Cold Fire, page 1
Table of Contents
Cover
Also by Matt Hilton
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Before
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
After
Author’s Note
Also by Matt Hilton
The Grey and Villere thrillers
BLOOD TRACKS *
PAINTED SKINS *
RAW WOUNDS *
WORST FEAR *
FALSE MOVE *
ROUGH JUSTICE *
COLLISION COURSE *
BLOOD KIN *
FATAL CONFLICT *
Joe Hunter series
RULES OF HONOUR
RED STRIPES
THE LAWLESS KIND
THE DEVIL’S ANVIL
NO SAFE PLACE
MARKED FOR DEATH
THE FOURTH OPTION
* available from Severn House
COLD FIRE
Matt Hilton
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2023
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.
This eBook edition first published in 2023 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
severnhouse.com
Copyright © Matt Hilton, 2023
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Matt Hilton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1051-7 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1068-5 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
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This one is for
Louis Matthew Hilton and Evie Rose Isabella Hilton.
BEFORE …
During her first incarceration the finality of a slamming door usually sent a shiver of nausea through Carol Wolsey, but during her second spell it meant security, safety, a night of peace without fear.
This time her cell door didn’t slam. It creaked open on steel hinges and admitted four figures, one of whom she’d lived in terror of since that other bitch caught up with her at the family trailer and had her dragged back to the correctional centre on a parole violation charge. Three of them rushed in and held Carol down on her narrow bunk. The fourth approached, a gold tooth at the front winking with each satisfied smirk. She bounced a small canister on the palm of her hand.
Carol wasn’t a bad person. She was one that had made bad choices. Case in point there hadn’t been a partner decent enough to stick around and help her raise their kids, so she’d turned to petty crime and prostitution to put food on the table and heroin in her veins. She had finally gone to prison for dealing, and had been, she thought, tricked into naming her supplier, on the promise of leniency in sentencing. She had been sent to the Maine Correctional Center out at Windham and, after serving a requisite four months of positive rehabilitation, had been allowed to participate in the women’s reentry scheme, where the emphasis was placed on ‘reducing the risks of reoffending and the increasing of positive outcomes.’ Through the scheme she’d gone to the parole board and was granted early release. It took her only days before she was back to her old tricks – out of necessity, of course, because she wasn’t a bad person.
Carol’s original testimony had helped reduce her sentence, but it had also helped convict a truly bad woman.
Unlike Carol had, this woman had not been given an easy ride through minimum-security custody or programs designed with gender-responsive principles in mind. She’d gone direct to gen pop and had soon established herself as the apex predator, who even some of the toughest and longest serving cons obeyed. She had put an unfulfilled hit on Carol Wolsey, who after snitching on her, even had the temerity to try and pick up the slack from her drug supply operation while out on parole.
Snitches get stitches was a mantra of criminal types, but this woman preferred another pithy saying: if you play with fire, you’ll get burned.
Liquid jetted from the canister, soaking Carol’s hair and face. It stank, the fumes searing her nostrils and her mind. The lights went out, making the single flame so bright that Carol screamed in terror before it was brought anywhere near her.
ONE
Even at the busiest of times Belchertown Police Department was not a hub of activity, and today was no different, with few people in earshot. But this was a personal telephone call and Detective Karen Ratcliffe had no intention of sharing its contents with the few colleagues that might overhear. She stepped outside. Snowflakes swirled around, sharp and icy where they touched her exposed skin. She ignored the discomfort. Somebody once had the great idea of constructing a skate park behind the police building; ordinarily the air would be filled with the high rattle of skateboard wheels, the clack of boards on concrete and the laughter of kids, but the cold spell had put paid to children having fun there for now. Ratcliffe took a walk across the expanse of buried asphalt that formed the station’s parking lot, and stepped on the lawn at its edge. Yesterday’s snow had frozen, the fresh layer on top made slipping and falling a firm probability. She trod down hard and her feet sank to the ankles through the icy crust into the snow. Her toes felt instantly frozen.
‘It has been a while,’ she said into her phone, while trying to stop her teeth from chattering, ‘I wasn’t sure you’d recall my name and where we’d met.’
‘Under those circumstances, it should be no surprise that your name’s indelibly written in my memory,’ Tess Grey assured her.
‘Yeah. I dined out for free on that story. At least I did until all the restaurants were ordered shut during the pandemic. You’re probably wondering why I asked you to get in touch?’
‘Well, I assumed that this is not an official call, otherwise you’d probably have contacted me via the office.’
Tess Grey subcontracted to a specialist inquiry firm attached to the Portland, Maine district attorney’s office. ‘I got your personal email address off the business card you gave me; it has been sitting in the back of my purse all this time. You were mainly doing genealogy work back then, but had recently crossed over into private investigations. I hoped it was a career move you’d followed, as it’s something you seemed good at. Before contacting you I did some Googling; you’ve built an impressive resume in the last few years, Tess.’
‘I’ve had help.’
‘I remember. Are you and Nicolas Villere still partners?’
‘In more ways than one.’
‘Aah, so you’re—’
‘We’re engaged to marry, if and when we get the opportunity. Now’s not a good time to try planning anything.’
‘Yeah, it’s difficult.’ Neither of them expounded on why organizing their respective lives was currently challenging. ‘How’s about Jerome Leclerc, your friend from down south, did he get over his injuries?’
‘Pinky’s hale and hearty and larger than life. Oh, and since last we spoke, he has moved here to Maine and taken over my apartment.’
‘I’m happy to hear that. He was a good guy …’
‘Despite what you might have learned about him afterwards, Pinky is a good guy. He’s one of the best. And even better, he’s given up his old ways, so you needn’t concern yourself about having divided loyalties around him.’
Ratcliffe understood where it was best not to push a subject, and besides she was happy that Tess’s assertion that Pinky had left behind his criminal lifestyle was the absolute truth. Had he not, would she still have asked for Tess and her friends to help? Yes, absolutely she would’ve.
‘I’d like to hire you guys,’ she said.
‘Hire us?’
‘Specifically you, but the way you just spoke about those guys I assume y’all come as a package deal.’
‘I guess you could say that.’ Tess chuckled at the idea, but her voice then lowered an octave, as she grew more serious. ‘Karen, you’re a police detective, why’d you need to hire me?’
‘Not all problems can be solved by the police, Tess.’
‘I guess not. So what is it that you want help with?’
Ratcliffe paused to check over her shoulder towards the police station. A uniformed patrolman called Henry Beets stood in the open door, flapping a hand to catch her attention. Ratcliffe gestured in reply, reassuring him she’d be back inside in one minute. She turned her back on him, but cupped the phone closer to her mouth, talking quieter. The snowfall deadened sound, but she didn’t want to chance him overhearing. ‘I’ve a sister … Joanne, and I need you to find her.’
‘You’ve probably more resources than I have, why not—’ Tess stopped mid flow. She was astute; she’d figured there was a reason why Ratcliffe couldn’t conduct an official search for her missing sister. ‘Conflict of interests?’
‘Yes. Trying to help her might compromise my position within law enforcement.’
‘She’s done something illegal?’
‘Allegedly. We’re all innocent until proven guilty, right?’
‘By your tone of voice it sounds as if she’s already been convicted and the key thrown away.’
‘It’s worse than that, Tess, for what Jo has been accused she could face the death penalty.’
‘They still have capital punishment over in Massachusetts?’
‘Not since the early eighties,’ Ratcliffe said, ‘but for Jo they might make an exception.’
She caught her breath. She was exaggerating. Massachusetts had abolished the death penalty in 1984, and even after Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, the surviving Boston Marathon bomber, was sentenced to death the US Court of Appeals for the First Circuit later vacated his sentence. Her sister’s alleged crime was heinous, but not on the scale of conducting a fatal bombing attack. ‘Sometimes a death penalty can be carried out before there’s a trial. I’d hate to see my sister gunned down before she’s given an opportunity to prove her innocence.’
‘What has she supposedly done?’
‘You haven’t been following the news?’
‘I’ve been … distracted,’ Tess said.
‘Jo’s the nanny alleged to have murdered those children. Death penalty or not, there are people all across the world would happily form a lynch mob and string her up from the nearest tree.’
Tess’s silence could mean something else, but Ratcliffe feared the private investigator couldn’t see beyond the alleged murders and was determining the best way in which to turn her down.
Tess surprised her. ‘You weren’t judgmental about Po’s past or of our friend Pinky’s, I’ll return the favor and not prejudge your sister.’
‘Tess, if I thought for one second that she was guilty of murdering those little ones I’d be at the head of the screaming mob demanding her death.’
Henry Beets was back outside again, this time tramping over the expanse of white enshrouding the parking lot. His big boot tracks seemed massive beside her daintier ones. Ratcliffe hunched over her phone. ‘Tess, I must go for now, but can I have an answer one way or another.’
‘I’ll need some time.’
‘I’d rather—’
‘I mean to familiarize myself with the facts, it’s like I said, I’ve been distracted lately. My answer’s yes, I’ll help, but it comes with a caveat; if I discover she is responsible for murdering those children I’ll personally drag her to a gibbet.’
TWO
Tess ended the call and set her phone aside.
It was cold enough for a hat and gloves, but she’d momentarily forgone them while seated at a table overlooking Back Cove; it was difficult using a touch phone while wearing mittens. She sipped coffee, finding that it was still warm and very appreciated. It dispelled some of the chill but not the wedge of ice that’d inserted itself in her heart when hearing who Detective Ratcliffe wanted her to help find. Despite saying she wouldn’t prejudge Joanne – or ‘Jo’ as Ratcliffe had repeatedly referred to her sister – it had been difficult, and a lie, because like most others who had seen the news reports, she’d already judged Joanne Mason a monster for what she did to those children.
‘Allegedly did to those children,’ Tess said aloud.
She checked around, ensuring she hadn’t been overheard. She hadn’t. For the moment she was the only one hardy, or foolish, enough to brave the cold while eating lunch. Sitting outside had not entirely been her decision. Her partner, Nicolas ‘Po’ Villere, stood about twenty yards distant, feeding his nicotine habit. The blue smoke from his cigarette formed horizontal striations in the crisp air. He’d wandered away to spare her from breathing his secondhand smoke. His food went untouched for now. If he didn’t return soon she might liberate some of those sour pickle spears off his plate.
They’d both ordered Maine Italian sandwiches; sub rolls piled high with ham, peppers, American cheese, tomatoes, onion, green olives and said pickles. Ordinarily Tess wouldn’t attempt eating a sandwich so large, but she was ravenous and if Po wasn’t careful she might make a start on his sandwich too before he was finished smoking. She reached for her sandwich. She aimed it at her mouth, but didn’t bite. She set it down again. Unconsciously she lowered her hand and caressed her belly, barely able to feel it through her insulated parka. It wasn’t her that could gorge on two sandwiches; she’d a tiny passenger craving nourishment too. She’d entered the second trimester of her pregnancy, and although the fetus was now as big as an avocado, it wasn’t showing much; not unless she counted the few extra pounds she’d added to her breasts lately. Maybe she should have mentioned her condition to Ratcliffe, because it could cause her to do more than prejudge somebody capable of murdering babies.
Po approached. He was a Southerner by birth, but had lived in Portland long enough that the Maine winters didn’t trouble him much. But even Po blew into his cupped hands, then rubbed them furiously together. ‘You want to go inside, Tess? I’ll grab our lunch and—’
She batted aside his offer and aimed a nod at the empty seat opposite. ‘Sit down, Po. There’s a job I’ve agreed to and I’m unsure if it’s something you want to get involved in.’
‘Y’know I have your back, Tess. What’s up?’ He sat, and after a moment dragged his plate towards him. He didn’t pick up the sandwich. ‘This job got to do with … whaddaya call her, the cop?’
He knew about the request made by Ratcliffe for Tess to make contact, but was offering her an easy route into what was obviously going to be a troubling conversation. ‘Detective Ratcliffe asked me to help her locate and bring in a fugitive, the twist being that the fugitive is her sister Joanne.’
Po shrugged and exhaled. He wore a black leather motorcycle jacket, the collarless type, with contrasting colored stripes down one sleeve. Ordinarily she enjoyed the aroma of warm leather and tobacco emanating from him, but today the leather was cold and stiff and the only scent she caught was from his caustic exhalation. She averted her face; she used to smoke, now she didn’t, but it was her pregnancy that had given her a deeper aversion to the habit. After lunch Po would have to pop a breath mint before they returned to the confines of his car. ‘Sorry, Tess, it smells that bad to you, huh?’
