Urgent Murder

Alex Winchester

Description

A rookie who questions everything teams up with an experienced detective with a chequered past to investigate a chilling murder ...He had to be killed urgently - if he suffered, all the better. If the blame could be shifted to someone else, so be it.A murder in a private home is quickly and easily solved by the police, their culprit established by fingerprints on the murder weapon: a jar of poison. The privatecare nurse neither denies nor admits to it. A clear cut case - but one detective isn't sure. John is an experienced Metropolitan Police detective with a chequeredbackground and a laissez faire attitude who is knocked back when he is suddenly teamed with Alison, a prim young Sussex officer who is out to learn as much aspossible in her ambitious pursuit of senior rank. With different approaches to the case and influences from various people, the two must learn to work together inorder to bring the true killer to justice. Can Alison trust John? Can John shield Alison for what is to come? And are more laws about to be broken when a nefariouscrime lord learns from a highly placed mole that their lucrative way of life is about to come to an end?The reader is led through the ongoing investigation of an apparently solved, simple murder that transpires to be anything but. Twists, turns and clues abound butmay not necessarily lead to the expected conclusion. Readers who enjoy thrilling crime books along with baffling mysteries will delight in this novel.

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 octobre 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781789012019
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

AN URGENT MURDER





Alex Winchester
Copyright © 2018 Alex Winchester

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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ISBN 9781789012019

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
This book is dedicated to all the Police personnel who still believe in and strive to abide by the principles as laid down by the founder of the Police himself, Sir Robert PEEL.

The primary object of an efficient Police is the prevention of crime: the next that of detection and punishment of offenders if crime is committed. To these ends all the efforts of Police must be directed. The protection of life and property, the preservation of public tranquillity, and the absence of crime, will alone prove whether those efforts have been successful, and whether the objects for which the Police were appointed have been attained.
Contents
Prologue
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Prologue
The End?
He had planned to die peacefully and painlessly in his own bed at a time of his choosing. Not lying face down in front of his fireplace in agony with the sole of a shoe resting on the nape of his neck gently holding him in place as his convulsions grew. The pain was coursing through his body and he felt the throbbing in his head growing stronger. His pupils were dilated, his eyes wide open, watery and staring unseeingly at the fireplace. Slowly they closed as the excruciating pain shut everything down and he drifted into a merciful unconsciousness.
It was to be a short respite. He came to and was immediately aware of the torture being inflicted upon his body by the small amount of ingested poison. A groan escaped his throat. No one heard. The foot had left his neck some minutes earlier. His hazy eyes alighted on a small pocket diary covered in dust from years gone by that was lodged under the electric fire that stood on the hearth. An arm appeared in his eye line reaching for it. A Herculean effort considering his discomfort.
They had to pay for the torment he was going through. They had to pay. Fighting the pain, his hand slowly inched towards the diary. Latching onto it with his little finger he watched, as if an outsider, as he dragged it back towards his face. He pulled the small pencil from the diary freeing its pages which flipped open spraying dust into the air. Focusing hard on the page from about 6 inches, he attempted to write. A short black squiggle appeared on the virgin page. Too much exertion! The pain was growing and starting to rack his body with intensifying impulses. Twisting his torso, he lifted his arm and dropped it onto a flat stone slab breaking the pencil in half.
His body started to jerk in uncontrollable spasms. As he lay there, the pain seemed to envelop him. Thoughts flew through his mind of how it had come to this. Not much longer. It had been a good life. Ups and downs like everyone else. Would he be remembered? He passed willingly into unconsciousness for the second time.
Liberation!
1
The Beginning
George was very slightly built. Those who had passed him by in the street and noted the hang of his clothes often thought he looked emaciated, but they were unkind. The previous war with its lack of food had taken a toll on all it touched, especially the pregnant. Some war babies were taking longer to thrive than others. ‘A great war to end all wars’ was how it had been promoted. Even the most uneducated realised they may have been conned. As the second war loomed, and rationing was on the horizon, it was even harder to build up weight. Accepted, his facial features were drawn and collected shadows in some lighting, but it was more the norm to be thin than fat.
George had suffered dreadfully from asthma since birth and had often collapsed when under acute stress. His parents had blamed the constant smog that had enveloped London as industries and transport had begun to burgeon without consideration for the inhabitants. Then again, health issues were not a priority when profit and progress were the order of the day. As he had grown, he had managed most of the time to keep it under control.
Charity was the supplier of most of George’s clothes, and his objective was always to grow into them. He had tried. His parents had done all they could putting as much food on the table as they could afford. They were proud of their son who in turn was immensely proud of his parents, and would do anything for them. When he began teaching, his Mother took great pride in letting all and sundry know that he was not a manual worker, but someone who used his brain for the benefit of others. Then she would fold her arms and her chest would puff out like a preening pigeon awaiting a cooing response. Woe betide anyone who did not comply!
England had lost many of its prime young men to the ravages of the first world war. Yet most who returned were fiercely loyal to the throne, as they had seen the righteousness of their course rewarded whatever their commanders had said or done. Those left at home had remained patriotic and supportive as the war had ebbed and flowed. The older survivors now watched with trepidation as the second world war seemed to become an inevitability as would the deaths of millions more young men. The majority of the young watched with impending fear that it was their turn to step forward and stand up to tyranny. Some with unrestrained bravado relished the fact that they would acquit themselves valiantly on the field of battle and others saw it as a point of duty. George was amongst them. All believed sincerely that whatever happened, they would survive.
At the outbreak of war, George, against his Mother’s wishes, had immediately responded to the call to arms and had gone to the recruiting office with the honest intention of signing up. Cyril had served with distinction during the first war and was now the sergeant recruiting officer. Some questions posed by potential recruits he answered straightforwardly as if their surrogate Father, but mainly he embellished his replies in order not to put anyone off. He watched George enter from the street. No one had been rejected at his office, and he could see that George was going to be a challenge.
He appeared skeletal with a deathly sallow complexion and his short mousey hair looked lank and lifeless against his sunken features. Shaking visibly because of his nerves, he tried to enlist for what he believed was his patriotic duty to serve his country in a just cause. He collapsed. A medic who was present soon realised it was no pretence, and that was George, out of the war.
2
Saturday 14th December 1940
There are days in everyone’s lives that people seem unable or unwilling to forget, whether they want to or not. They can remember detail in minutiae. George seemed to know this more than most even though it is different for everyone. It could be a religious occurrence depending on one’s faith, a challenge overcome, a birth or death, or even some pointless minor event. He had had a few of these days already. Trying to put them out of his mind was futile. They were there and going to stay there forever. One such day was just prior to Christmas, in December of 1940. George remembered it as though it were yesterday. Saturday 14th. He could recall everything he had done and said from the time he heard the first birds chirruping in the morning to: well when he fainted.
During an air raid on the docks of East London, a large mine had landed at the entrance to the purpose-built shelter he and his parents had constructed at the bottom of their garden. It was their retreat from the little terraced house they had lived in for some 18 years prior to the outbreak of w