Grave Decisions Read online

  Grave Decisions

  Claire Highton-Stevenson

  Copyright © 2019 Claire Highton-Stevenson

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781673960051

  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.

  With thanks!

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  Dedication

  My boys, Scouse, Elliot, Murphy, and Tumble, who thinks she’s one of them!

  Acknowledgements

  Team ItsClaStevOffical

  Nic, Frankie, Ann, Mari, Carmela

  Elisabeth, Sandra, Judith, Carol

  Sue, Pam, Kim, Miira, Kelly

  Michelle Arnold – Editing

  May Dawney – Cover design

  My wife, my friends, my family

  Prologue

  It was hot, like a furnace. She could feel the cotton of her blouse sticking to her back as the sweat soaked into it. Her legs were numb from the cramped position she had been forced to lie in for the last hour – or more; she had lost track of time now. Her throat was dry. Screaming until she was hoarse had done nothing but parch her mouth. She licked at the slow drip of tears and sweat, her only source of liquid.

  She squinted up as the sunlight poured in through the now-open boot.

  “Please, just let me go.” Her voice was croaky. She licked at dry lips. “I don’t know what…”

  He leaned in, lifting her with ease and slung her over his shoulder, ignoring her words. She had no fight in her. Drained and half-delirious, she flopped and banged against him rhythmically with every step he took as he marched away from the car, taking her somewhere.

  To her death, no doubt.

  She knew that. Somewhere in the back of her tired mind, she knew that this was it. This would be where her last breath would be drawn. For the last time, she thought about her kids, about Duncan, walking the dog.

  The silence was eerie. But it wasn’t silent, not if she really listened. Birds were whistling and there was a breeze, gentle but enough to sway the branches and rustle the leaves.

  She landed in a heap on the ground. Her back hurt from something jagged and hard beneath her. When she tried to stand, her legs gave way, sending her crumpled back to the floor, looking up and into the face of the man she knew. He’d been nice then, smiled at her and talked about his own loss, his own issues. She had felt comfortable with him. He was dashing, wore an expensive suit, and helped people. It was why she had trusted him and stopped to help him.

  Her only chance now was to run for it. She kicked off her shoes, and with a strength she didn’t know she possessed, she raised herself up and sprang to her feet. Not daring to look back even for a second, she ran, her arms pumping up and down as her bare feet crunched against the dry earth. Her lungs burned with the effort, and then he was there, in front of her. She twisted away and moved in a different direction but he was too quick, cutting her off and charging after her. She turned, running back the way she had come, but he was faster, the crowbar cracking across her face as he stopped her in her tracks.

  She fell to the floor, flailing and grabbing at nothing before she hit the deck. She groaned as she felt the blood dripping down her lip, salty and warm.

  He bent down and easily picked her up, silently returning to where he had originally put her and dropping her down on the ground once more. Her head hit the ground and she felt a dizziness overcome her.

  “Why?” she gasped out. Didn’t she deserve to know why? He didn’t speak. Instead his head turned to the left and she followed his gaze with her eyes. Four letters carved perfectly into white marble: Adam.

  He pulled a half-bottle of vodka from his bag and held it out to her. “Drink!”

  When she didn’t take it, he grabbed her face and squeezed hard, her mouth opening reflexively as he poured the neat liquid down her throat. It burned, and she choked as it slid its way down like an inferno. Releasing her, he once more held out the bottle. “Drink it.”

  And now she understood. Now, everything made sense. Her hands shook as she reached for the bottle, clammy palms tightening around the cold glass.

  He was her judge and jury.

  He was her executioner.

  Chapter One

  The office was how it always was: comfortable. As usual, Sophie Whitton sat pensively and tried to calm her nerves. The soft furnishings felt itchy against her skin.

  Her first appointment had been a few weeks ago and she had half expected an old woman in glasses wearing tweed. She had got the glasses part right, but Dr. Westbrook was far from old; she was in her forties and looked a decade younger. For the most part, she wore nice dresses with sensible cardigans, not a white coat. Sophie had mentally slapped herself for the assumptions; it wasn’t like her to make them.

  It was the Chief Inspector who had put her in touch with Dr. Westbrook. Whitton wasn’t an idiot. The flashbacks weren’t easing off; she wouldn’t jeopardise a case by not being on top of her game. Slipping these sessions in was becoming routine, but leaving Dale to get on with things was the issue. He wasn’t stupid either and would work it out eventually, if not ask her outright.

  Dr. Westbrook waited patiently for the answer to her question. “I guess, I’ve never really given it much thought,” Sophie finally replied.

  The doctor half smiled. “You’ve never considered telling her?”

  Sophie shook her head. “No, what would be the point?”

  “Maybe it would help you if you shared what you’re going through with her.” It wasn’t a question.

  “That would be kind of selfish, wouldn’t it!” That wasn’t a question either, but Sophie knew she would get a reply, whether she wanted one or not. “Shouldn’t I be capable of dealing with this myself? It’s not like I don’t deal with death every day.”

  “Sophie, Rachel almost died, that’s a very important factor and something you are quite rightly upset about. Does she talk about it?”

  “Not to me, no.” She shrugged, “It’s like everything else is perfect, and if we both just keep ignoring it, then it can’t hurt us.”

  “Is that what you think it will do? Hurt you?”

  Sophie remained silent, kicking herself for being caught out so easily. Of course it hurt her.

  “Have you told her yet that you come here to see me?”

  Whitton looked away, her sight drawn out of the window. It wasn’t dark out yet, but with the light on in the office there was nothing to see outside, so she turned her attention back on the doctor. “No.”

  “When are you going to?” Her voice always remained calm, and it was one of the things Sophie liked when they talked. Even when she was shouting, Dr. Westbrook remained calm, pulling her back from the darkness.

  “I wasn’t planning to.” Dr. Westbrook’s brow raised as she waited for a further explanation. “If I tell her I see you, then she is going to ask why.” There was the half smile again, and Sophie took up the challenge in it. “So, what? I go home tonight, ask her to come over, and then tell her that all I see when she isn
’t with me is her lifeless body, and would she be okay with moving in with me just so I can feel better, because I need to see her every day just to know she’s alive.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  Whitton’s eyes narrowed. “Which part?”

  “Do you want to see her every day?”

  She ran her hand through her hair. It was growing longer; Rachel liked it like that. She liked to grab it and pull it when she came. “I want…” She toyed with the idea of telling her about the thoughts that went through her mind, but decided against it, fearful to acknowledge too much just yet. “I need to know she is safe.”

  “So, you don’t want to live with her?” The question confused Sophie. She didn’t know. Shouldn’t she know by now?

  “Not until I don’t need to. I want to live with her because we’re in love and it’s the next step…not because I…because I am struggling to be normal.” Damn it, she thought, kicking herself again. Westbrook would grab that “normal” and run with it.

  The doctor sat back in her chair and placed her palms together as though she were about to say a prayer. “Why did she nearly die?” Her voice was so calm that it unnerved Whitton, and a waiting game of silence ensued, one that Dr. Westbrook would win. Whitton already knew that.

  The armchair was suffocating. Whitton’s scrawny frame felt confined within it, and she fidgeted, picking at the fluff on the navy trousers she had worn to work that day. There was a knot in her throat that made it hard to breathe properly. “Because I didn’t get there in time,” she finally stammered. “I wasn’t good enough.”

  “That’s not quite true though, is it?” Dr. Westbrook replied. “You and Dale did get there in time, didn’t you? Because you left Rachel at home this morning, perfectly well.”

  Whitton nodded. “Yes.”

  “So, why did Rachel almost die?”

  She swallowed and thought back to the man they had called The Doll Maker. “Because of Anthony.”

  “That’s right, Rachel was hurt by Anthony, not by you. But it hurts you that she was hurt, because you love her.” Dr. Westbrook’s eyes softened, the half-smile becoming more pronounced. “And that would be the most normal reaction that a normal person could have.”

  Whitton almost laughed, thinking she had got away with the use of the word so flippantly. “When’s it going to stop?”

  “When you finally acknowledge that it wasn’t your fault.”

  Chapter Two

  DI Sophie Whitton stood back from the scene, smoking a cigarette. No onlookers, just the men and women in white Tyvek suits crowding around the corpse, taking notes, samples, photographs. The sun had dipped in the sky an hour ago, but it was still warm, especially under the floodlights that now lit up the area. Another balmy night lay ahead, a night of kicking off the duvet and wondering why she bothered to try and sleep anyway.

  Finished with poisoning her lungs, she flicked the cigarette to the floor and stepped on it, grinding it into the sandy gravel until the last remnants of any flame were extinguished. Then she leant down and picked it up, pulled a plastic evidence bag from her pocket, and added the butt to the others she had smoked that weekend. Ignoring the growing bulge, she thrust the bag back into her pocket, pushed off from the car, and started walking.

  The graveyard was immaculate. Clearly, the gardening staff took pride in keeping the place looking its best. In the distance, she could see someone on a ride-on lawnmower, turning back and forth as they cut the grass. Flowers bloomed, but on closer inspection, the grass was looking a little brown and patchy in places. The summer’s sun was scorching its way across the Earth.

  Her shirt stuck to her back as she moved. At least she had had the foresight to wear short sleeves, but still, the minute she got home to Rachel, she was heading for a cold shower to cool off.

  Glancing around the scene, she took in the tranquillity of it: a church graveyard on the outskirts of Woodington. It was almost countryside this far out.

  “St. Augustine’s was built in 1810,” Dale Saint’s voice called out as he meandered back from taking a walk around the perimeter set up by Dr. Barnard’s minions. “Nice, actually. All beautiful stained glass windows around the…” He stopped talking when she turned her head slowly to face him.

  “Are those details going to help us catch this killer?” she asked in all seriousness, pulling her notepad from her pocket, ready to jot down the information. “Or do you think maybe time might be better spent finding clues?”

  “No need for sarcasm.” He grinned at her. They’d been partners on more occasions than he could remember. He was used to her and she him. “Wanna go and get a better look then, or just stand here sunbathing?”

  He walked ahead, laughing to himself while she breathed deeply. In slowly, out slowly. It’s not her, she told herself. It’s not her. Several long strides and she had caught up with him.

  “Nice place to end up,” Dale said nonchalantly as he strolled alongside, keeping pace with her.

  She gave him a withering look and shook her head. “Is it? Not something I really think much about, Dale.” She swallowed the lie down. Who was she kidding? She thought about death all the time, just not her own.

  “Yeah, well, I’m just saying, ya know, worse places you could end up.”

  “When I’m dead, I probably won’t give a shit.” Up ahead, the white overall-clad arm of Dr. Tristan Barnard rose up and waved at them. Even from this distance, he towered over everyone around him, a colossus of a man. His voice was already booming out orders.

  “You don’t give a shit now,” Dale mumbled as he waved back at the giant up ahead. “But we all have to face it in the end.” She ignored him, focusing only on putting one foot in front of the other.

  “What have we got then, Doc?” she asked, still not making eye contact with anyone. The grave was a tidy one. Someone cared and looked after it at least, which was pretty much all you could expect and hope for once you’d passed on.

  “Ah, Whitton. Nice of you to join us. Still sucking that toxic poison into your lungs, I see.” If she was surprised that he had noticed her smoking, she didn’t show it.

  Instead, she pulled the sunglasses down her nose a little and glared at him. “Very observant. Anything else of any interest to offer?” She pushed the sunglasses back up her face and into place again. The body was still in situ, and she finally peered around him to get a better view. The woman was in her mid-forties maybe, brunette, business type, and if the ring on her finger was anything to go by, she was married. She was dressed in a simple grey skirt and white blouse; office attire. The thin material was ripped in places and covered in bits of dried-up old leaves and grass.

  Whitton felt the air leave her body. Though she did her best to control it, she couldn’t stop the heated flush that rose throughout her being. Her heart was beating so fast that she thought it might explode from her chest as dark hair morphed to blonde, the features changing to those of her girlfriend instead of the anonymous stranger.

  “I would put time of death at four to six hours ago…” He flicked through the paperwork on his clipboard. “But, this here’s the interesting thing.” He grinned and squatted down, looking up at her, waiting for her attention. “See this?” He pointed down to where flesh was splintered with bone. “Broken post-mortem. Both legs.”

  She turned her head to face him, swallowing hard as the victim’s face morphed into Rachel’s again.

  “What’s the cause of death?” Whitton said, the flashback evaporating away as though it hadn’t happened.

  “Petechial hemorrhaging to the lower left palpebral conjunctiva and the bruising around the neck suggests manual strangulation at the very least rendered her unconscious.” Barnard stood up and moved back to the woman’s head. “I am going to stick my neck out and assume this finished her off,” he said, lifting her head gently and pulling the hair away from her scalp to reveal a large bloodied gash. “My guess would be a hammer, a big hammer.”

  “Like a sledgehammer?” D
ale asked, taking a better look. Whitton didn’t move.

  “Not quite that big, but something weighty.”

  “And then the killer placed her here and covered her with a sheet,” Dale continued. He looked towards Whitton, whose face was still ashen, and his eyes narrowed at her. She shrugged it off and he let it go, much to her relief.

  “Or he killed her here,” Whitton suggested. Her mouth twisted to the side thoughtfully as she noted the information down in her book.

  “I’d agree. The blood splatter and the amount of it would suggest she was alive until he, or she, brought her here,” Barnard confirmed. The blood had congealed in a blackened pool around her head where she had bled.

  “Anything personal on her?” Whitton continued, jotting everything down meticulously in her notebook.

  “Just a credit card in her pocket and a locket around her neck. Photos of a man and two teenage girls. Her name is Anita Simmons.” He picked up a clear forensics bag and held it up. The locket was open, and she could view two images. One side was indeed a man, around the same age as Anita. The other side held the image of two girls, not that much different in age, both with long red hair.

  “So, you’ve confirmed her ID? How?”

  “Detective, I know you know very well about my new toy.” From a box by his feet, he pulled a small machine out. “Biometrics. Fingerprints scanned at the scene. She’s in the system.”

  Now he had Whitton’s attention. Her brows knitted together. “What for?”

  “Come now, Whitton. Must I do all the work?” He winked at her.

  Whitton felt the rush of air blow out from her cheeks as she glanced again at the victim, the dark hair blurring to blonde again. Her heart raced when she saw her lovers’ green eyes staring back at her, lifeless.

  “Why would anyone do that? It’s overkill, right?” Dale looked down again at the body, laid out perfectly on top of the grave, his voice nudging Whitton back to the present. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said flatly when nothing else came to him.