Moorland Forensics - Aftershock

D Jones Julie

Description

The early years of the New Millennium. The High Veldt on the Dark Continent. A young family is ripped apart by a brutal, pre-meditated home invasion. The unknown assailants escaping into the night.Fifteen years later the South West of England is rocked by a series of devastating, suspected terrorist bombings, putting the nation on high alert.Investigations uncover connections to these tragedies with a catastrophic IRA car bombing in Northern Ireland a generation earlier.The team at Moorland Forensic Consultants battle conflicts of interests and personal crises as they work with government scientists and a compromised, faltering local law enforcement to bring the bombers to justice.

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
• Date de parution: 06 janvier 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781398466647
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 3 Mo

Extrait

Moorland Forensics - Aftershock
Julie D. Jones
Austin Macauley Publishers
2023-01-06
Moorland Forensics - Aftershock About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Acknowledgement Preface: Belfast, Northern Ireland, 1989 Chapter One: Present Day Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Leeds, England, November 2009 Special Ops Room, Police Headquarters, Leeds, November 2009 Late Evening, Leeds, November 2009 --> Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven London Metropolitan Police Headquarters, 15 November 1989 Ferry Terminal, Holyhead, Wales, 21 November 1989 RNAS Culdrose Cornwall, Breakfast, Officers Mess, 21 November 1989 Holyhead to Dublin Ferry, 21 November 1989 Present Day --> Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Epilogue
About the Author
Julie D. Jones was born in Bovey Tracey on the edge of Dartmoor and grew up near Kingsbridge in the South Hams in Devon. After finishing school Julie spent some time as an au pair in Bavaria. Graduating from The Gloucestershire Royal Hospital as a nurse, she emigrated to Australia working as a Nurse and also in the Music Industry. Aftershock is her fourth novel following on from the release in 2017 of Bound by Polaris , Devil’s Realm in 2019 and Conspiracy of Souls in 2021. Julie is a classically trained flautist and enjoys sailing and horse riding.
Dedication
To the courageous uniformed members of all Armed Forces who daily confront the terror of an unexploded device.
Copyright Information ©
Julie D. Jones 2023
The right of Julie D. Jones to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781398466630 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781398466647 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published 2023
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd ®
1 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5AA
Acknowledgement
To friends and family for their unwavering support and encouragement. To the team at Austin Macauley.
Preface Belfast, Northern Ireland, 1989
Maria looked up, smiled and waved, her long silver blonde hair flowing freely past her shoulders. Truly an amazing day. Brilliant sunshine, white, fluffy clouds. Seductive smells borne on the breeze bringing the promise of warm summer days. Life couldn’t get better.
Jack had enjoyed the park; feeding the ducks and playing on the swings but what made her even happier was the realisation in six weeks they would be back home, together, amongst their own. Maria relished her time in Northern Ireland; many friendships were forged with promises of return visits to Ulster and the Republic, yet she longed to be back amongst family, especially with another baby on the way. Shielding her eyes from the sun, poised to raise her hand in another cheery wave, she pushed the stroller onto the road…
It happened in front of him; one moment his wife and son were crossing the street to join him, the next an earth-shattering explosion; a micro-second later smaller explosions, before hell rained down. The force of the blast catapulted him backwards across the room, impacting hard against the opposite wall ejecting the air from his lungs.
Unsure for how long he was unconscious, the young man eased into an upright position, painfully staggering to the shattered window. Sight restored, he shrugged aside the thick smoke-laden air, taking in the emerging scene: distorted, vaguely human forms motionless on the pavement, blood and dust intermingled, flesh adhering to pieces of twisted metal.
Screams echoed all around, cries for help, sirens; then an eerie silence descended on his world.
Instantly, he knew what had happened and the cause of the blast, anger rising to the surface. ‘Bastards, you fucking bastards.’ Covering his face in despair, vowing to seek revenge on those responsible. He would make them pay and suffer in the same unfathomable way he would be suffering for the remainder of his days.

Capitol of the Republic, Pretoria, South Africa, the year 2005
The sun set low across the sweet-smelling, purple flowering Jacaranda trees lining the length of the access road to the company accommodation complex; a brilliant, orange-streaked sky and the monotonic drone of a billion cicadas heralding the end to another day on the High Veldt. Hugo Quinn-Harrington, beautiful wife Anastasia and their fifteen-year-old daughter Pippa returning home from a local restaurant celebrating Hugo’s birthday were in good spirits, the conversation animated.
Upon approach to the high walled estate, the security guard nodded briefly in recognition, pressing a button activating a solenoid, causing double wrought iron gates to swing open. Ubiquitous armed guards and barbed wire running the perimeter of the compound were installed to create a safe haven from the outside world, from the old scar of racial tensions. The everyday reality of life in the Republic.
Hugo drove through the gates turning left, bringing the Jaguar saloon to a halt within inches of the front entrance, unaware what lay in wait.
Pippa entered the unit first, flicking the light switch just inside the door. She hummed merrily heading to her second-floor bedroom, housed in a separate wing. What happened next was the unthinkable; a masked figure emerged yielding a machete. The words later on the coroner’s report stated, ‘Literally hacked to death.’
Hugo, unaware of his daughter’s demise, was shot twice in the back of the head at point-blank range. Annie, in a state of shock, miraculously managed to outpace her attackers, her bloodcurdling screams echoing unbroken into the cool African night, as she sought refuge at a neighbouring condominium.
Chapter One Present Day
‘That was one hell of an explosion,’ DI Wetherill shielded his eyes from the midday sun, pointing a finger out across the River Dart. ‘See where the main section of the cabin has been completely destroyed. No wonder we’re getting reports of zero survivors.’
Nick Shelby, standing next to Wetherill, baulked from the smell of stale tobacco, dismayed to find Wetherill assigned to the crime scene.
‘There’s a couple of SOCOs already on site trying to determine if this was a pipe bomb or Molotov cocktail,’ Wetherill continued. ‘The police forensic team has also identified an undetonated device taped to the chassis of a car parked alongside Kingswear Marina. We’ve evacuated everyone from the immediate area and Army are responding with a full bomb team.’
‘Still a lot of work to be done then,’ Shelby remarked, never confident Wetherill really knew what he was doing. He looked down over the seawall at ambulance and fire crews disembarking onto the walkway. He nodded to one or two in recognition.
‘All yours, Shelby,’ a short fireman called over. ‘Sadly, no survivors.’
‘Thanks Carl,’ Nick responded ruefully.
‘It looks pretty straightforward to me,’ Wetherill reached for a fresh packet of cigarettes from his back pocket, peeling off the cellophane wrapping. ‘I think we’ll soon establish this was a targeted attack, no need to look into any potential bombs cropping up anywhere else in the local area, apart from the one I just mentioned, of course.’
‘Something we can’t rule out just yet,’ Nick Shelby retorted, fastening the straps on a floatation vest as he prepared to climb into the police RIB and inspect the immediate damage.
‘Army explosive specialists are on their way,’ Wetherill continued. ‘They should be here within the hour. Lance Waring is already working the scene, I’ll expect something from you by the end of the day, Shelby, there’s a good lad.’
The high-powered police inflatable cast off Dartmouth Quay, rising quickly to the plane, skimming effortlessly over the glistening water, in a matter of minutes taking Shelby and Wetherill the short distance across the harbour to the scene of the crime. Nick took a moment to glance back along the shoreline taking in the familiar sights of Dartmouth, its multi-hued Georgian buildings and foreshore streets, crammed with animated tourists jostling for a glimpse of the unfolding drama.
The inflatable jolted to a halt, drawing up alongside the remains of The Dartmouth Oyster , discernible by its elegant lines as a classic wooden, fast cruising yacht now safely moored to a floating pontoon far away from the main marina arms. Nick stepped gingerly on board the charred and shattered deck, closely followed by Wetherill flicking his cigarette overboard, as the RIB driver killed the outboards.
Without delay, Nick commenced the gruesome task of examining the bodies. Waring guided Nick to the first victim easily located, half buried by a pile of debris, under the enclosed part of the rear deck adjacent to a blackened, scarred marine petrol engine.
He knelt next to the corpse, speaking clearly and precisely into his small tape recorder, unable to disguise the Kiwi accent. Victim number one is a white male, estimated to be in his thirties, extensive burns cover nearly sixty percent of the body.
Nick then went through a check list of routine visual tests to determine a preliminary on how the victim died, a thorough autops