The Bone Hill Read online

  She took another step, the surf splashed into her chest and face. She timed her reach and caught Nelson by his hind leg. His weight took her by surprise and pulled her off her feet, face first into the chilly waters.

  She thrashed out with her legs and felt the seabed beneath her feet. She still had her dog’s leg in her grip and heaved him back, lifting her own head above the water line. Gasping for breath, she planted her feet and got a second hand around her dog. She turned for the shore and heaved him slowly inwards with each laboured step. The briny waters stung her eyes and she struggled to see if Nelson was alive or dead. Either way, his jaws were still connected to the heavy object his jaws were clamped around.

  Finding an inner strength, Ingrid dragged Nelson back to knee depth. She reached for his head, lifting his face clear of the water, dislodging the attached object that at first disappeared and then bobbed clear of the waterline into view.

  Ingrid took a sudden intake of breath and fell backwards. Water covered her face and gushed into her open mouth. She choked as water went down her throat and she let go of Nelson, her legs kicking wildly in a desperate attempt to get out of the water as quickly as possible. She clawed at the sand and dragged herself clear.

  Her eyes fixed wide on a spot in the water. She coughed and at the same time vomited onto the sand beside her, and dragged her body clear of the unpleasant slick.

  She composed herself and lifted her body onto her elbows to gain a clearer view of the water. She felt her heart pounding through the saturated and heavy layers of clothing.

  The object inched ever closer with each surge of the waves.

  Ingrid dragged her legs up to her chest, and rolled onto her hands and knees. Her neck was frozen stiff and wouldn’t allow her to look in any direction other than directly ahead, as the object scuffed and slewed against the sandy seabed.

  She slowly rose to her feet, her eyes glued to what she could now clearly see was a human arm floating on the surface.

  She stepped hesitantly back into the water and shuffled towards it. The hand on the arm was curled, as if it had once held a honeydew melon. Her breathing accelerated, as she got closer. She bent forwards but then stopped. She inhaled a lung full of chilled air, puffed out her cheeks and grabbed the stiff hand.

  The arm was weighty, and as it came towards her, suddenly rolled beneath the water and the connected torso bobbed to the surface.

  Ingrid jumped backwards and fell into the water once again, her face stricken with fright. Motionless, she couldn’t tear her eyes off the body, now bouncing gently on top of the passing waters. She picked up an object in her peripheral vision and turned her head like it was on a fine-tooth ratchet, though her eyes stayed transfixed to the corpse moving ever closer. The realisation of what was to her side broke the spell of the dead body and she looked away.

  There in three inches of water, Nelson lay on his side, his little legs unmoving and stiff.

  CHAPTER 2

  Detective Andrew Deans looked himself up and down in the full-length bedroom mirror. He brushed a hand over his shoulder and straightened his black tie. It was less than five weeks since the train crash and he was still tolerating the bulky orthopaedic boot on his leg. Thankfully, he was able to remove the boot and place it over the top of his freshly laundered suit.

  He tilted his head, closed his eyes and drew a long slow breath from the sombre air.

  ‘Alexa,’ he said to his bedside companion. ‘Play me some happy music.’ The small round smart-box came to life with a single rotation of lilac light.

  "I am sorry," the electronic voice said. "Another device is currently streaming music. Would you like to stream from this device instead?"

  Deans looked deeply into the eyes of his own reflection. There was only one Alexa device in the house, other than the application on his phone, which was inside his trouser pocket. Unless…

  ‘Yes, Alexa,’ Deans said excitedly. ‘Repeat the last played song.’

  He waited for the music to start and searched his face as the hairs on the back of his neck responded to the opening notes of the song being played through the small speaker. He closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest as Jennifer Hudson’s voice broke into the introduction of Golden Slumbers.

  A faint smile ghosted his lips and he remained unmoving, until every note and word of Maria’s favourite song had finished. He looked up at the ceiling, tears pooling in his eyes. ‘I love you, Maria,’ he mouthed.

  Detective Sergeant Mick Savage arrived on time with a gentle tap at the door. Some wonders never ceased to amaze Deans.

  ‘Hello, Deano. How are you bearing up, buddy?’ Savage asked, shaking Deans’ hand and making his way through to the kitchen where he helped himself to the kettle. ‘You look very smart, mate. Very smart.’

  ‘Shit the bed, Mick?’

  ‘I know, I know. You probably expected me to be fashionably late, but today I have a duty… to you.’ Savage frowned, as he looked closer at Deans’ face. ‘Are you sure you are all right, Deano?’

  Deans wiped moisture from the corner of his eye. ‘Yeah. I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘Great,’ Savage said looking at his watch. ‘Time for a bacon butty.’

  Deans turned away. ‘Not for me, thanks.’

  Savage hesitated. ‘No, you’re probably right. I’d only get ketchup down my front or something. How about a brew? Fancy a quick coffee?’

  Deans nodded and Savage took two mugs from the kitchen cupboards and rummaged around for the instant coffee.

  Deans took himself off to the living room.

  ‘Did you sleep?’ Savage asked joining Deans, holding out a coffee mug.

  Deans shrugged and took the drink.

  ‘Still having the dreams?’

  Deans sipped and nodded.

  ‘Should you see someone about it?’

  Deans raised a brow.

  ‘I’m just saying, Deano—’

  ‘Nobody can fix what I’ve got.’

  Savage didn’t attempt to answer and they both sat silently finishing their drinks until the transport arrived.

  They pulled off the main road and drove between the large pillars of the open-gated entrance. Deans looked directly ahead over the shoulder of the driver. A large crowd was already gathered at the front of the chapel and a smaller clutch of media photographers and TV cameras were camped in a line, two deep, and kept at respectful arm’s length by several of Deans’ uniformed colleagues. Interest in Deans’ story had piqued following a mention the week before on Breakfast TV by Piers Morgan, who sent Deans the nation’s thoughts and prayers. If it had been just the train crash, the media would have moved on by now and Deans wouldn’t have had to become a relative recluse. But Maria’s plight along with Deans’ lone survival from his wrecked carriage had sent the world’s media into a feeding frenzy, and now, everybody wanted a piece of him.

  His wife’s parents, Graham and Penny, were sitting alongside him. Deans adjusted the knot of his tie for the fourth time that journey and closed his eyes as the head of the procession slowed to a stop beneath a vine encrusted chapel entrance. The rear doors opened simultaneously and an arm reached towards him with an encouraging hook of the elbow. Cool air invaded the warm confines of the stretch limo. Deans looked towards his mother-in-law, who was being assisted up from her seat by a man wearing a long dark trench coat and sporting an equally long face.

  Deans steeled himself with a deep breath. This is it. He looked out at the apologetic faces peering back his way. He had decided not to wear dark glasses, even though the sun was blindingly low in the cool blue sky, and now he was beginning to regret that decision.

  Deans held his eyes shut for a soothing moment and wished he didn’t have to go through with this. He leaned forwards and took the outstretched arm, his heart pounding beneath his suit jacket. He stood as tall as his body would allow and stared straight ahead. As he stepped away from the limo he became aware of the subtle backward movement of bodies in his peripheral vision, lik
e a parting tide, and as he edged forwards, the ocean of guests filed back in behind him. He could see mouths moving, accepted outstretched hands and stood solid to the body hugs, but he was barely aware of what was going on around him.

  He locked eyes with Mick Savage, who came forwards and took Deans gently by the elbow. He said nothing, but right then, nothing was just what Deans needed and he followed Savage without question. The others filed silently behind into the large acoustic room. The scuff and shuffle of leather clad feet and the occasional sob or blow of a nose was all that could be heard.

  The head operative of the funeral procession stood in front of Deans with a knowing, sympathetic smile. He offered Deans a solitary nod and waited for Penny and Graham Byrne to shuffle in by his side. He caught Graham staring at him – Deans was sure they still blamed him for what happened to Maria. Savage released Deans’ arm and left him with a gentle pat on the shoulder.

  ‘Okay?’ the funeral director said.

  Deans nodded and the funeral director turned his back.

  Deans stepped slowly forwards and the sombre notes of a string quartet filled the empty room with Barber’s, Adagio for Strings. Deans chomped down and blinked tears from his lashes.

  They followed the run of deep red carpet, being led at the front by the bald-headed director who walked with stiff purposeful limbs as the music got louder.

  The pews were positioned in an L-shape. Deans was shown to the front row pew at the top of the ‘L’ facing a choir on the other side of the room. He took his seat and Graham sat alongside. Deans fixed his gaze on the stainless steel cradle positioned centrally, several metres directly in front of him, as mourners respectfully took their places. Deans did not try to mask or stifle his grief, and as the music continued, he noticed heads turning towards the entrance.

  He tried to turn, but his neck would not allow him, and as the haunting music drew to a close, Maria’s wicker coffin was placed gently onto the supporting frame before him.

  Reverend Simms addressed the room.

  ‘Dear friends,’ he said with outstretched arms. ‘We come together at the turn of a new year, on this saddest of days, to pay our final respects to our beloved, Maria Elizabeth Caitlin Deans. Our community and many others have been deeply affected by the sudden and horrific taking of our dear daughter, wife, colleague and friend.’

  Deans’ blurred eyes grew heavy, but they refused to look away from the coffin. If I could swap places, my love, I gladly would.

  Reverend Simms continued speaking, but Deans was taking nothing in, and then in the corner of his eye he saw the fluttering wings of a white butterfly. Deans drew his head back and parted his lips. Others in the chapel began to notice and within thirty seconds, the ripple of whispers had reached the furthest most extremities of the room.

  Reverend Simms stopped speaking and watched with seeming wonderment as the creature landed on the head of the cask and brought its graceful wings to a rest.

  Maria, Deans mouthed and met the gaze of Reverend Simms, who allowed the congregation a brief instant of comment before continuing with the service. Deans stared at the small creature, which remained at the head of the coffin until the conclusion of the ceremony.

  Deans was prompted to his feet, along with his in-laws by the Reverend, and as the choir sang Ave Maria, they slowly followed the casket outside through the centre of the mourners. As they reached the outer doors, Deans noticed the bank of media and felt his top lip curl into a snarl.

  Savage hurried alongside him. ‘Ignore them, Deano,’ he said softly in his ear. ‘Our boys and girls will keep them at bay, don’t worry about that.’

  Deans then noticed a man with a handheld video camera standing alone and separate to the others. He didn’t appear to have an identity lanyard and there was no urgency to his actions, unlike the mob of photographers and reporters.

  Deans stopped walking and squinted to focus. The man appeared to register Deans’ attention and slowly lowered the camera from his face, and, motionless, stared back at Deans.

  ‘Come on, Deano,’ Savage said, grabbing Deans’ arm. ‘Come on, mate. Leave them.’

  Deans took several steps away with Savage, but kept his eyes on the man with the small video camera.

  The chilled air cut through his skin and Deans lifted the collar of his trench coat, tightened the scarf around his neck and turned away. He felt a tug on his arm – it was Denise Moon and she looked at him with a reassuring smile.

  ‘Hello, Denise,’ Deans said. ‘Sorry… I didn’t know you were coming.’

  Denise squeezed his hand. ‘I’m here for you,’ she said. She looked behind. ‘I don’t know if you would have noticed, but Sergeant Jackson is also here somewhere.’

  Deans shook his head. He really hadn’t taken in any members of the congregation, if anything, he wanted to avoid eye contact with them.

  Up ahead, the coffin bearers came to a halt and Deans saw an opening in the ground and the pea-green surface of artificial turf on either side. Mourners slowly squeezed together in considerate silence, Deans next to Maria’s mother and father. He had lost his own parents years ago, and now, Maria’s parents were the only family he had. He turned to Penny, her face was shattered and bereft. He reached for her hand and after a moment’s hesitation, she took it.

  As the Reverend gave his final blessings, Deans, for the first time, looked around those gathered. DS Jackson was looking right back at him. Jackson was the obtusely difficult skipper of the Major Crime Investigation Team in Devon. They hadn’t seen eye-to-eye ever since Deans had been seconded to Devon for the Amy Poole murder investigation, but it had recently become clear to Deans that there was far more to Jackson than the asshole he portrayed.

  Jackson extended Deans a nod. Deans reciprocated and then looked back down to the grave as tears once again dropped from his cheeks with each measured lower of Maria’s coffin.

  Maria’s mother and father were the first to approach the graveside. Penny kissed a rose, dropped it into the pit and fell hysterically into the arms of her husband.

  It was Deans’ turn to approach the edge of the grave. He felt everyone’s eyes bearing down upon him. He wiped his nose with a handkerchief, crouched down, and took a fist full of dry dirt. He ground the granules in his fist and bowed his head. I won’t stop until I’ve found all of you, he promised Maria silently. I know you are still with me. He drew his hand to his lips, kissed his curled fingers and scattered the soil onto the surface of the casket like small marbles. He closed his eyes for a moment and again spoke silently to Maria; Love is forever. Vengeance is now.

  CHAPTER 3

  Deans noticed DS Jackson turn away, one hand covering his ear while he attempted to hear the caller on his mobile phone. They were now at the wake in a pub about a mile from the chapel. Deans could count on both hands the number of times he had been to a wake at this particular pub, but never for a second imagined that his wife would one day be the mourned.

  He studied Jackson for a moment and then he saw something that made his heart pound; Jackson lifted his head and as he spoke to the caller, he slowly turned and looked Deans straight in the eye with unease. Jackson turned away and made a hasty retreat for an outside door.

  Deans apologised to the people surrounding him, placed his half-empty pint glass down on the table and followed Jackson out through the door, into the cold, still air.

  Jackson was on the other side of the smoking area with his back to Deans, who closed the door quietly so that Jackson would not know he was there.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Jackson said impatiently. ‘I’ll give my excuses and leave immediately. Take a statement from the witness and you’d better inform the DCI that we’ve got another one.’ Jackson ended the call, twisted around and saw Deans facing him. His shoulders tightened and he coughed in an attempt to hide the tail end of the phone conversation.

  ‘Alright, Deans?’ he said.

  ‘Another what?’ Deans asked.

  Jackson’s eyes wandered around the pat
io tiles. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid I have to go.’

  ‘I heard you,’ Deans said.

  Jackson rubbed the side of his nose and gave off an insincere smile.

  ‘There’s another murder… isn’t there?’

  Deans noticed the slightest of twitches in Jackson’s eye. He was right, there was another.

  Jackson chuckled quietly and shook his head as he moved to pass Deans, all teeth and bullshit.

  ‘It’s not related,’ he said.

  ‘What isn’t?’

  Jackson stopped beside Deans’ shoulder. His steel-blue eyes cutting deep.

  ‘You don’t need this, son,’ he said. ‘It’s not your problem.’

  ‘I need justice. It is my problem.’

  ‘And you will get that. In time.’

  ‘Remember who you are talking to. We both know anything could happen between now and the court case.’

  Jackson pinched the bridge of his hooked and slightly off-centred nose.

  ‘Tell me,’ Deans said impatiently.

  Jackson snorted.

  ‘Tell me,’ Deans said again, this time louder.

  Jackson jogged his head. ‘Okay.’ He looked around Deans’ face with narrow eyes. ‘Another body has been washed up today,’ he said. The tendons in his neck tightened and he stared into space beyond Deans’ shoulder. ‘At Sandymere Bay.’

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ Deans said.

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  Deans gripped Jackson’s forearm. ‘This isn’t over for me, just because I buried my wife today. It’s not over by a long stretch.’

  Jackson sniffed and looked down at Deans’ hand clamped around his forearm.

  ‘I can help you,’ Deans said, ‘like you can’t imagine.’

  ‘I know,’ Jackson whispered. ‘But—’

  ‘No buts,’ Deans interrupted. ‘I’m going inside to find Denise and we’ll follow you back down to Devon.’