Green Hill

Jonathan Paxton

Description

Detective Inspector Frank Taylor was an experienced and established officer working out of the South-West Police Headquarters near Bristol, his methods are old school but, in his mind, still effective. Close to retirement, Frank looked to do his job and draw that well deserved pension, but on one cold late-Autumn morning he received a call that would change his perception of the world, people and the job that he does….On arrival at the crime scene, Frank is faced with a gruesome and shocking sight….never before had he witnessed such a disturbing, vicious attack as this. A cold, psychopathic killing, seemingly without motive, soon followed, in quick succession, by a string of further violent executions. The nature and profile of the killings draw the upper echelons of crime prevention and counter terrorism into Frank’s environment. Why were these people being killed? What was the link? Frank becomes entangled in a world of intense mystery, deception and murder. How many people will die? Who is behind this? Why is this happening? Can frank solve the puzzle?...Green Hill is a thriller that tackles questions we all ask at some point in our lives; what makes people behave in the way they do? What can we do to stop it?

Sujets

• Thrillers
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Xlibris UK
• Date de parution: 28 juillet 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781669890201
• Langue: English

Extrait

GREEN HILL
 
 
 
 
JONATHAN PAXTON
 
 
Copyright © 2023 by Jonathan Paxton.

Library of Congress Control Number:
           2023913925
ISBN:
Softcover
978-1-6698-9019-5
 
eBook
978-1-6698-9020-1
 
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
 
 
Rev. date: 07/28/2023
 
 
 
 
Xlibris
UK TFN: 0800 0148620 (Toll Free inside the UK)
UK Local: (02) 0369 56328 ([phone] from outside the UK)
www.Xlibrispublishing.co.uk
 
854310
CONTENTS
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
Epilogue
CHAPTER 1
Saturday, October 27, 2007 Whetlow, Eng land
Joyce Coombs wandered along the street with her head held high. She had gone through a lot of trouble this morning preening and making herself look as attractive as possible. She had chosen a navy blue wrap-around skirt that covered most of her legs but occasionally when the wind was right onlookers would be rewarded with a frontal flash of stockinged thigh. She wore a white blouse, which clung to her breast in the pressing breeze. She smiled as she approached RJ Mason, the local butchers, having already received several admiring and shocked glances from those that had caught a glimpse of her. Until a week or so ago Joyce wouldn’t have dreamed of donning such attire. She was always perceived as the typical shopkeeper’s wife. Homely, reserved, almost retiring. This appearance was not typical of her and a radical change that was receiving bemused and perplexed feedback from within the local community, albeit softly to begin with. It was a side of Joyce that had previously remained hidden beneath ill-fitting garments. The only make-up she wore was mascara and light red lipstick, which complemented her auburn locks. She was fortunate in that way too; most women of her age usually needed several layers of foundation to cover the telltale lines of maturity.
As she opened the door into the butcher’s shop, the tiny bell attached to the door made its sound to alert the staff to a customer. Bob appeared from behind the side door. He wiped his hands with a linen cloth. The shop was immaculately clean. The walls were coated with brilliant white tiles that seemed to sparkle under the combination of the shop lights and the throw of sunlight, which cut through the large glass windows.
“Afternoon Robert!” Joyce smiled, pushing out her chest to his welcoming and surprised eyes. He had known Joyce for a long time and even though he remembered her in her younger years, he couldn’t comprehend the change in appearance. Although she looked good, he didn’t understand the sudden reasoning behind it. It was uncharacteristic of her.
“What can I do for you Joyce?” Bob smiled uneasily.
Joyce returned the smile.
“Now that is a leading question ...” she pouted her lips and leant forward to peer into the glass panelled meat counter.
“I fancy some sausage!” she said matter-of-factly, albeit with a sparkle in her eye.
Bob gave an anxious grin.
“How much would you like?”
Joyce sucked in the air through her teeth.
“How much have you got?” She smiled and raised her eyebrows.
Bob was acutely aware that she was teasing him and it made him feel uncomfortable. This just wasn’t Joyce at all, not the Joyce he knew.
Bob was in his early forties and had developed a keen and productive business since he took over from his father almost 8 years ago. He was slightly overweight around the midriff, which one could account to his love of red meat but his shoulders, arms and chest were well defined and muscular from the exertions of his trade.
Bob shifted uneasily.
Although, usually, it was he who jokingly ushered the stereotypical butcher innuendoes with reference to meat at his lady customers, he couldn’t handle the boot being on the other foot.
He blushed slightly.
Bob was a single man. His divorce had been finalised almost three years ago and he was happy in his new life. He also had a fondness and a friendship for Joyce’s family.
“Got any of those spicy pork ones left?” She broke the thick silence.
“Alan likes a bit of bite with his sausage” she smiled looking across the display.
“I don’t have any ready but I’m sure I could make some up for you Joyce if you want to pop back later...” He stammered.
She smiled. Bob wasn’t sure if she was just being extraordinarily pleasant or if she was mocking him.
“Ok, I’ll call back later then” she smiled.
Another customer entered the shop and eased the atmosphere for a brief moment.
Bob’s forehead shone under perspiration.
“Ok Joyce that’s fine ... Was it a pound of sausages?” he asked.
She smiled again.
“That would be lovely ...” she whispered and winked.
Joyce turned slowly and briefly smiled at the old man still stood in the doorway before disappearing along the street. The old man wavered on his wooden stick slightly before he edged closer to the counter. Bob puffed out his cheeks in relief as he watched Joyce exit the shop.
“Can I help you?” Bob turned his attention to the old man. The old man averted his gaze from Bob down into the display. He pointed at the thin slivers of pigs’ liver congealed grotesquely in the corner of the furthest tray with a wavering outstretched finger. Bob followed the man’s indication until he said,
“Liver? ... Yes?” looking for confirmation.
The old man dropped his finger and gently nodded his head. Bob had served the man several times before but never really got to know him, although he had spoken with him on a number of occasions. Bob knew he had been a resident in Whetlow for around three or four years, at least that was the length of time that he had been using his shop. He seemed quite a lonely old man. He kept himself to himself and lived in the old mill house, down by the church at the quiet end of town. The mill house sat alone at the end of the graveyard surrounded under shadows from the giant yews that pierced the skies and populated the area. In fact, even when Bob was a child the house emitted a certain eeriness. It seemed the house had a perfect occupant, for indeed, Bob felt uncomfortable in the presence of the old man. They were obviously made for each other, the house and he. The old man never really spoke very much, although, his eyes said more than enough. Bob guessed that he must have been close to eighty years old. His grey hair matted and arranged in no particular style, in fact Bob doubted as to whether it had seen a brush or comb in many years or even hot water and soap for that matter. He always wore the same navy blazer with a crest emblazoned in gold on the left breast pocket. Bob didn’t recognise the crest or the writing under it, but it seemed to perhaps represent a wartime effort or regiment. He wore a navy blue tie and a discoloured white and light-blue pin-stripe shirt. His attire would have been considered respectable from a distance but as one drew closer the smell emanating from the clothes irritated the nostrils. It held that distinctly musty and stale odour of unaired garments. A smell when mixed with the bodily odours of an older man could not be tolerated with deep breaths. Bob found himself holding his breath as much as possible without drawing obvious attention to himself.
“One or two pieces?” Bob slightly choked as the smell drifted into his open mouth.
The old man looked deep into the back of Bob’s eyes. The stare penetrated like a red-hot poker singeing the nerve ends as it pushed deeper and deeper beyond. Bob could almost feel the sinew tearing.
He held up a solitary finger and smiled.
Bob found himself transfixed by the long finger. Wrinkled. Crusted with substances he dared not imagine. Long curved nails retaining almost a centimetre of dirt and grime. Nicotine stained.
Bob stared silently until the old man lowered his digit. He felt himself fight inside to prevent a trance-like state ensuing. His voice trembled.
“Just one piece then!”
He waited for confirmation for a second before lifting the offal from the tray. Bob wrapped the meat and rang the till.
“Sixty-five pence please ...” Bob issued, looking into the old man’s eyes again.
The old man had already produced the exact money and slid it gently along the glass counter.
Bob stared at the three coins.
“Oh ... Thank you ... exactly right”