Deep Fear Read online

  Deep Fear

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  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

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Epilogue

  Also by Rachel Lynch

  Tell No Lies

  Copyright

  Deep Fear

  Rachel Lynch

  Chapter 1

  Conrad Walker left his house in Watermillock, to head off for his morning swim across Lake Ullswater: an activity he’d been doing for fifty-three years. He’d only missed the ritual on a handful of occasions that he could recollect. One was because of the biggest storm in living memory. The wind and rain had battered the steamers and caused thousands of pounds worth of damage. Conrad had been fifteen years old. His mother hadn’t allowed him near the She turned to face Colinake on that day, but he’d climbed out of his bedroom window anyway, to walk down to the shore and watch the fierce anger of the tempestuous water.

  Nugget padded on ahead of him. She was his third Collie, and all three of them had swum the lake with him every day until, one by one, they could no longer manage it. He didn’t go as far as he used to, but it was far enough for him and Nugget. The July sun shone in a clear, piercing sky, and Conrad figured the lake might be twenty degrees today, on its surface at least. The road was quiet, as it always was at this hour. He’d parked in one of the bays scattered along the lake’s shore, and he opened the back to throw in his towel and pull on a pair of loose trousers and a jumper. Nugget waited faithfully by his side, knowing that her turn would come; she’d get a rub and a treat, and she looked up expectantly. When that was done, she jumped in to the passenger seat. Conrad could have walked but that wasn’t the point. It was a daily ritual, and for the last nine years, after his swim, his next stop was to visit his wife and bid her good morning. He’d take his flask with him and have a cup of tea.

  Driving up the hill, the small village was quiet, with the farmers having left for the day, and the tourists still in bed. Nugget let her tongue soak up the rushing air from the Land Rover’s open windows for the short journey to the church.

  He parked opposite the Victorian version of the consecrated site, built of red sandstone and slate, to replace the dilapidated Tudor structure. The church stood proudly watching over the lake beyond, and Conrad came here often to absorb the stillness of her grounds. In the summer, there were huge, shady canopies under which to sit; in the winter, there were sheltered benches to spend time upon, contemplating anything that took his fancy. He rarely saw anyone else, except the reverend, if he was up at this hour.

  Nugget jumped out of the Land Rover, and ran straight over the road to the gate.

  Conrad paused. In all her eleven years, she’d never done that. Every morning, she jumped out of the passenger seat and waited at his heel until he signalled for her to cross the road. Conrad looked at the seat, wondering if she was losing her ability to hold on. He looked for a stain but there was none.

  He shrugged and closed the door; he never locked it. He was perplexed and tutted; he liked routine. He looked both ways up and down the lane, then crossed to where Nugget was sitting. She stood up and began to bark, turning round and round as if she’d sniffed a trail.

  ‘You seen a squirrel, Nugget?’ he asked. He opened the gate and the dog shot off into the churchyard, with Conrad following, shaking his head. She must be chasing something, he thought. The barking got louder and Conrad chuckled; those damned cheeky rodents, they tease her so. He spotted a fat grey sat at the top of a branch, goading the canine, as it devoured nuts and cared nothing for the chaos it was causing to Conrad’s morning. He followed the barking; it was in the same direction as Ada’s gravestone anyhow. He had commissioned a bench to be placed in front of her, so he could stay as long as he wished without stiffening up. In colder months, he brought a blanket and a flask of tea.

  He continued around the church to where he thought the barking was coming from and he thought that it might be under the massive old oak that stood majestically to the east of the church entrance, guarding the graveyard. It had been just as big when he was a young lad, singing in the choir, and his father had said that it was more than five hundred years old. Conrad half expected Reverend Neil to come out, asking what all the fuss was about, but then he remembered that Neil was away in Whitehaven on some Diocesan conference. He wasn’t a bad egg, the reverend; they’d had worse. He was a decent chap who always had time for his flock; not that Conrad counted himself as one of the flock, not since Ada had died.

  He shielded his eyes against the sun, which rose quickly at this time of year. It shone a deep orange and made him squint. It was going to be another belter of a day. He shouted the dog’s name over again; he’d never known Nugget to be so disobedient. Her barks grew louder, and Conrad was sure now that it was coming from the oak tree.

  He took two more steps but then stopped. Nugget’s barking rang in his ears and Conrad swayed slightly. He rubbed his eyes and took another step, and then he was sure. He held onto the dry stone wall, and his eyes continued around the churchyard to see if anyone else was about. He was alone. Well, sort of. The flask slipped from his grasp and he covered his mouth.

  Nugget was standing over the body of a lady, but the lady wasn’t moving. She was still. Conrad started to panic and his first thought was to go back to his car for a coat to put over the poor woman, who was completely naked. He tried not to look at her and he thought how awful it would be if she realised that a stranger had seen her that way.

  But all the way back to the car, he knew.

  He knew because of Ada. He knew because of the flies.

  But he got the coat anyway.

  Half way back to the church with his coat, with Nugget still going crazy, he tutted and went back to the car for his mobile phone, which he never used but his daughter had bought for him. He had no idea if it had any juice in it, as he rarely charged the bloody thing.

  He dialled 999.

  When he got back to the body, he threw the coat over her, and pulled Nugget away. He made a decision, and turned back towards her
and knelt down. He touched her skin and pulled away.

  He knew she was dead.

  Conrad said a prayer, not because he was religious, or because he believed in God, but more to give the woman some dignity, and to allow her soul to rest in peace.

  When the ambulance arrived, he was sat on Ada’s bench, under an apple tree, holding a hot cup of tea from his flask. Nugget sat faithfully at his side, and the only sound was of insects buzzing, and distant twittering birds feeding their young.

  Chapter 2

  Kelly Porter was chewing a piece of cold toast when she got the call. Her jacket was half on, and she struggled to manoeuvre it, as well as her handbag and briefcase. Watermillock would be a mere ten minute drive at this time of the morning, and she decided to go straight there rather than to Eden House. She threw her belongings onto the passenger seat of her car, decided against the jacket, put on her sunglasses, and started the engine. It sounded like she’d need her trainers for this one, and she threw them in as well.

  As she pulled away, a familiar knot formed under her ribcage, and she concentrated on the road. At a red light, anticipation made her toes tap the floor of the car. Blues weren’t necessary. The woman was dead. The forensic team was already there, and the area secured by uniformed police officers.

  She gripped the steering wheel tightly and willed the lights to change. She drove east and traced the north shore of Ullswater, wondering how long the body had lain in this weather, but trying not to speculate too much; she had no idea what she was about to find. All she knew was that there was a body, it was female, a paramedic had confirmed life extinct, and it probably hadn’t been a natural death. Her job was to assess the scene to aid the coroner.

  For the first time in a long time, she found herself thinking about London. A body. No-one expected it round here. A thousand questions raced through her head, and she tried not to get ahead of herself. As she turned off the main road and followed the lane, up the hill, away from the lake, which led to the tiny hamlet of Watermillock, she’d already worked through the next few hours in her head: what she’d need, how she’d allocate jobs, how she’d sketch the scene, and how to handle the press.

  She parked at the church, where a small group of tourists had gathered. She popped her sunglasses on the top of her head and looked towards the lake, which sat in serenity, blissfully unaware of what was unfolding a mere mile away. She quickly bent over and slipped on a pair of ankle socks and her trainers, taking a deep breath before heading out in front of the audience. Police tape sealed the church entrance, but the onlookers were still craning their necks to see what was going on. News travels fast on holiday. Kelly remembered swimming across the lake as a kid, and cycling up here afterwards, just so they could race back down again. Apparently, the old man who’d made the discovery had just been for his morning swim before coming to pay his respects to his wife, like he did every day. Poor bastard, Kelly thought. She checked her ponytail and moved it over her left shoulder, over her back pack that she carried when out of the office. It meant she could leave her handbag and briefcase in the car where they couldn’t get in the way.

  A white tent had been erected, and Kelly flashed her badge to two uniforms manning the immediate area. It was a place of unique quietness, but, Kelly noted, it was also very public. The church was the centre of the village, if it could be called a village; it was more a collection of residences, hotels and self-catering holiday homes scattered between the lake and Little Mell Fell. The man who’d found the body was giving a statement to a third uniform. They were sat on a bench under a tree, and it swayed in the breeze. The old man was perhaps in his sixties and he was shaking his head, his face looked pained. Kelly waited to introduce herself and put away her sunglasses.

  The man stood up and took Kelly’s hand. He looked into her eyes and Kelly realised that he was in shock. Nonetheless, he stood erect, and his demeanour smacked of old fashioned propriety and pride. The woman had been found naked, and Kelly could tell that it’d had a dreadful impact on him.

  ‘I put my coat over her,’ Conrad said.

  Oh fuck, thought Kelly. Forensics will be made up with that nice bit of contamination. Now they’d have to rule him out as a suspect because he’d put his fingerprints and DNA right on top of her. Poor bloke. Unless he’d done it. She eyed him for a fleeting second as she would a suspect, but immediately dismissed the thought; his eyes were too kind.

  A collie sat obediently at the man’s legs and Kelly bent to stroke her. Its tongue lolled out and she looked as though she were smiling. ‘She likes you,’ the old man said. Kelly smiled.

  ‘Are you local to Watermillock, sir?’ she asked. He nodded. It was a shame that he’d probably never walk past the church again without remembering today, and for all the wrong reasons.

  ‘Yes. I’ve lived here all my life,’ he said.

  Damn, Kelly thought. At least if he was a tourist, he could go home and put some distance between him and what he’d seen. But he’d be reminded of his grim find every day, as long as he lived in the village. It wasn’t something that would be forgotten in a hurry, in a place like this.

  ‘And you swim every day, at the same time, and then come and visit your wife’s grave?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Every day. She’s over there, by that bench.’

  ‘I’m sorry that she’s been disturbed,’ Kelly said. Conrad looked at her and his face lifted a little. He nodded.

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  Kelly looked towards the tent, said farewell to Mr Walker, giving him the usual line of getting in touch after handing him her card, and walked towards the giant oak. By the way the man described the body, insect activity had already begun. And sure enough, she could hear the familiar hum of thick-bodied flies, looking for a good place to land.

  The uniform had a full statement, and the old man signed it and gave his address. He was then told that he could leave. Kelly felt a pang of sorrow for him; people who came across bodies weren’t customarily kept informed of how an investigation panned out; they were usually forgotten, but something told her that Conrad Walker might have trouble sticking to his routine from now on. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to the corner of his eye as he walked away, with the dog following obediently.

  A forensic officer was bent over just outside the entrance to the tent. As Kelly approached, she saw that he was making a cast of a print in the small patch of mud by the path. The cast was dry and was being pulled back as Kelly got closer. It was the print of a shoe.

  ‘Fresh?’ she asked the officer. He removed his mask.

  ‘Fresher than anything else around here, and it didn’t rain last night,’ he said. She nodded and approached the tent.

  Kelly smelled the odour of the dead before she saw the body. It was sweet and fresh. She reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of perfume and sprayed it onto her fingers, rubbing underneath her nose.

  With sheep numbering around three million in these parts, and outnumbering humans by six to one, the blow fly, with its distinct hairy, blue bottle back, thrives year on year. The first of nature’s hungry scavengers to arrive on a scene of death, the animal soon leaves its tell-tale mark: writhing masses of pure white maggots that get fatter and fatter until they can eat no more. In summer conditions, flies could be on a corpse within an hour. Within twelve hours, the maggots have begun to hatch and eat their meal, found so lovingly by their mother. There, they feed happily for six weeks until pupation and adulthood. And it was this cycle that would help estimate the body’s time of expiry; basic forensic entomology that every detective studies. The smell wasn’t too bad, yet, so maybe the body was fresh, thought Kelly. It made sense that in such a public place, a body would attract attention straight away, and Conrad Walker had confirmed that he walked Nugget here daily. The church itself was a tourist attraction, with visitors coming to view its bold architecture and pretty interior, as well as of course the view to the lake, and beyond.

  She went inside the tent
.

  Another forensic officer greeted her and gave her some covers for her shoes. She had gloves in her pocket.

  ‘Homicide,’ the officer said. Kelly looked at the body. A photographer clicked her camera.

  Kelly reckoned the body hadn’t laid there long, but they wouldn’t know for sure until after the autopsy, and the entomologist’s report. She walked around the victim, looking for small burrows in the soil, where satiated fully grown maggots might have buried themselves to pupate. There were none.

  The woman’s nakedness struck Kelly, and again, she noted the sense of public humiliation. But more so, now that Kelly saw the woman in the flesh: she’d not only had her life taken, but, perhaps more importantly, her dignity.

  Someone wanted her found. Quickly.

  Kelly went closer inside the tent and held her breath momentarily. The aromatic, pungent cocktail of dead, congealed blood penetrated her perfume and caught her off guard.

  The woman’s white flesh, against the earth, looked like a fat juicy mushroom, ready for picking. She was face down, head to the side, and Kelly took in the details.

  ‘We’re not turning her over. I want her bagged and off to the mortuary as soon as we’re done. But I can tell by her skin that she’s less than twenty-four hours old. It’s just starting to slip, but the weather doesn’t help. Her mouth, ears and nose have been stuffed with soil, but it’s not from here – well, it doesn’t look like it is. The soil here is dark and dense: great for fruit trees. Her fingertips have been removed.’

  ‘What?’ asked Kelly.

  ‘The tops of her fingers are missing,’ he repeated.

  ‘To prevent prints?’ asked Kelly.

  ‘Perhaps. Might be something else to it. Anyway, please take a look,’ he said. Damn, she thought, the stuff found under fingernails often produced golden nuggets of forensic information. And they’d have no prints for ID.

  ‘Sexual assault?’ Kelly asked.

  ‘It’ll have to be confirmed by the rape kit, but I’d say yes, and pretty brutal. Look for yourself,’ he said.

  Kelly approached the victim and the smell became more arresting. It was nothing compared to a rotting body that had laid abandoned for weeks, but it was bad enough. Kelly looked at the victim’s face, or as much as she could see, and she got an idea of what the woman looked like in life. She also noticed bruising around the woman’s neck. Kelly guessed that the victim was in her fifties, and she took care of herself: her skin was good and she had nicely coloured hair; just a millimetre of grey could be seen at the root.