The Canal Murders, page 1
The Canal Murders
The Fen Murder Mysteries
Christina James
Copyright © 2022 Christina James
* * *
The right of Christina James to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2022 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 978-1-5040-7655-5
Contents
Love best-selling fiction?
Praise for Christina James
Also by Christina James
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
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Acknowledgements
About the Author
A note from the publisher
You will also enjoy:
Love best-selling fiction?
Love best-selling fiction?
Sign up today to be the first to hear about new releases and exclusive offers, including free and discounted ebooks!
* * *
Why not like us or follow us on social media to stay up to date with the latest news from your favourite authors?
Praise for Christina James
‘We think this is a really exciting addition to the UK crime writing scene and look forward to reading DI Tim Yates’ next case.’
— LoveReading
‘An absorbing and generously written book…the police investigation is balanced by a more personal and emotional narrative, maintaining the reader’s interest. It is this narrative that is ultimately more memorable.’
— Euro Crime
‘A book that I would read again, not only because of the rich tapestry of images, dialogue and internal landscapes, but also the thoughtful use of the written word. I can’t wait to read the next Tim Yates novel.’
— Elaine Aldred
‘If you’re after a complex plot with some political and illegal undertones, plenty of suspicious circumstances and some interesting historical content, then give this a try.’
— Mean Streets
‘Cracking crime writing at its best.’
— The Bookbag
‘Had me fairly engrossed at all times.’
— Crimespace
‘A brilliant story, one of my favourites of the year.’
— Books From Dusk Till Dawn
Also by Christina James
Published by Bloodhound Books
The Fen Murder Mysteries
The Sandringham Mystery (Book One)
To Max and Ruby and their very good friend, Emma. With love.
Chapter One
It was a sharp, clear morning. The sun had long since risen and coloured the sky pink on the horizon. It was unseasonally chilly; the grass was damp with condensation and a light mist was just lifting.
Debbie Wicks had almost finished her newspaper round. She was cycling away from the close-built streets of terraced houses inhabited by the majority of her customers and was about to enter the scrubby grounds of Brooks’ paint factory. This was her last call and it always made her uneasy. The factory was invariably deserted at this hour: the first employees didn’t start arriving until seven forty-five, at least thirty minutes after Debbie had shoved the Financial Times and The Sun through the letterbox. The building was ugly, squat and flat-roofed, with mean little iron-framed windows. Management didn’t see fit to leave some lights on at night, as the local copper had advised after the several occasions when kids had broken in for a spot of petty thieving. The porch was sometimes dimly lit by a single naked bulb, but the latest incumbent had ceased functioning at Christmas.
Debbie pedalled past the cast-iron gates, which had been left open for so long they were immobilised by creeping tendrils of convolvulus and thorny blackberry runners, taking care to avoid the potholes in the badly-maintained factory road. She was fifteen, the eldest of three children. The Wicks family led a ramshackle sort of existence: her father was unskilled and worked at what jobs he could get when he felt like it: recently these had included bricklayer’s mate, doing the heavy work for a local gardening firm and ‘prepping’ for a painter and decorator. The jobs never lasted very long; few ran their course, cut short by Derek Wicks’ poor time-keeping or blatant absenteeism. Debbie’s mother suffered from permanent depression; she just about managed the basics of housekeeping. It was left to Debbie to do the shopping, the ironing and most of the cooking and to ensure her brother and sister left for school each day looking more or less presentable. She needed the money from the paper round to buy clothes for herself, though keeping it for that purpose could be difficult: it wasn’t unknown for her father to ‘borrow’ her earnings with the promise that he’d pay them back ‘when his ship came in’. Debbie was ambitious and determined to make the most of her opportunities. She was bright at school, although finding the time to get her homework done was a constant struggle. She knew she had no hope of being allowed to stay at school after she was sixteen; she’d be expected to work to contribute to the family income. She had plans to apprentice herself to a hairdresser who’d encouraged her and study part-time for her A levels as well as her hairdressing qualification. Eventually she’d find a way of going to university. Meanwhile, she was desperate to move out of her parents’ house; compared to her present home, a flat-share with other girls would spell sheer luxury. She was thinking about this as she dismounted from her bike and fished around in her canvas bag for the last two remaining newspapers.
Suddenly there was someone at her elbow. Her heart leapt with fright. She put her hand to her throat, felt the blood pumping there.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump.’ It was a soft voice, warm and lazy. ‘It’s a bit spooky here, isn’t it? I wonder if you can help me. I’ve just bought a kitten and she’s run away from me. I followed her here. She went round the side of that building and now I’ve lost her. I think she must be in those bushes over there. I’m late for work as it is. Will you come and help look for her?’
* * *
The first worker to arrive at Brooks’ each morning was invariably Moira the cook. Tea had to be ready and waiting for the early shift. When she’d made it, she liked to get well on with the bacon sandwiches and scones for the mid-morning break. If her bus was on time, she could also manage to squeeze in a quick fag before anyone else arrived.
Moira was a key-holder. She was rummaging in her bag for the keys as she walked up the factory road, not looking where she was going. She’d almost reached the entrance when she stumbled on something and landed heavily on one knee. Slowly she got back on her feet and inspected the knee, which was already bleeding from a nasty cut. She saw that she’d tripped on the red bicycle lying in the porch, sending its rear wheel spinning.
‘Which stupid fucker left that there?’ she said aloud, trying to sound as belligerent as possible to cover her fear: she didn’t recognise the bike and inside the porch it was very dark. She had a very cursory look round, but could see no one. She inserted the key, let herself in as quickly as she could and shut the door behind her, bolting it from the inside. When the first workers turned up, they’d have to bray on it if they wanted her to let them in.
Chapter Two
Ricky MacFadyen was walking down Red Lion Street. He was carrying a parcel of fish and chips from Sheddy Turner’s and eagerly anticipating consuming them.
As he turned the sharp dog-leg bend, he heard a woman scream. Someone else was shouting. Ricky saw that a small crowd had gathered near two men rolling around in the middle of the road. Each was punching the other vigorously, but one of them, clearly younger and stronger than the other, was giving his opponent a pasting. Blood was pouring from the latter’s nose and the flesh surrounding both his eyes was already swelling.
Ricky dumped his parcel on a bollard, ran forwards and dived into the fray.
‘Cut it out!’ he said, grabbing the man who seemed to be getting the best of it and trying to haul him off.
The man stood up to face him foursquare. His clothes were casual but expensive. He was about six foot two and powerfully built. He was olive-skinned, with very black hair.
‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’
The voice was rough. Ricky thought he detected a twang of Irish.
‘I’m a police officer.’
Ricky groped in his breast pocket for ID.
‘Oh, a copper, are you? And I’m the fucking Dalai Lama. Where’s your helmet?’
The man landed two brisk punches on Ricky’s nose and forehead before making a run for it. Ricky didn’t chase after him: his assailant had caught him off guard and for a few seconds he couldn’t take in what had happened. He looked at the man lying on the ground. He might be badly injured: the first priority was to help him. Ricky’s own eyes were smarting with the pain. Gingerly, he put his hand up to his face. As far as he could tell, his nose wasn’t bleeding.
The man on the ground rolled over and, supporting himself with his arms, slowly clambered to his knees. His nose was still streaming with blood. Ricky grabbed hold of his elbow.
‘Can you stand, sir? I’ll call an ambulance.’
Unsteadily, the man hoisted himself to his feet and, taking a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped some of the blood from his face.
‘No ambulance!’ he said. ‘No fuss.’
A woman came out of the craft shop opposite carrying a folding chair. She set it up on the edge of the pavement. The injured man sat down heavily.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘I’ll fetch you a glass of water.’
The injured man gestured impatiently with his hand, as if to swat her away. For a moment he’d forgotten about Ricky, who took the opportunity to call for a squad car.
‘Affray in Red Lion Street,’ he said. ‘This is DC MacFadyen. Backup needed, and an ambulance.’
Catching the last two sentences, the injured man glared at Ricky and immediately forced himself to his feet. He put his hand to his head and fell back on the chair again, closing his eyes.
‘Steady, sir. Just hold on there for a little while.’ Ricky raised his voice, making an effort to detain the bystanders, who were already beginning to melt away. ‘I’m going to need a couple of witnesses. Did anyone see the whole incident?’
The six or seven people remaining, most of them men, muttered such excuses as that they’d just come to look when they’d heard ‘something going off’ as they sidled past him. Ricky was left with only a girl of about twelve and the female shopkeeper.
‘I saw most of it,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Poor Mr Fovargue!’
‘You know him?’
‘Yes, it’s Jack Fovargue. You know – him as teaches the kids about soil and growing things. Such a nice man.’
Ricky knew nothing about this, but he didn’t say so. The name ‘Fovargue’ sounded vaguely familiar. It was unusual enough to stick in the memory even if he’d only come across it in passing.
‘Who started the fight?’
‘Oh, not Mr Fovargue. He’s a gentleman through and through! It was the other one as started it.’
‘Do you know him, too?’
‘No, I’ve never seen him before. A didicoi, I expect. They’ve been passing through in dribs and drabs lately, after that big fair they have up north.’
‘You mean the Appleby Fair?’
‘I suppose that’s it, yes. Did you recognise him, Ellie?’
Ricky turned to the girl, who was standing quietly by his elbow, large solemn eyes fixed on Fovargue’s swollen face.
‘I think I’ve seen him before. I think he once came to Junior Soil Society.’
‘To what?’ said Ricky.
‘Junior Soil Society,’ said the woman, as reverently as if she’d just mentioned an Ivy League university. ‘I told you: Mr Fovargue teaches the kids about looking after the land. He gets them interested in their heritage.’ She switched to a lower key. ‘This is Ellie. She’s my daughter.’
Ricky nodded at Ellie.
‘What’s your name?’ he said to the woman.
‘Julia. Julia Withers.’ She pointed at the name over the shop.
‘Do I understand that you’re prepared to make a statement, Mrs Withers?’
‘Yes, of course I will.’
‘No. No statements, no fuss,’ said Jack Fovargue, suddenly opening his eyes as much as he could and erupting into life again.
A police car drew up alongside them. PC Giash Chakrabati jumped out. He was joined at the kerbside by PC Verity Tandy, his partner.
‘DC MacFadyen! Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ said Ricky. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘You’ve got a nasty cut above your right eye, sir. You may need a couple of stitches.’
‘Seriously?’ said Ricky, touching his eyebrow gingerly. ‘I wasn’t aware of it. It’s this man who’s really been hurt. I asked for an ambulance. Do you know if it’s coming?’
‘Your request was relayed. It shouldn’t be long. Do you want me to take a statement while we’re waiting? Do you feel up to talking to us, sir?’
Jack Fovargue settled himself more squarely in the chair and straightened his back. It was a struggle, but he managed it.
‘Look,’ he said, forcing a smile and speaking in a quiet and tautly even voice, ‘I’m extremely grateful to you all, but I don’t want any fuss. A hot bath and I’ll be fine.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I...’
The ambulance arrived, manoeuvring itself into position alongside the police car. The small group was joined by two male paramedics.
