Recompense Read online

  Recompense

  Caroline Goldsworthy

  Copyright © Caroline Goldsworthy, 2020

  Published: April 2020 by

  Gordian Knot Publishing Ltd

  ISBN: 978-1-9161221-3-0

  Paperback Edition

  ISBN: 978-1-9161221-4-7

  eBook Edition

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Caroline Goldsworthy to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her 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 retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events 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.

  Cover design copyright © Caroline Goldsworthy

  Created with Vellum

  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

  Afterword

  Author’s Notes

  Also by Caroline Goldsworthy

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  31st March 2018

  Gippingford, Suffolk

  Dr Jervis Kilburn ducked his head as he strode through the cellar doorway into the main room of the derelict house. He paused long enough to glance at Detective Chief Inspector Ronald Carlson and shake his head.

  ‘That bad?’ Carlson said through the paper cover held over his nose.

  Kilburn slid the surgical mask from his face and the hood of his paper coverall off his head. His usually healthy face had a grey tint. ‘Worst I’ve seen in a while, Ronnie,’ he said, looking around at the peeling paint and broken windows in the dimly lit room. He flashed the torch from his mobile around the neatly swept floor, and over the shattered glass, barely visible in the filtered light from the steel security screens. ‘He must have died screaming, that is, if he’d been able to breathe. I palpitated his lungs – they seem to contain fluid. Kirsty and her guys are still working the scene, but their preliminary photos have already been uploaded on my iPad. I could do with some fresh air.’ Kilburn waved his hand, motioning for Carlson to leave before him. ‘Shall we?’

  Once outside, the doctor walked to his car, retrieved the slim computer from the boot, pressed his finger on the home button and handed it to his colleague.

  Carlson swiped quickly through the images, then went back to the beginning and reviewed them methodically, stopping at times and zooming in. He handed the tablet back to Kilburn.

  ‘I see what you mean, Jervis,’ he said, plunging his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. ‘I’ve been in this game a while and I’ve never seen anything like that.’

  Detective Constable Jane Lacey had been talking to the ambulance crew and the police constable maintaining the log on the outer cordon but, on seeing her boss and the pathologist exit the house, she hastened to join them. ‘Show me?’ she asked, holding out her hand for the tablet. For a moment Jervis Kilburn hesitated.

  He passed the tablet to her. ‘It’s bad, Jane,’ he said.

  She swallowed. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘It must be pretty gruesome if you’re saying that. You’ve never warned me before.’ She flicked through the photographs, occasionally stopping, going back, zooming in.

  When she reached the end, her dark eyes held Kilburn’s deep blue before she said, ‘That is truly horrible,’ and she thrust the iPad towards her boss. ‘What do you think made him swell up like that? Is that what’s made his skin blue? And what about his wedding tackle? Do you think he bled out when it was cut off, or was there something else? Makes you think he got on the wrong side of someone really nasty, doesn’t it?’

  She looked at them both. Over her head, Carlson and Kilburn stared at each other and winced. Kilburn spoke first.

  ‘There could be many causes, Jane, and you make a lot of good points. The dermis as you can see is swollen but it’s also very waxy to the touch. His lungs appear to contain fluid; therefore my preliminary assessment would be something like a pulmonary oedema, but how did that happen? Could he have been tortured? Waterboarding for example. But there’s no evidence of any water in the cellar.’ He held his hand out for the tablet and Jane passed it back to him. ‘Then, of course, there is the obvious injury to the genitals. There is a lot of blood in the cellar,’ Kilburn sighed. ‘Anyway, you know the routine. Need him on my slab before I give any definitive view.’

  ‘Of course,’ Jane replied. Turning to Carlson, she looked up at him and said. ‘I’ve talked with the homeless guy, sir. He said he’s been using this place on and off for years. He came back – he thinks it was yesterday – but it wasn’t until he woke this morning that he noticed a smell. He thought a cat had got trapped in the cellar and died. He went down to look and ended up getting a bit of a shock.’

  ‘I bet he did,’ said Carlson. ‘I don’t suppose he knows matey, does he?’

  Jane shook her head. ‘He says not, and the victim looks quite well nourished in these photos, doesn’t he? Or that could be the bloating, but he doesn’t look homeless to me.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Carlson. ‘Jervis, thanks for turning out. Tomorrow or Monday for the autopsy?’

  ‘I’ll keep you posted, but Kirsty reckons it’ll be late tomorrow before she can release the scene,’ replied the pathologist.

  ‘Okay,’ said Carlson. ‘Enjoy your Easter egg, Doc. Jane and I will be tucking into ours at the station.’

  Chapter Two

  3rd July 2015

  Pamplona, Navarra

  The blistering heat which had assaulted Lissa Warren in Bilbao was absent from Pamplona’s underground bus station. It was cool and low-lit as she tried to tug her luggage from the belly of the bus. Another passenger came to help, but he knocked over her camera bag and Lissa yelped as if she felt the pain of her precious cargo. The cameras were her livelihood and expensive to replace. Her fellow passenger stepped back, returning her scowl and ran his eyes over her breasts and down her body, finally resting at her crotch. Hairs rose on the nape of her neck and she froze under his gaze. Although not usually lost for words, her jaw clamped shut, her lips forming a thin line. Speechless, she grabbed her luggage with clam
my, slippery hands, rested her camera bag on top of the case whilst hoping there was no serious damage done. When her legs felt under control again, she made a rapid escape, rolling everything towards the elevator and exit. Once in the main street, the sun’s heat hit her. The paving slabs acted like storage panels, and the scent of tarmac and exhaust fumes flooded her nostrils. The cold sweat she experienced underground warmed and slid down her midriff under the thin, cotton T-shirt. She took shelter beneath a bus stop awning to study her map and began walking towards the pensión she had booked.

  The shade of Paseo de Sarasate was a welcome relief and she strolled to her small hotel under the cover of the plane trees. It was little more than a room but it was cheap, very clean, and a safe place to store and now to inspect any damage to her cameras. It was a good base to explore the city in preparation for her assignment. Her Spanish was just about good enough to book in, although she had been assured that she could speak English if there were any problems. She had chosen it as it was only a short distance from Plaza del Castillo and the café, which Hemingway had made famous.

  After a quick shower in the surprisingly well-appointed en suite, Lissa ensured that her cameras were undamaged. Selecting the basic digital SLR she ambled away from her pensión, up a slight rise to the Plaza del Castillo. The controversial remodelling that she had read about was completed, but the works had destroyed many trees, robbing the plaza of precious shade and character. The replacement juvenile trees had yet to fulfil the role of their predecessors.

  At the far end of the square, the enormous awnings of Café Iruña stretched almost the width of the plaza, their shade promising relaxation and cool beers. The call was enchanting, intoxicating and unavoidable. She chose to sit outside, resting her feet on the edge of a rectangular, mock stone tub. Through the long, pointed green leaves of the plants with their tall red bracts, she gazed at people wandering around the square, trying to work out their nationality by their clothing. But it was a game which was always much better with company. Lissa rapidly grew bored and turned her attention to the tourist guide. Later, revitalised by a couple of cool drinks and a portion of traditional tortilla, Lissa was ready to do her own sightseeing. Plonking a hat on her head she set off, map in hand, in search of the Plaza de Toros and the route of the bull run.

  Lissa photographed the streets and buildings as she walked, marvelling at how narrow the roads were. As she reached the end of Santo Domingo, she turned around and stared at the rising road. The quartz in the cobbled sets glistened in the sun and she rubbed the toe of her walking boot against one of the cobbles. It was smooth and felt as if it would be slippery in the wet. Aware of her surroundings, Lissa looked for places to take the greatest shots. That’s what her assignment was about. Getting the best images of this famous fiesta of San Fermin. Although, as she had discovered through her research, it wasn’t so much a festival for the saint as combining his October festival day with the July cattle market, because of the better weather in summer.

  She continued walking up the narrow route, imagining it filled with people and frantic bulls. In a few days’ time she would not need to imagine. On reaching Plaza Consistorial she rested her Canon on the hefty wooden structures which were permanently in place. During the bull run these would offer respite for any runners who wanted to step away from sharp horns and several hundred kilos of angry bull. Lissa took some test shots of the square and, as she did so, a group of walkers strode past, shoulders hunched and leaning forward on tall walking poles to counterbalance the weight of their rucksacks, grim determination across their faces. Scallop shells swung back and forth as they continued their pilgrimages of the Camino de Santiago – the Way of Saint James. Smiling to herself, Lissa wondered if other walkers would continue on their pilgrimage when the bulls were running through the square. She chuckled. Probably not.

  The bullring, a tall circular edifice, soared far above her head as Lissa walked around, taking in the sheer size of the structure. The outer walls, covered in graffiti and posters, rose to meet concrete flying buttresses which supported the upper seating area. She knew she had to go in and get the lie of the land, but she hesitated, as she had done before taking the assignment. Would she be the only person in the city who hated animal cruelty next week? She reminded herself that she’d chosen to take this assignment so she could continue to travel, to write her blog and not succumb to the “proper” job her parents were anxious for her to find. She’d spent an entire year working in an office so she could save enough money to travel. Each day was a fresh hell, spent looking at the clock as the hands clicked with a tortuous slowness towards escape time. All that kept her going was the thought of the freedom in her future. She had no idea what motivated her co-workers. And now, since she needed to produce a good portfolio for the magazine to get other jobs, and remain free of office shackles, she stepped inside.

  It was the same as all the pictures she’d seen. An amphitheatre of cruelty, similar to the Roman Colosseum where gladiators fought amongst themselves and against other captured creatures. Taking a seat in the section marked sol, she blinked as the sun radiated off the sand in the centre of the ring. On the far side of the ring, all the seats were in shade. These were the sombra seats, the most expensive ones, as the spectators would be protected from the sun for the afternoon.

  A couple of children were playing in the centre of the ring; Lissa started to take shots of them and their horned wheelbarrows as they pretended to be matadors. She could not blame them. Enormous fame and fortune came with being a torero in Spain. Into the corner of the camera’s frame, a man appeared, shouting at the children, and Lissa realised that far from playing, the children were training. He was their coach. He limped over to one child, grabbed the cloak and demonstrated the pass. The limp disappeared. He was young and beautiful again. Moving with grace, as he swirled the pink and yellow cloak around his shoulders in an arc. Hiding the lethal sword in the rim of the cloak, he stabbed the weapon into the wheelbarrow. The barrow fell over, the front wheel spinning lazily as the tray hit the sand. It was dead.

  A cloud passed over the scorching sun and Lissa shivered as the temperature suddenly dipped. She rubbed the goosebumps from her arms. The transition from beauty to violence was such a short step. It was everywhere. Still shaking her head, she rubbed her eyes as she tried to remove the image of the Brazilian street children she had seen gunned down in Rio. One moment they were laughing, chasing each other and a football, the next they were lying in blood and dust. Killed because they were homeless and poor. Like a coward she had hidden behind a heavy-duty wheelie bin, whimpering and terrified she would be next. She remained cowering until a group of teenagers began laughing at her. Stunned at their callousness, Lissa rose to look once more upon the murdered children, but their bodies had gone. All trace of the atrocity swept away. The only evidence that it had happened were the two frames she’d managed to capture before she ducked for cover.

  Raising her camera, Lissa took another shot of the wheelbarrow and then, unable to stay wrapped in the aura of death any longer, she fled outside into the streets and retraced her steps to the centre of the old city.

  Chapter Three

  2nd April 2018, Easter Monday

  Gippingford, Suffolk

  DC Jane Lacey drew to a halt in the mortuary car park. Set at a distance from the main hospital, the pathology unit stood in its own grounds surrounded by tall trees. To hide it away? Jane wondered as she stepped out of the car. Slamming the driver’s door shut, she opened the rear door and pulled an overcoat from the back seat. She slipped the coat on, fastened the buttons and shivered as a sudden gust of cool, spring breeze whirled around her. On the other side of the car, her boss, DCI Ronald Carlson, released his seatbelt and pushed himself out of the passenger seat.

  ‘Ready, Jane?’ he asked, buttoning his own coat. His breath formed clouds in the chilled air as he spoke and he ran his gloved hand over silvering hair where beads of mist had begun to collect.

  She nodde
d, not trusting herself to speak. If the doctor and her boss could cope with what was to come, so could she. Car locked, she trailed after him to the autopsy room.

  Dr Jervis Kilburn and his assistant, Dennis Cartwright, were waiting in Kilburn’s office with Kirsty Russell, the crime scene manager. All were sat around the pathologist’s desk drinking coffee. Carlson accepted a cup from the filter machine on top of the filing cabinet, but Jane decided to drink some water from the cooler instead. She waited until Carlson had finished his coffee and, at an almost imperceptible signal from him, all five walked into the autopsy room. Dennis disappeared, returning with a trolley supporting the body, still contained in its body bag. Together Kilburn and Dennis placed the corpse onto the autopsy table, whilst Carlson and Lacey covered their suits with plastic aprons. Jane took a small tub of Vicks from her pocket and applied a dab to her upper lip. She offered it to Carlson and he gave her a tight smile as he accepted the gift.

  As they turned to face the table, Kilburn had already unzipped the bag and begun his preliminary external examination with a police photographer capturing everything for the case records. Methodical and precise as always, the examination took some time.