The Lonely Lake Killings

Wes Markin

Description

Are you missing Happy Valley? Don't miss the next gripping instalment in the Yorkshire Murder Series by bestselling British crime author Wes Markin

A lonely recluse. A missing girl and a community in fear.

When the body of a young local girl is found next to an isolated lake, the main suspect is the old recluse who has lived next to the lake for many years – especially when the young girl’s purse is found on the old man’s doorstep.

But DCI Emma Gardner and her partner DI Paul Riddick aren’t so sure. Why would the old hermit leave such an obvious clue? And who would want to set the old man up?

As they dig deeper into the murder they discover a community in fear, determined to keep hold of long buried secrets. And Riddick is convinced that his own dark past is somehow linked to this crime, too.

Gardner fears that she may never get the answers she needs, until a break leads her down a path she’d rather not face. One that runs directly to her own front door…

What people are saying about Wes Markin...

'Cracking start to an exciting new series. Twist and turns, thrills and kills. I loved it.' Bestselling author Ross Greenwood.

'Markin stuns with his latest offering... Mind-bendingly dark and deep, you know it's not for the faint hearted from page one. Intricate plotting, devious twists and excellent characterisation take this tale to a whole new level. Any serious crime fan will love it!' Bestselling author Owen Mullen

'A nerve-jangling, heart thumping belter of a crime series.' Bestselling author TG Reid

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Thriller
• Fiction
• Noir
• Yorkshire
• Suspense
• England
• Family Life
• Crime
• Adventure
• 21st Century
• Psychology
• Sibling
• Domestic
• Inglaterra
• Condado de Yorkshire (Reino Unido)
• Suspenso
• Adventure (Guyana)
• Thrillers
• World Literature
• Siblings
• Traditional
• Amateur Sleuth
• Hard-Boiled
• Private Investigators
• Women Sleuths
• Psychological
• Mashups

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 15 février 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781804837566
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE LONELY LAKE KILLINGS


WES MARKIN
For H and B
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

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52


Acknowledgments

More from Wes Markin

About the Author

Also by Wes Markin

The Murder List

About Boldwood Books
1

Bugger it!
On account of him now being an old man, it was a nightmare for Frank Dowson to get over the fence on Breary Flat Lane with his fishing gear. Still, he managed it, because nothing, absolutely nothing, was ever going to stand between him and a line in the water.
From habit, he cast cursory glances around him for any observers before and after the climb. Not that anyone would’ve stopped him. Yes, the lake and the lands around it beyond this fence were private property but try telling that to the local youths who smoked marijuana and had sex here, or the countless other fishermen who plundered these waters.
Frank had always been one of the many . Who wants to stand out? Life was much simpler when you blended in.
After scaling the fence, he took a deep breath and smiled. He loved the smell of the lake. As if he was missing out on these local opportunities just because someone owned this land! No siree. He’d paid council tax to Knaresborough for most of his bloody life, and no rich landowner was keeping this place from him!
Once he was over his fence, he glanced at his Rolex – a wedding present from his late wife – and saw that it was five-thirty. It was getting on to August, so the sun had already risen. In his younger days, he’d have been here much earlier. However, negotiating the undergrowth down towards the lake in waders, while clutching on to his tackle and bait, as well as his sandwiches and coffee, was no mean feat; to attempt it in darkness these days at his ridiculous age would’ve been a recipe for a visit to A&E, a long stay in hospital and a drawn-out recovery. Coming later wasn’t a major issue for Frank these days anyway.
Retirement, eh? The promised land. No ticking clock!
Except when the sun came out in force that was!
If it started to frazzle him as it’d done last week, he’d be forced to pack up early. He took a quick glance up at the sky. It looked overcast, which gave him some hope. Although, humidity could end up an issue too.
He worked his way left through a patch of trees, purposefully moving away from the busiest area of the lake to the quieter side. Eventually, he stopped and considered. It was so tempting to head further into solitude. Away from the many other fishermen that would surely come over the fence in the next few hours.
He sighed. No. He needed to stay one of the many . Venturing on may risk his quiet life.
Because, up ahead, lost in the trees and undergrowth, was Harvey Henfrey’s cottage.
And no one really went near that.
Harvey Henfrey had a right to be on this land, due to an agreement with the landowner – how he pulled that off was anybody’s guess.
You see, Harvey was peculiar.
A man in his early fifties had no cause to be living out here like a recluse, without the comforts many took for granted, only venturing into town, sporadically, for supplies.
It was just plain odd. Harvey certainly wasn’t one of the many !
However, although Frank had never met Harvey himself, he had it on good authority that the recluse was amiable enough. A man who didn’t like to engage in conversation but wouldn’t ignore the social pleasantries.
But straying too close to Harvey’s property to fish wasn’t the done thing. The man wanted to be alone. Let him be alone.
A few more steps wouldn’t hurt though, would it?
A record number of metres later, he smirked at his adventurous nature, and then turned to face the body of water.
Due to the overcast day, it didn’t sparkle as it usually did under the early morning sun, but God, did he feel that familiar rush of blood in his veins.
Some went skiing, some went scuba diving, some even jumped out of aeroplanes…
Frank Dowson fished.
And he knew of nothing else that could get his juices flowing in quite the same way.
Keen to get going, he increased his speed slightly – as much as his arthritic knees would allow anyway. He passed two trees and—
Stopped dead in his tracks, a coldness spreading over his chest.
Someone was sitting on the other side of the tree just ahead of him.
Not sitting with their back to a tree as was the convention, but rather, facing it, leaning into it. The tree was young, and the trunk relatively thin, so the individual, wearing a dress, had an outstretched leg either side of it.
The person’s face was flat against the other side of the trunk and therefore, hidden.
‘Hello?’
Nothing.
‘Hello?’
The coldness in Frank’s chest intensified, and he worried for his heart, which was probably still sore from last year’s triple bypass. He glanced around, sucking in air, for a tree that he could lean against, but the closest to him was the one that potentially had a body behind it.
Fearing a panic attack, or worse still, heart failure, he focused hard on taking slow deep breaths, and when he was confident that he was no longer about to keel over, he said, ‘Get yourself together, man.’
He took two large steps forward and looked at the person leaning into the tree.
‘Mary mother of Jesus.’
The young woman had her right cheek pressed against the bark, so Frank could see into her wide and empty eyes.
Tia Meadows.
He groaned, picturing her face glowing behind the bar as she poured a pint for him in the White Bull three nights ago.
Her short, black bobbed hair failed to hide the dark wound on her forehead, which had bled down her face. Most of the blood was dry now, and the wound looked as though it was congealing.
Jesus wept! How old are you girl? Twenty?
Frank dropped his fishing tackle, bait, coffee and sandwiches, and put a hand to his mouth.
Without much thought, he said, ‘Tia?’ After her name had left his mouth, he had no idea why he’d bothered. She was dead. So clearly dead.
And then a thought walloped him hard: This is Si Meadows’ daughter! Si flaming Meadows!
He reached for the mobile in his pocket, but when his hand felt the cold material of the waders, he remembered he hadn’t brought it. ‘Shit.’ He deliberately didn’t bring his mobile fishing with him. He wanted the solitude, after all. The peace. The quiet…
…like Harvey Henfrey…
Could the recluse have a phone?
He looked out at the lake, freezing in his mind the image of a leaning, old tree, hanging its branches on the surface of the lake. Knowing the part of the lake Tia’s body was in line with would help Frank locate her again.
‘Wait here,’ he told Tia’s body, knowing it was a useless request, but feeling strangely obligated to do so.
He attempted a jog.
He was quickly out of breath with pain radiating through his chest.
You foolish old man! Killing yourself ain’t going to do anyone a bit of good.
After he’d caught his breath, he returned to a brisk walking speed.
Harvey Henfrey’s stone cottage was surprisingly basic. Five metres by five metres at a push – it was smaller than Frank’s double garage at home. Frank couldn’t imagine holidaying in it for a weekend, never mind living in it.
He paused and thought: Why would anyone subject themselves to this?
He shook his head, admonishing himself again. This really wasn’t the time to wonder what had happened in Harvey’s life to lead to such drastic reclusiveness; there was a dead girl out there in the forest!
Tia Meadows.
The cottage door was level with the ground. He looked at the windows on the front to see if the occupant was looking out, but the curtains were drawn, and remained so.
Frank approached the door and knocked.
In such a tiny enclosure, you could be sure that the knocking wouldn’t go unheard. Additionally, there should be no delay in getting to the door.
He knocked again, speaking this time. ‘Harvey… I’m sorry… I need your help.’
Still nothing.
Shit. Now what?
He could head down to the lake and seek out an early bird with a mobile phone, or he could head back to Breary Flat Lane for a passer-by?
He looked down to his left to a small plastic table and chair and an empty mug. He noticed something beneath the table, something that must have fallen. He knelt, wincing when his arthritic knees complained. He reached under the table, took hold of a woman’s black purse, and rose to his feet again.
He looked at the purse in his hand. If Harvey did have a partner, it was news to him.
A prostitute, perhaps? He rolled his eyes. In Knaresborough? Plus, if it was a prostitute, she probably would be streetwise enough to keep her purse safely by her side, not to advertise her possessions outside here.
Curious, he opened the purse and saw a multitude of cards crammed into the pockets.
He slid a blue card out at random.
A Barclays Visa Debit card.
It couldn’t be.
The coldness in his chest flared again.
No… No…
He traced the raised letters that spelt out Tia Anne Meadows .
Then, sighting the driving licence, he slid it out with a thumb, and looked at Tia’s portrait.
Glowing. Healthy. Young.
Alive.
He heard the clunk of a lock in the cottage door.
The purse, the driving licence and the bank card slipped from his hands. He backed away.
How have I, one of the many – a simple man, ended up here?
He clutc