Deadly Friendship (DI Hamilton Book 3) Read online

  Deadly Friendship

  The DI Hamilton Series

  Tara Lyons

  Bloodhound Books

  Copyright © 2017 Tara Lyons

  The right of Tara Lyons to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Print ISBN 978-1-912175-41-3

  Contents

  Also by Tara Lyons

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  A Note from Bloodhound Books:

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Tara Lyons

  Read the first two books in the DI Hamilton series

  In the Shadows

  No Safe Home

  For my dearest friends, your love and support continue to inspire me.

  Prologue

  It wasn’t the first time I had thought about killing someone. But it was the first time I had acted on my instincts.

  For a moment, I don’t think the concoction of drugs in her vodka and tonic is enough to knock her out. She’s dancing barefoot, and the long wisps of grass slide in and out of her toes. Her pink dress swishes around her knees as she slowly spins; her white arms extend out to the descending sun, content in this moment of tranquillity. I watch the last rays of the day glisten across the freckles dotted on her nose and cheeks. Her short, dark hair has been diluted by the frivolous summer heat. I know every strand and mark on her perfect body.

  She stumbles and reaches for my arm to steady herself.

  ‘Fuck me, I think I’ve had one too many,’ she says, with a giggle, and knocks a drink over on the table. ‘Will you help me to bed? I think I’ll sleep it off.’

  I wait for her to look at me, but she doesn’t. She’s too busy thinking of herself to notice the pain engraved on my face. If she just takes one moment for me, if she meets my eyes right now, I’ll stop all this. I’ll save her.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ Her tone’s harsher, harder. ‘I told you to help me inside. I feel sick.’

  Her control over her body falters further, and she tries to lean on me. I step back, allowing her to crumble to the ground, and her head squashes the green blades of grass beneath her. Through the gurgles, I just about make out her muted screams. More demands and instructions aimed at me. Hopelessly thrashing about, she uses the last of her energy.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she mumbles.

  Her body has totally abandoned her now; she has no control. I’m surprised she managed to get those last words out. With her face in the mud, I kneel down and breathe in her scent. The heat rises in my cheeks. Her perfume always has that effect on me.

  Lowering myself, I lay next to her and whisper, ‘I was your friend. I was your lover.’

  The corner of her mouth twitches. A rattling laugh, deep from the pit of her stomach, rolls from her mouth, and the twitch becomes a smirk.

  I jump up, the anger inside burning. Every pore of my skin is on fire. Blinded by the exploding pain in my head, I march around her body. The echo of her laughter mocking me.

  Grabbing the kitchen knife from the patio table, I fall to my knees and plunge the sharp tip into her back. A deep groan involuntarily escapes my lips.

  Raising my arm, I let the weapon soar high in the air, as the sun melts into its beautiful orange grave. Gripping the handle with both hands, I straddle her arse and strike the knife into her back, over and over again.

  The beads of sweat dripping from my forehead mingle with her splashes of blood. They become one, trickling down my face. My racing heart beats with such force, I swear it’s preparing to explode right through me, jump from my body in a moment of excitement. I need to calm down and exhaling slowly, I close my eyes and fall forward. Our wet, blood-soaked bodies connect, and I’m content; overwhelmed with pleasure. The woman who betrayed me finally gets what she deserves.

  You see, she wasn’t who I thought she was. I discovered the hard way that she’s a slag. I fell in love with her, harder and faster than ever before – ever at all, if I’m honest. That’s why the punishment was fitting to her crime. I would have done anything for her. She was my best friend. My soulmate. She was more than just the woman I loved; we had a deeper connection. Beneath the layer of lust, of hard and fast, animalistic sex, there was devotion, and together, we belonged there. We had shared things with each other – moments from my past I had promised myself I’d never utter to another individual, but she knew. She knew me. She knew everything.

  When you trust your friends with your deepest and darkest secrets, it’s their duty to keep them, isn’t it? But if you discover the foundation of that relationship was built on lies, doesn’t it become your duty to end it? Bring a stop to the betrayal, before it consumes you.

  Ask yourself, how well do you really know the people you trust?

  1

  Denis Hamilton stood on the wooden pier and gazed out at the calm lake, the mist finally rolling off the waves. The picturesque mountains, framing the scene like an immaculate water painting, now broke free of the thick fog which had kept them captive all weekend. He sucked in the cold air through his nose, filled his lungs, and held it for a few seconds, before releasing it with a deep moan.

  It was a far cry from London town, where the air was thick and smoky. Tainted, not only by the vehicles and machinery, but by the death and destruction he witnessed every day. He grunted to himself, thinking how difficult it had always felt to leave work and the bustling city because, after all, he was proud to call London his home. Yet, as he stood watching the boat sails waving in the wind, surrounded by the blues and greens and oranges of Mother Nature, Denis wasn’t sure if he ever wanted to leave.

  ‘Come on, love! We don’t want to miss the boat,’ Philippa called out, from further down the lake.

  Denis smiled and gave his mother a small wave. He retraced his steps, pulling his scarf higher around his ears as he briskly walked across the shingle shore.

  ‘Your mum was just telling me some history about Wray Castle,’ Elizabeth said, as he reached the jetty leading to the lake. ‘I can’t believe we’ve never visited.’

  He wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist and drew her closer into him. Her emerald green eyes ablaze, the apparent excitement radiated from her.

  ‘You do enjoy a good boat trip, babe,’ he said.

  �
��Cut it out, lovebirds.’ Philippa laughed, and marched towards the vessel.

  Denis and Elizabeth held hands and followed his mother along the dock. As one of the crew members helped the women to step aboard, he cast an eye over the brown, wooden boat. It was small, only one level, but he guessed there were at least forty people sat waiting for their trip. Its name, embossed in gold lettering, read: Queen of the Lake, Windermere Lake Cruises.

  Despite the early morning breeze, most of the passengers had chosen to brave the weather, sitting at the bow of the boat. Philippa followed suit, claiming the last bench in the middle, directly in front of the cabin. The crew member who’d helped them took his place at the helm, but not before sharing a lingering look with his mother.

  ‘Oh yeah!’ Denis elbowed her in the ribs. ‘Got yourself a toy boy, have you?’

  Philippa’s cheeks flushed crimson, and her eyes darted away from his stare. ‘And so what if I have? I don’t kiss and tell, son.’

  He couldn’t contain his laughter. Although Philippa was obviously embarrassed by his observation, she remained her usual feisty self. His father had left them both, returning to his home town on Jamaica, when Denis was only fifteen. In the twenty-four years since then, he couldn’t remember his mother having many dates, let alone any relationships. While strange to think of his mother in that way, he could appreciate how lonely she must be. Retiring to the tranquil area of Ambleside was a drastic change after more than half a century living in central London.

  ‘Good for you, Mum. As long as you’re happy.’ Denis winked as the boat revved to life.

  Once the second member of the vessel’s crew was finished instructing them on safety and tour timings, he began the sight-seeing speech, which he had clearly memorised long ago.

  ‘Did you hear that, Denis?’ Elizabeth exclaimed. ‘Wray Castle is the mock-gothic building of Cumbria … And Beatrix Potter spent the summer there when she was eighteen.’

  He nodded enthusiastically, letting his wife repeat everything the crew member had already informed them of over the microphone. The two of them, childhood sweethearts and married in their early twenties, were always so busy with work, and bringing their work home with them. Here, he felt a deep sense of inner peace.

  Philippa broke through the serenity of his thoughts when she extracted a small, metal pole from her handbag. He watched in horror as the rod doubled in size, and she attached her mobile phone to a black clip on one end.

  ‘What the hell –’

  ‘It’s selfie time,’ Philippa interrupted.

  ‘Mum … you have a selfie-stick?’

  ‘Of course, and a Facebook and Twitter account. Didn’t you know? Mary Berry follows me. She must love all the tweets about my little tea shop and the scones we make.’

  Denis and Elizabeth laughed together. ‘I’m shocked, Mum.’

  ‘Why, because I’m sixty-five? Pah! I’m down with the kids, Denis. You need to step up and join in with the new way of doing things.’

  Despite his mother’s comment being a playful one, it pinched his heart all the same. His daughter, Maggie, had committed suicide five years ago, at the age of sixteen, due to ongoing cyberbullying. Since the day his world fell apart, he’d always been averse to social media. As painful as it was, he shook the sad memory from the forefront of his mind, intent on enjoying the day with his mother and wife.

  ‘You never know, Mum. I could be incognito online, watching your every move,’ he said and summoned a noise which sounded like a laugh.

  ‘Ooh,’ Philippa replied, as she fiddled with the positioning of her phone. ‘You know who is on Facebook … Anne Thorn. She told me her Billy was in therapy, but wouldn’t go into the details. Do you know what that’s about?’

  Denis’s back stiffened and his jaw twitched at the mention of Billy Thorn. ‘Not a clue,’ he said through gritted teeth.

  His mother’s attention jumped once again. ‘Got it! Right, it’s working. You two lovebirds, squeeze in. Let’s try and get that sign with the boat’s name in the picture too.’

  The three of their faces came to life on the iPhone screen. Elizabeth giggled as she pressed her face against his, while Philippa did the same on the other side. Their skin looked pale against his caramel complexion and dark eyes; his mixed-race heritage, the only thing he'd inherited from his father. His black short beard was cut with military precision. His wife, the school headmistress, usually so meticulous with her looks during working hours, had allowed her shoulder-length, auburn hair to hang un-styled, the slight curls blowing freely in the breeze. Denis suddenly realised how much his mother had aged. Though the fringe of her cropped, white hair hid her forehead, he could now clearly see the wrinkles gathering at her eyes and mouth, the skin on her cheeks looser than before. But her eyes still shone brightly, like sapphire crystals beneath a greying face. He looked at himself, sandwiched between the two women in his life, and an invisible punch struck him hard in the gut. It quickly dawned on him there should be three women surrounding him. But he smiled for the photograph regardless, content on making his mother happy.

  ‘Not too far to go now,’ Philippa called out, once she was satisfied with the dozen selfies, although Denis was adamant they all looked the same. ‘The Queen of the Lake will continue on its tour, but we’ll jump off at the first stop.’

  Like mirror images, his mother and wife simultaneously turned their backs on him to enjoy the last leg of their voyage. The boat roared forward, a trail of foam left in its wake, and droplets of water splashed in from the lake, lightly spraying his face. Denis tipped his head back, breathing in the fresh air once again. That rich air, which tickled every nose hair and brought tears to his eyes. They’d only been travelling on the vessel for twenty minutes, but the mist had cleared, giving way to a new day, with bright blue skies and just a few clouds left dancing around the tips of the mountains.

  He closed his eyes. The boat began to slow as the crew member announced their arrival at Wray Castle boat house. A shrill scream shattered the calmness, and Denis jumped to attention. His view was blocked. Passengers were on their feet, pointing and yelling, while others covered their faces and tried to shield their children. One of the crew members barged through the crowd, ordering everyone to remain in their seats. Denis ensured both Elizabeth and Philippa were safe, before following the crew member to the very front of the boat.

  The vessel danced in the water, the current slowly drawing it closer towards the boat house. Denis held onto the edge and looked out to the Victorian stone building, surrounded by a dense forest and tall oak trees. His attention narrowed on the wooden boat house gate, its ancient and weather-beaten panels a beacon of history and tourism. A length of thick rope travelled down from the metal lock to the water and met a large, white hand, its coarse fibres scorching ligature marks on the wrist.

  A man’s lifeless body gave in to the resistance of the noose; dangling awkwardly, head and torso bobbing in the water, the rest of his body submerged in the lake. His head hung back, dark hair dipping in and out as he moved with the current. The blood-soaked clothes were useless at concealing his athletic physique. And, despite the colour of death snaking up the man’s chiselled jaw line, attacking his lips and cheeks, his unblemished skin revealed a handsome and youthful appearance. There was something stuck in his mouth, but the angle of his head made it difficult to see clearly.

  How is a young, muscle man like this, overpowered and abandoned so cruelly? Denis thought with a shudder.

  He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t tear his gaze from the man’s cold eyes, fixated on the same sky he’d been admiring moments before. Or from the man’s blood, staining Lake Windermere’s beauty.

  2

  After the Cumbria Constabulary and Lake District National Park’s Windermere Lake Wardens had been informed of the situation, Denis set about recording as many names of the passengers as possible. He knew he didn’t have the authority, or manpower, to stop anyone from leaving the jetty and escaping to the safety of
the castle, but he’d swiftly entered professional mode without a second thought. He understood, only too well, the damage an investigation could suffer at the loss of potential witnesses.

  ‘What do you want my bloody name for? Who are you?’ a man in his late fifties retorted, after he’d been asked for his details.

  ‘My name is Detective Inspector Denis Hamilton of the London Metropolitan Police, sir.’

  ‘Bit out of your jurisdiction, isn’t it?’

  ‘Wrong place, wrong time, I suppose. Or not, depending how you look at things,’ he replied with a fake smile; he was no longer on holiday. ‘I just thought if you left your details with me, I could pass them onto the constabulary, rather than force your children here to gawk at a dead body for heaven knows how much longer.’

  The man nodded his balding head and glanced at the small twins clinging to his burgundy, cord trousers. ‘Yes. Yes, you’re quite right. But … do you have any identification? I wouldn’t want to tell any old stranger my name. I mean, as you said, there is a dead man floating in Lake Windermere.’

  ‘Of course, I completely understand.’ DI Hamilton reached inside his coat and retrieved his ID badge.

  ‘Doesn’t he ever leave that thing at home?’ his mother whispered from behind him.