compelled to leave his wife in Bath, Deans heads to North Devon, where he encounters Denise Moon, a medium, who exposes him to a psychic dimension he could never have imagined existed, in what soon becomes a murder hunt.

  Gripped by a mysterious happening attributed to his own paranormal awakening and alienated from all but his new mystical muse, Deans is closing in on a sophisticated killer, but all is not as it seems and Deans' future is about to change.

  “…I read a lot of books, but this has to be right up at the top, brilliant story, brilliant characters…” Goodreads review

  Get it here!

  THE NIGHT SHIFT (A Short Story)

  (A prequel to STORM LOG-0505)

  Thursday, 17th August. Ten years before…

  When a fly-on-the-wall documentary crew drops in on a night shift in Bath city centre, PC Ellie Grange and her team are fuelled with anticipation at the thought of becoming TV reality stars.

  They need it real. They want it uncensored – and they crave a true-to-life experience of the demands faced by Britain's cops on our streets.

  It's a beautiful evening – the first night shift of a set in the historic Georgian city… what could possibly go wrong?

  “If you don't read any other author this year please, please read this one. Stonkingly good…” Goodreads review

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  Copyright © 2017 James D Mortain

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real establishments, organisations and locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity. All other names, characters, events or incidents are a work of the author’s imagination and are fictitious.

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.

  First published in Great Britain by Manvers Publishing 2017.

  Edited by Debz Hobbs-Wyatt

  Cover design by Jessica Bell

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio

  ISBN: 978-0-9935687-3-2 (Paperback)

  ISBN: 978-0-9935687-4-9 (Mobi)

  ISBN: 978-0-9935687-5-6 (ePub)

  Manvers Publishing

  Spindlewood

  Northam

  Bideford

  Devon

  EX39 3QH

  [email protected]

  For my wife Rachael, without whom, dreams would mean nothing and sacrifice would have no purpose.

  DEAD BY DESIGN

  by

  James D Mortain

  Table of Contents

  Also by James D Mortain

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  A message from the author

  Prologue

  BATH 1975

  George Fenwick leaned back against the cushions of his new cane Peacock armchair and admired the stonework of his freshly crazy-paved patio area.

  His daughter, Samantha, had made fun of him ever since he purchased the wicker furniture, saying it looked more like a royal throne. Now that the final concrete slab was laid and set, he could finally take his place upon his ‘throne’ and enjoy the delights of his lush and verdant garden.

  He smiled to himself and returned a lit pine match to the tip of his imported Montecristo cigar and sucked his cheeks until the leaves glowed orange once again. He inhaled a lungful of the sweet tasting Cuban smoke and watched Sammy playing on her bespoke oak swing at the far end of the garden, under the shade of the majestic weeping willows.

  Her mother died three years before. It was sudden and shocking, and as a six-year-old at the time, it knocked the stuffing out of the poor little girl, but now, she was able to have fun again. When the time was right, he would too.

  George tapped his shoe on the thick paving slab beneath his chair and a smile curled upwards from the corner of his mouth. Life was good, life was great and now, things would only get better.

  Sammy came running over to him. ‘Daddy, can I have a bottle of cola, please?’

  George smiled, ‘Of course you can, Sammy. Why not bring one back for Daddy, there’s a good girl.’

  Samantha skipped off towards the house, leaving George to his thoughts. He was making significant improvements to the home, Sammy was doing well at school and tomorrow, George was taking the new E-Type Jaguar Coupe for a test-drive. It had long been a desire of his to have a flash set of wheels to drive along Pulteney Street and impress the neighbours even further, and now that he was able to, nothing was going to stop him.

  He scratched beneath his ear. Where is Sammy? He looked back towards the house, but there was no sign of her. He leaned his head against the high fan of the tall wicker chair and closed his eyes.

  A fly buzzing around his face caused more than a degree of annoyance. He swatted the air, took a satisfying deep breath and listened to the birds chirping happily in the nearby trees.

  Samantha returned soon after. ‘Daddy we haven’t got any Coke.’

  ‘We do, Sammy. Look closer.’

  ‘But Daddy, there isn’t—’

  ‘Sammy,’ George said glaring at her. ‘Look in the pantry, you will see a crate on the floor, I know it’s there, I only bought it yesterday.’

  ‘But I did look there— ’

  ‘Look harder,’ George said. ‘I’m hot and I want a drink. You really do not want me to have to get up out of this seat…?’

  Sammy stood in front of him. Her arms rigid by her side. Her eyes wide and unblinking.

  George suddenly sprang up from the seat and grabbed Sammy by the shoulders. ‘Come on, Samantha, step out of my sunshine and get me that ruddy drink.’

  Samantha let out a squeal, turned quickly away, and her long tousled hair slapped her in the face.

  Standing two paces away from him,
she huffed loudly and stomped back towards the house.

  George sank back into his chair, shaking his head and mumbling something beneath his breath about a ‘lazy, ungrateful brat’, he returned his cigar to his lips and puffed with more vigour, creating a blur of smoke around his head.

  This was turning into a very pleasant day, if only he had that drink!

  The flies continued to bug him, buzzing close to his face. He puffed more smoke and blew it in the general direction from where they appeared to be coming – which unusually was beneath his seat. Several insects were getting through the shield of smoke and pitching around his neckline. It was a warm July day, and he was perspiring. He could feel the dampness of his skin around his collar and continued to waft his free hand around his head as he did his best to relax, leaning back in his luxurious new armchair, eyes closed and face turned towards the sun.

  ‘Daddy, I can’t get in the pantry, the door is locked,’ Sammy shouted running back towards him.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ George spluttered and sprang up from the comfort of the seat. ‘I said to you, that if I had to move…’

  Sammy stopped dead in her tracks and covered her face with her hands. She looked at him and let out a shrill scream.

  ‘What the hell is wrong now?’ George said making his way with a heavy foot towards her.

  Sammy cowered away and screamed again.

  ‘The pantry is not locked. You were in it five minutes ago! For Christ’s sake!’ he shouted. His teeth were bared and his shoulders were tight.

  ‘Daddy what have you done?’ Sammy mouthed, breathlessly, taking two steps backwards.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ George seethed as he stomped beyond her towards the concrete steps leading up to the back door.

  ‘Daddy you’re bleeding—’

  ‘I am most certainly not bleeding.’

  Samantha screamed again and George turned angrily.

  ‘Daddy, your shirt has turned red.’

  George looked down and frowned as he shook his head, his shirt was fine.

  ‘Right,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve no idea what has gotten into you, but you are no longer having a Coke. I’m not going to tolerate any more of your nonsense.’

  George climbed the steps and looked back towards his daughter. She was standing ten feet into the garden and she was still clutching her mouth.

  He grumbled and walked into the kitchen and made direct for the pantry. He opened the door and there on the floor was the unopened crate of cola that he had picked up the day before.

  How the hell could she miss that? He sighed deeply and removed one of the bottles, yanked off the cap with a nearby bottle opener and made his way back towards the door.

  ‘I bloody meant it,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘She’s not having one. All this fantasising—’

  George suddenly stopped. His eyes were wide and gaping. He took several backwards steps the way he had just come, turned about, and looked at his reflection in the window.

  Mouth ajar, he leaned in closer. His shirt was crimson red; in fact, it was seeping with blood. He cautiously looked back down at himself and he shook his head. His shirt was still pale blue. There was nothing on it. He quickly looked back into the reflection of the window and the bottle of pop dropped from his hand and splashed in an arc of exploding bubbles.

  He leaned in again and looked at his throat. Small wells of blood were oozing from under the surface. He reached for his neck and rubbed beneath his ear as another small balloon of red gloop burst from his skin.

  Frantically he rubbed the area, but the more he did so, the more the blood leached out.

  ‘Daddy, Daddy, are you okay?’ Samantha’s voice came from outside the door.

  George quickly turned. ‘Stay there, Sammy. Don’t come in.’

  ‘But Daddy—’

  ‘I mean it, Sammy. Stay the hell outside…’ George turned back to his reflection and saw a perfect line from ear to ear of weeping blood under his jawline. He gripped his neck with both hands and tried to stem the flow of blood, but the more he tried, the quicker it flowed.

  ‘Daddy!’ Samantha screamed. She was in the kitchen.

  George faced her with horror in his eyes. He cried out ‘Don’t see me’ and waved her away with a completely blood-dripping hand. He turned back to the window and his heart stopped.

  Written on the glass in his blood, were the words:

  IT BELONGS TO ME.

  ‘Peter?’ George breathed.

  He turned and ran to the top of the steps. He looked over to his chair on the patio – the entire area was now infested with flies and the sound of buzzing filled the air. He noticed Sammy two steps below him, pointing up at him, her other hand across her mouth.

  George followed the direction of her finger, it was pointing at his chest. He looked down – his shirt was pale blue once again. He rubbed his neck – there was nothing. He looked back towards the chair – the flies had gone. He settled on Sammy. She was now crying and laughing at the same time. George held out his arms and Sammy came running into his secure grasp.

  George looked around him in slow motion – to the patio – over his shoulder at the doorway to the kitchen and finally back down at his hands. He rested his chin on the top of Sammy’s head and directed his eyes once again on the patio area.

  ‘He’s back…’ George whispered. ‘Oh God… Peter… Peter.’

  Chapter 1

  Detective Andrew Deans backed wearily onto the narrow patch of concrete at the front of his semi-detached house. He was fortunate: parking spaces, let alone driveways, came at a premium in Bath – but that was one reason why they had chosen to live on the outskirts.

  The engine stayed running. Deans stared ahead, eyes swollen and heavy. He blinked once, long and slow, and uncurled his fingers from the leather steering wheel that he had gripped so tightly for the last three hours – like peeling chipolatas from flypaper. He killed the engine and dragged his heels to the front door.

  The hallway was dark, cold and silent. He dropped his bag beside the telephone table, threw his keys on top and went straight through to the kitchen without turning on any lights. He ran water through the pipes for thirty seconds, filled the kettle and opened the wall cabinet. Instead of taking a mug, he reached for a heavy glass tumbler and searched for the bottle.

  He moved through to the living room, lit only from a beam of streetlight sneaking in through a gap in the drapes, and he was already into his second glass of Jameson’s before the water had boiled. He slumped onto the sofa, kicked off his shoes without unlacing them, and rested the nape of his neck against the cool brown leather. Maria filled his head. Delightful, ditsy, fragile Maria. He took another swig without lifting his head, the hard-hitting spirit splintering the back of his throat. He sucked a shallow breath from the solemn air and closed his eyes. If only he had listened to her; he would not have gone to Devon, would not have become so catastrophically immersed in the Amy Poole murder, would not have flirted with fantasy evidence, and would still be sitting beside her.

  A heavy noise above his head snatched his breath away. He gawked at the ceiling, as if he had the superhuman ability to see through plasterboard, his jaw wide and slack.

  There it was again.

  He slammed the glass onto the coffee table, whisky splashing onto the back of his hand, and he raced for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  Their bedroom door was closed but was framed with light seeping from inside the room. Deans burst in, his anticipation beyond ecstasy.

  ‘Maria,’ Deans whimpered.

  His wife faced him, kneeling tall on top of the bed sheets.

  ‘Do it,’ an urgent voice sounded from somewhere behind him.

  Deans shot around, his arms held before him ready to embrace Maria, but they dropped like concrete blocks when he saw Ash Babbage emerging from the shadows of the back wall.

  ‘Do it, now.’ Ferocity spewed from Babbage’s lips.

  Deans spun back facing Maria; her
face was wild and desperate. It was only then that he registered the arm across her forehead.

  ‘Maria,’ he shrieked, lunging forwards but falling short. Then he saw it: the glint of steel chasing the clenched fist beneath her chin followed by the sickening nick and popping sound of sliced muscle and sinew.

  ‘Maria! No!’ he screamed, clawing the fringe of the duvet but making no ground.

  The corners of her mouth lifted for a millisecond, and her hands gently cradled the mound of her stomach.

  And then he awoke… and she was gone.

  Chapter 2

  Sweat drenched Deans’ clothes. He swung his legs around off the sofa and hugged his knees. The clock on the DVD player showed 05:33. Two hours to go until his first day back on duty.

  He had received visits from colleagues – most of them genuine – but he still seethed at having to justify his final forty-eight hours, before that day.

  Getting ready did not come naturally. There was nothing ordinary about this day. And at just gone seven a.m., he locked the house and made his way to the office.

  For once, his skipper, Detective Sergeant Savage was at his desk before Deans had arrived.

  ‘Hello, Deano. You okay, buddy?’ Savage asked.

  ‘Shit the bed, Mick?’ Deans replied, diverting the question.

  ‘Thought you might appreciate a little company… before the others arrive. I knew you’d be in early.’