The phone call from Chief Constable Rebecca Marsh had been a bolt from the blue, and not only because it came in the middle of the night.
Suspected murder!
It’d been a long time since that’d happened around these parts.
Riddick opted to walk. It was only a fifteen-minute stroll to Knaresbough Castle, and he dreaded to think how over the limit he was. The breeze had picked up pace since his date with Cynthia earlier, and he wished he’d slipped a jumper on between his shirt and leather jacket.
Throwing some extra-strong mints into his mouth, he entered via the car park that attached itself to the side of the castle grounds. He saw the black incident van, several patrol cars, and a couple of sporty Audis owned by some of the bigwigs who would now be in attendance. He also saw a couple of vans he recognised. Shit. The press.
The castle grounds were well lit by the full moon. Due to recent spring showers, the soil was soft under foot but not muddy. Not far ahead, he could see the crumbling façade of the keep, and a blue-and-white police cordon tape strung between a rusty gate beside the keep and a bench beside the bowling green.
There was good news and bad news regarding a small group of people in front of the rusty gate. The good news was that they were on the right side of the cordon. The bad news was that they were reporters, and if there was one person reporters didn’t like, it was him.
He avoided eye contact as he passed.
‘DI Riddick?’
Eyes forward, he chewed on another mouthful of mints.
‘DI Riddick, do you know who the body belongs to?’
He growled.
‘Is this your first crime scene since the Winters case?’
Riddick stopped and turned his narrowed eyes on the female reporter who’d asked that question. Marianne Perse. Freelance journalist. Always selling to the highest bidder and bids were obviously high – she drove a Bentley.
He fixed her in his stare.
She smirked. ‘Well, DI Riddick, is this your first crime scene since?’
Riddick took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled slowly.
Muttering ‘piss off’ under his breath, he turned to the cordon and surveyed the scene. Among the scouring white-suited Scenes of Crime Officers, he spotted Ray Barnett, who was in his white paper suit. The tall, black DS was holding a logbook in his large hand. Riddick gestured him over. ‘Evening Ray.’
‘Sir.’ He nodded and scribbled Riddick’s name into the logbook.
Behind him, Riddick could hear his name being called by the newshounds.
‘They’re relentless,’ Barnett said.
‘Rabid is the word you’re looking for,’ Riddick said with a smile. ‘Don’t suppose you fancy putting the diseased animals down for me?’
Barnett smiled back. ‘Alas, I’m unarmed, sir.’
‘That’s a big bloody logbook, Ray, and I’ve seen you arm wrestle. I’m sure we could come up with a solution—’
‘As I live and breathe,’ Chief Constable Rebecca Marsh said, ‘it’s my most prized detective, doing what he does best, rebelling against the convention of punctuality. Ray, leave us a moment please.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ The large man walked away, weaving over the plates laid by forensics to protect the scene.
Chief Constable Rebecca Marsh was nicknamed ‘Harsh Marsh’ by some due to her short temper, and ‘Dr Frank-N-Furter’ by others due to her short black hair, masculine appearance and leanings towards dark make-up. She was unaware of either nickname, but many felt she would appreciate the first. Not so much the second.
‘Was better to walk, ma’am,’ Riddick said, throwing another mint into his mouth. ‘I had a few sundowners earlier.’
‘Doesn’t matter how many mints you chew, Paul, I can tell from your eyes, your hair, and the colour of your skin that you’ve been painting the town red again.’
‘Hard to paint Knaresborough red—’
‘Are there bars?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘When there’re bars, there’s capacity to paint. And you’ve been painting all night. Again.’
Riddick nodded.
‘Notice how I keep using the word again?’
‘Ma’am, I’m fine to do my job.’
‘Good. Because we’ve a bad one here. MCU has not seen one like it in its five years of existence.’
The Major Crime Unit in Harrogate mainly dealt with kidnap, rape and cold cases. Murders were rare in this neck of the woods.
‘DI Riddick? Chief Constable Marsh?’ The press continued unabated.
‘They were bad before you got here,’ Marsh said. ‘But not like this. You really know how to rile them.’
Riddick rolled his eyes. I didn’t bloody say anything!
‘Fortunately,’ Marsh said, ‘Joe is on his way.’
Joe Bridge was the Press Relations Officer, and he was like the Pied Piper when it came to rat infestations like this one.
Barnett came back over with a wrapped bundle and handed it to Riddick who tore it open and slipped on his white paper suit and his overshoes. Then, he stepped under the cordon. ‘What do we have, ma’am?’
‘IC1 male, black hair. He’s tall, skinny, young.’
Riddick took a deep breath. ‘How young?’
‘It’s Bradley Taylor.’
Riddick breathed out. ‘Good God. Are we sure?’
‘Yes. There’re enough officers here that recognise him.’
‘Not surprised. He’s one of our local louts. He’s also a kid.’ Riddick glanced at the press and sighed. ‘Which means they’ll be very hungry.’
‘Ravenous, no doubt,’ Marsh said. ‘However, Bradley recently turned eighteen – Doug Brace had it wrong. At least, he’s no longer considered a child.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘Don’t know. The pathologist has yet to arrive.’
They started to walk along the path of plates. Riddick nodded a greeting at the Chief Forensic Officer, Fiona Lane, who was currently overseeing the pouring of resin into something on the grassy area. Other officers, including Roy Reid, the Exhibits Officer, were helping steady the tent they were erecting over the grass and the side of the keep in case a spring shower should suddenly ensue.
‘You must have an inkling?’ Riddick said.
‘No,’ Marsh said. ‘No marks on the body.’
‘Natural causes?’
‘Maybe… except, why was he around the back of the keep?’
‘Bradley Taylor? I can give you any number of reasons. The clear favourite being that he was smoking something he shouldn’t have been smoking,’ Riddick said.
‘He’s never shied away from doing that out in the open! Besides, there’s no one around here at this time; why hide away?’
‘Drag marks on the ground?’
‘The grass did look flattened nearby, but I’ve let forensics crack on with that.’
As they approached the back of the keep, Riddick cast his eye over the striking viaduct and the moonlight dancing on the Nidd. He wondered, briefly, if Knaresborough’s most famous view had been ruined forever.
‘By the way, you’re not the Senior Investigating Officer,’ Marsh said.
At that point, a woman wearing a yellow raincoat underneath her paper suit stepped out from behind the keep. She was looking down at something. Riddick traced her eyes and saw she was looking at the white trainers poking out from behind the keep.
‘DCI Emma Gardner,’ Marsh said. ‘She arrived yesterday.’
‘Nice raincoat. No rain, like.’
‘She’s from the south. Wiltshire. Not used to the drizzle.’
‘West Country? Wow. Not a fan of the accent.’ I’m also not a fan of someone new. Especially considering the chaos that is about to descend on Knaresborough.
‘And what do you think she’ll make of your accent?’ Marsh asked.
‘That it’s full of northern soul?’
‘Northern, yes, Paul. The soul, questionable.’
‘You know, ma’am, I did think you’d be tapping me up for that DCI job.’
‘Did you want it?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Didn’t think so.’
However, neither do I want to be working for someone new. Especially a southerner wearing a silly raincoat. ‘It still would have been nice to be asked though.’
‘I’ll introduce you to—’
‘No thanks, ma’am. I got this.’