Deadly Friendship (DI Hamilton Book 3) Read online

  ‘Don’t be silly, Phil. He’s a glass-half-empty kinda guy, always thinks it’s needed,’ Elizabeth murmured in reply.

  Hamilton glanced over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows at the women. In less serious circumstances, their cheeky grins would have enticed a snigger from him. But they knew him well enough to understand banter was not on the cards right now.

  After a discussion with the crew members of the Queen of the Lake, Hamilton decided it best to evacuate the boat. It was not the view they’d expected, or paid for, but more importantly, he didn’t want the crime scene contaminated any further than it had been.

  ‘Please understand, we are not making you stay here against your own free will,’ Hamilton said, addressing the crowd once they were all on dry land. ‘However, if you would like to speak to the local officers when they arrive, then please feel free. But if I could ask you all to at least follow the pathway and congregate closer to Wray Castle. This now an official crime scene. Put your mobile phones away.’

  Some of the passengers tutted at Hamilton’s reprimand for taking photos, while others marched off in the opposite direction.

  ‘What should we do, son?’ Philippa touched his shoulder to get his attention.

  ‘You and Elizabeth head off, Mum. Maybe you could get a warm drink in the castle, or something?’

  ‘I’m not sure … shouldn’t we stay with you?’ his wife argued.

  ‘No. I don’t want you freezing your bits off waiting for me. Go on. I’ll have a quick chat with the locals when they get here and meet you afterwards,’ Hamilton said and gently kissed Elizabeth on her cheek.

  As he watched his mother and wife climb the path towards the castle, he was distracted by a beautiful woman ambling towards him. The stranger looked out of place. With the earthy trees and greenery encircling her, she advanced in a short, pinstripe skirt suit and crisp pink shirt. He followed her long, tanned legs and was surprised to see her strolling in a pair of gleaming white Converse trainers. Her face was sun kissed, the sign of a recent holiday – abroad, not the shores of Ambleside – and the blonde highlights in her light brown hair seemed to glisten as she moved. Abruptly, the woman stopped and checked her phone. She spun in a circle, until her eyes landed on Hamilton.

  ‘I don’t suppose you could help me, could you?’ she said, with a London accent he knew well.

  He gravitated towards her. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

  ‘Is this the castle boat house? I’m supposed to be meeting someone here, but I can’t seem to find him.’

  Hamilton frowned, briefly peered over his shoulder, and wondered if the woman could be looking for their corpse in the lake.

  ‘My boss sent me a text last night and told me to come here,’ she continued.

  He took a few steps closer and introduced himself, explaining he couldn’t permit her to move any closer to the water.

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’ she questioned.

  ‘Could you tell me your name? Do you live or work around here?’ Hamilton countered her questions, wanting to find out more.

  ‘Claire Newcomb. And, no, I don’t live here …’

  He sensed the woman’s hesitation to give him any more information. Despite wanting to probe further, Hamilton remembered he was nowhere near his patch and decided to back off.

  ‘The Cumbria Constabulary officers are on their way, Claire. It might be a good idea to stick around and have a chat with them. I’m sure it’s purely coincidental you can’t locate your boss, but better safe than sorry.’

  She glanced over his shoulder, but Hamilton was confident she couldn’t see beyond the building to where the man remained chained to the boat house gate. Claire nodded and returned to her phone.

  Crowds of people, a multitude of voices, and equipment being hauled at a quick pace erupted into the quietness of the National Trust grounds. Hamilton turned around and spotted the Lake Wardens speeding across the lake. The locals were here to take control. He just hoped they wouldn’t kick him to the kerb and ignore all his efforts.

  Hamilton stood on the side-lines while a swirl of forensic teams donned shoe covers and protective clothing. A private white tent had been erected, and divers submerged themselves in the lake. It was a rare event to be present at a crime scene for such a long period of time before evidence was collected. He was chomping at the bit to uncover information.

  Inspector Ray Bennett of the Cumbria Constabulary was a man in his late fifties, who held no immediate charisma, and the stench of stale coffee oozed from his mouth. Brown caffeine stains coloured the man’s greying moustache, and Hamilton subtly held his breathe while Bennett spoke, for fear of vomiting on his new Nike walking trainers.

  ‘It’s a good thing you were here, Hamilton, and I appreciate your swift actions,’ Bennett said and introduced the two police community support officers who followed his every move.

  There was no urgency from the three local coppers, but Hamilton smiled and nodded, refusing to let his frustration get the better of him. If they were in London, he’d already be speaking to the pathologist in charge and demanding clues to propel the case forward. He missed his own murder investigations team.

  ‘Do you think it would be okay if I stuck around?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye, I don’t see why not,’ the older man replied in his deep, Cumbrian accent. ‘You’ve been a great help. My PSCOs can take your statement and any other notes you’ve gathered.’

  The surge of water from beyond the boat house catapulted Hamilton into action. With the body released from the lake, he circled the area, stopping directly outside the forensic tent. A young officer held his palm in Hamilton’s face, halting any further progress.

  ‘Don’t worry, officer,’ Bennett said. ‘He’s not one of us, but the lad’s with me.’

  Hamilton slowly turned his head and raised an eyebrow at the local Inspector. There really is a reek of shit coming from your mouth, he thought – just one of the insults swimming through his mind. He shrugged, accepted the shoe covers, and remained silent. Entering the tent, he decided to play nice, for just a little while longer at least.

  No introductions were made once the men were inside, which didn’t bother Hamilton. Yet, something pulled him, a yearning ache to find out more. He couldn’t decide if, given his day job, it was purely curiosity, or if there was something more. Could it really just be a coincidence he was on the boat that morning?

  The pathologist, a white lady with a light brown, circular birthmark under her left eye, busied herself around the victim, who now lay in the centre of the tent. The camera shutter clicked constantly as the team of forensics worked seamlessly around each other, gathering whatever evidence they could find.

  ‘Is your team collecting evidence from the surrounding forest, namely for any shoe imprints?’ Hamilton asked.

  ‘What’s the need for that?’ Bennett interrupted, before the pathologist had a chance to answer. ‘The victim’s fully clothed; we can get a sample from his footwear.’

  ‘I find it very unlikely the victim entered the water and tied himself to the gate. Whoever did this would have needed to get in and out of the lake; they would have been dripping with water,’ Hamilton replied.

  ‘Ah. Well, yes …’

  ‘It hasn’t rained lately, foggy, yes, but surely the near-by vicinity would alert you to any recent footprints. Unless, of course, they travelled to and from the scene by boat.’

  ‘Yes … exactly what I thought too.’

  Hamilton crossed his arms, nodding with a frown and sarcastic pout. He didn’t care if it was immature; he enjoyed watching the man squirm. That’s what you get for calling me “lad.”

  The pathologist cleared her throat. ‘My team have it all under control. However, it’s this attracting my initial interest,’ she said, her American accent a surprise to Hamilton; he suddenly felt less unsettled, since he was no longer the farthest from home.

  She reached her gloved hand into the forensic case at the head of the dead body.
With what looked like a pair of tweezers, the pathologist extracted a balled-up piece of paper. The three of them squinted, reading the hand-written words over and over again.

  Hamilton straightened up and looked back and forth between the pair. ‘Who the hell is Donna Moran?’

  3

  I didn’t intend on waiting until Warren’s body was found, but I’m glad I did. Watching the scene unravel is a thing of beauty. However, there’s a copper at the scene. He’s different to the others. Oozes confidence and authority, and the way he springs into action highlights his law enforcement training. His presence is unfortunate; going from witness to witness, taking names, and containing the area before it’s tainted further. Fucking arsehole.

  I couldn’t foresee that happening, but I’ll need to be more careful in the future. He’s nothing like the local policemen, who are stiff and uninterested about the events unfolding before them, if only they took a minute to look around. There’s something about this copper, a swagger, and a fire in his eyes. Plus, the London accent wasn’t lost on me. He may be a problem.

  But the look of sheer panic and fear on the faces of those people running from the boat, as they realise a river of blood flows with the fresh lake water, cheers me. I made that happen. The thrill touches every nerve in my body like an electric shock.

  It won’t be the last time either, I know that now. I’ve started my quest to find answers. To discover why they did what they did. I won’t rest until I know. No matter the cost.

  You see, I’ve learnt before you can become the very best version of yourself – the hero of your own story – you have to hit rock bottom first. Only then do things become clear. You drag yourself up from the pit of hell, because it’s in that moment you understand the person you want to be. The person you were put on this earth to become.

  My life’s broken apart on more occasions than I want to remember, each time crueller and more heart-breaking than the time before. But in 2015, my world shattered beyond repair. I lost my soulmate and contemplated what was left for me in this wretched existence.

  Until six months ago, when my moment of clarity came. I recognised then that I am not weak. I will not be disregarded as someone unworthy to have what everyone else has. I am in control of my destiny, but the people in my life have shaped the decisions I’ve recently had to make.

  They’ve weaved their lives – their hopes, their fears, and their secrets – into my own.

  When I plunged the needle in Warren’s neck and then the knife into his back, it came from a place of hate. An emotion that’s been there for a long time – since I’d murdered her on that delightful summer evening – but one I’d suppressed for many years. Warren awoke that and forced my hand. As the hot volcano of disgust erupted in my stomach, the sharp point of death pierced his flesh. He needed to feel what I felt. He needed to suffer for taking what I had wanted with all my heart.

  Yes, I do have a heart, and it’s filled with passion.

  The blood poured from him and onto my hands. He gasped, but only briefly, before a gurgling noise took over, and the devil came to take his soul. His eyes widened, bulged until I thought they’d pop right out of their sockets and dangle by a blood vessel onto his cheek. I smile at the thought. It would certainly have ruined the perfect image he’d fashioned for himself; desperate for everyone to admire. Not me.

  The poison in the syringe had taken effect, and I gripped his shoulder, almost hugging him, while twisting the knife through his flesh, plunging as deep as physically possible. A single stream leaked from the corner of his eye. My hate turned to anger. The man who could have had whatever he wanted, whomever he wanted, had ruined my life. He had called himself my friend, but mocked and teased me at every opportunity. Did he really think crocodile-tears could save him now?

  He was helpless. Just as I had felt for most of my life. He couldn’t run, or overpower me, or scream for help. My plan had been foolproof. I knew his greed and prying nature would entice him into this trap. To the place where my life had ended two years previously. And, just as the mist rolled away from the lake, I exhaled all the pain and rage I’d clung to.

  My only wish, in that moment before Warren’s death, was that I uncover the truth. Despite his brief begging and bargaining, I realised, for the first time, he knew nothing. I thought he had been the master, but perhaps I’ve been wrong all along. He was merely a player in this web of duplicity. However, even the players are accountable, and I will make sure everyone in this game of dishonesty pays the price. The people in my life have shaped the decisions I’ve made in the past twelve months.

  They’ve weaved their lives – their hopes, their fears, and their secrets – into my own … because they are my friends.

  The people who show you support, love, and compassion. But what happens when those very people betray you, ridicule you, and kill you with honesty?

  I’ll go all the way for my friends, do anything necessary. Wouldn’t you?

  4

  Hamilton’s right foot involuntarily tapped the cobble ground as he sat outside his mother’s tea room. His eyes were pinned to the area where he’d stood that morning, during what should have been a relaxing, long weekend away. Nothing like a dead body to bring you crashing back to reality. The distance across the water meant he wasn’t actually sure if he was looking at the precise location; it was purely guess work.

  ‘Ah, Fraser! You’re still in the office,’ he said, when the call connected.

  ‘Hey, boss. Can’t you take one weekend off?’ She laughed. ‘We’ve been working on a brutal rape case this weekend, and all hands-on-deck.’

  ‘How are Rocky and Dixon getting along?’ Hamilton asked about the two newest members of the team. The guilt continued to gnaw at him for making use of the bank holiday weekend and escaping to Ambleside; he should have been at the office with them.

  ‘Fitting in really well. You still back tomorrow?’

  ‘Yeah, but driving back on a bank holiday Monday, it’ll take about six hours. Minimum.’

  Fraser sucked the air through her teeth. ‘Don’t envy you, boss.’

  ‘No. Look, I was wondering if you could do me a favour … if you find yourself with any spare time?’

  ‘Shoot.’

  Hamilton quickly brought his detective sergeant, Kerry Fraser, up to speed about the discovery his tourism boat had made, and everything he’d learnt since. In spite of his wife asking him to leave things to the local constabulary, he couldn’t let it go.

  ‘So, why do you want me to look into this Donna Moran?’ Fraser asked.

  ‘I had a chat with my mum, and she seems to remember something from a few years ago, about a girl who went missing from Ambleside. I’ve done a quick Google search, but can’t bloody find much. Anyway, it was thought she was only here visiting with friends. I can’t understand why there’s no newspaper report, or something. How can there be such little information on the web? I thought it was this fantastic tool no-one could do without,’ he ended sarcastically.

  Fraser sniggered. ‘Sometimes, you have to know the right keywords and phrases to search for. Especially with older news articles. Leave it with me, boss. I’ll show you how it’s done.’

  ‘I’ve got my laptop with me and have been debating with myself about logging on … having a look through the Missing Persons database,’ he said and slightly glanced around the quiet patio area.

  ‘I can only imagine you’re telling me, and haven’t actually already done it, because you know you are off duty, boss.’

  He sighed. ‘Yes … not professional. And, in all honestly, I’m not sure who’s going to clout me first, my mum or Elizabeth, if I spend another minute on “a flipping case that isn’t even on my patch,”’ he said in a high-pitched, mocking tone. ‘But, maybe, I should listen to them. I am outnumbered.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do this end before you’re back in the office on Tuesday.’

  ‘Cheers, Fraser. I appreciate it.’

  After Hamilton disconn
ected the call, he sighed and stood up. The need to spend the last evening with his mother was paramount, but he still couldn’t shake the annoyance he felt. The more he thought of the victim rescued from the restraints of the castle’s boat house, the more he felt a familiarity towards the man. Hamilton was desperate to know why the victim died, the significance of Donna Moran’s name, and if she was a potential victim.

  Pleased he’d slipped his business card to the pathologist, he could only hope she’d use it and quench his thirst relating to this case. For now, he pushed it to the back of his mind as best he could. His team were dealing with a scumbag rapist in London, and his family demanded his attention.

  On Tuesday morning, Hamilton dashed from his home at the crack of dawn and beat the morning traffic to the station in Charing Cross. He was overjoyed to find Fraser hunched over her computer keyboard when he entered the incident room. Her long, blonde hair fell around her shoulders and back, while she busied herself with research, as usual.

  ‘Don’t you ever go home?’ he called out.

  ‘No rest for the wicked, boss,’ she said, without taking her eyes off the screen.

  Hamilton took a seat next to her. Lifting one foot onto his knee, he reclined slightly in the chair and waited for her to finish.

  Fraser clapped her hands and finally turned to face him. She never wore make-up at work, but it suited her, accentuating her youthful, fresh face. There were not many thirty-year-old women who would venture into a male dominated workforce and not feel the need to rely on good, old-fashioned war paint, Hamilton thought.

  ‘Okay, I was here late last night concluding the rape case so I could move onto what you asked first thing this morning,’ she said. ‘Wait, I assume you saw the news last night?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Of course, I did! London reality TV star murdered on the shores of Lake Windermere, I think the headline was. How do they always get this information so fast?’