Into the Shadows

by Shirley Wells

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

When a man wrongly arrested for murder hangs himself, forensic psychologist Jill Kennedy, who helped put him away, leaves her job and moves to a sleepy village. But when the vicar's wife is murdered, Jill discovers village life isn't the retreat she'd hoped to find. And while Jill's excolleague and ex-lover, DCI Max Trentham, sees the case as cut and dried, someone else has other ideas. It seems that Jill's past is coming back to haunt her.

Release date: April 4, 2013

Publisher: C & R Crime

Print pages: 256

Sample

The stupid bitch thought she was God, all knowing and all seeing. Conceited cow.

He assumed she had driven to Burnley, as she had the last two Friday mornings. He’d followed her then, and he guessed he had at least a couple of hours before she returned.

Her bedroom was soft and frilly, all pastel blues and yellows, and a vase of flowers, huge yellow daisies, sat on the windowsill. He hated to see flowers in bedrooms. It reminded him of hospitals where dozens of sick bodies competed for air with garish blooms.

He peered around blue and yellow curtains and gazed at the brooding Pennines. It was easy to picture her standing here and admiring her view, so different to the one of office blocks and houses she’d had in Preston. She would admire it as it changed with the seasons – the hills lush and green in the summer months, wearing their snowy mantle in winter, or hazy in the mist of a November morning, as they were now.

A cat ambled into the room, saw him, spat at him and raced out again.

He liked cats; he’d had one once, a tabby kitten that he’d called Tiger. He’d been six years old at the time.

Very slowly and carefully, he inched open a drawer, the top drawer of a set of four in what pretended to be antique pine. Inside were scraps of material that made his breath catch. A silk bra in black – no, it was dark blue – caught his attention, then a tiny thong in the same soft silk.

He pulled off a glove, and allowed his fingers the luxury of running over the scanty silk.

Deciding to keep a souvenir, he shoved the thong into the pocket of his trousers, put on his glove again and slid the drawer back into place.

Her bed had been neatly made and he pulled back the quilt, inhaling deeply. Her scent was on the pillow.

Tonight, he’d smell her in the flesh, God willing. They would be at the same bonfire party, in the same house, talking to the same people, and although they probably wouldn’t speak, he would make sure he got close enough to smell her.

It was tempting to leave the photograph on the pillow where, later, her pretty head would rest, but it was too soon for that. He would put it in an envelope and drop it through her letterbox.

After one last look at her bedroom, he left as quietly as he’d entered.

Jill walked up the drive to Kelton Manor and wished with all her heart that she didn’t have to be here. At the best of times, she wasn’t a party person and today, despite the fact that Manor Girl had seen off the favourite and romped home at 22–1, wasn’t the best of times.

There had been three brown envelopes on her doormat when she’d returned from Burnley that morning – a reminder that her TV licence was due, a reminder that the cats’ inoculations were due and a photograph complete with newspaper clipping.

Nothing had been written on the photograph. Even the envelope, plain manila and self-seal, hadn’t seen a printer or a pen. The piece cut from the newspaper was simply a large headline that read: Serial killer arrested.

She knew the photograph well. It had been taken a year ago when, flushed with success, she’d been snapped by the local press. Due in part to the profile she’d prepared, a serial killer who had been terrorizing the north-west for four years had finally been arrested. Oh yes, she’d been smiling for the cameras that day.

That was before Rodney Hill committed suicide. Before they realized they’d got the wrong man.

A rocket exploded into thousands of silver and gold stars that lit the overhead sky. Very pretty, but it did nothing to improve her mood. She hoped her three cats would be all right. They should be. There was unlikely to be much activity along her lane, and she’d locked the cat flap so they couldn’t get out.

It was the dressing up she hated most about parties. Happier in jeans and jumpers, she resented occasions that required effort. She wasn’t in the mood for being polite to complete strangers, either. Not tonight.

She pushed a heavy finger at the doorbell, a round brass affair set in the stonework, and pinned in place the brightest smile she could manage.

The door swung open and a babble of conversation and polite laughter drifted out.

‘Jill!’ Mary Lee-Smith, her hostess, air-kissed Jill’s cheeks. ‘Thank you so much for coming, my dear.’

‘Thank you for inviting me.’ The sound of talk and laughter from within cheered Jill slightly. It was a month since she’d moved into the Lancashire village of Kelton Bridge, and it was high time she met some of her new neighbours. This way, she’d meet a lot in one go. ‘It’s very kind of you,’ she added.

From what she’d heard, Gordon Lee-Smith’s family had lived at Kelton Manor, a gorgeous square building set in immaculate grounds that sat in the middle of Kelton Bridge, for generations. Although Mary’s heart was in the right place, it was said she thought this gave them – well, her really, as Gordon worked in London during the week – the right to organize the other residents.

That, of course, was simply hearsay, something Olive Prendergast from the post office had told her. Olive, who struggled to find a kind word for anyone, was coming up to retirement and her heart was no longer in the job. Apparently, since losing her husband a couple of years ago, Olive’s main purpose in life was to spread local gossip.

For all that, Jill could believe that Mary was a natural organizer, despite her small stature.

Jill’s coat was taken from her and she was ushered through an impressive hallway into an even more impressive drawing room. It was already crowded.

‘Let’s get you a drink,’ Mary said. ‘Gordon!’

Her husband was across the room, out of earshot and unable to see his wife’s flapping arms, and then the doorbell rang again.

‘Don’t worry,’ Jill said, ‘I’ll get myself one and hunt down someone I recognize.’

‘Are you sure, dear?’ Another fruitless gaze in Gordon’s direction. ‘I hate the thought of abandoning you.’

‘I’m sure.’ Jill was more than happy to be abandoned.

Ever since moving to Kelton Bridge, she’d been itching to see inside the manor, and would rather be nosy on her own. From the outside, it was an imposing building with a paddock and stable block to the side. Huge chestnut trees marked the property’s boundary.

It reminded her of the large house she’d seen from her bedroom window as a child. Only a field had separated the council estate from Shelton House and Jill had spent hours watching the comings and goings. A girl, Penelope, the same age as Jill, had lived there. She’d attended a boarding school in Hereford but, during the holidays, Jill had watched her trotting off on her elegant silver pony. Jill had even fantasized about befriending the girl simply to have a ride on the magnificent animal. It came to nothing, of course. Their paths never crossed. The field separating the River View estate and Shelton House might have been a million miles.

The interior of Kelton Manor didn’t disappoint. Everything was lavish – huge oil paintings, long and heavy velvet curtains, antique furniture and old wood that had been polished to within an inch of its life. With a glass of very acceptable white wine in her hand, Jill was on her way to inspect the Victorian conservatory when she bumped, almost literally, into Andy Collins. At least there was one person here she knew.

‘Jill, I’ve been looking for you.’ This time, her cheeks were kissed properly.

Tall, slim and blond, he wore rimless glasses, and his eyes were the palest blue, speckled with silver streaks.

‘Hi, Andy, how’s my favourite estate agent? Hey, I bet you’d like this place on your books.’

‘Wouldn’t I just,’ he agreed, sounding wistful as he looked around. ‘No hope of that, though. So how are you settling in?’

‘Wonderfully well. I owe you.’

It was thanks to Andy that she had the cottage. Due in part to the little sod who’d burned her flat to the ground, she’d decided the time was right to head out of Preston and find a place in the country. She’d had several areas in mind. One day, she’d wandered into Andy’s office and, from that moment on, he’d been tireless in his search for the perfect property for her. He’d certainly earned his commission.

While house hunting, Jill had begun to despair of estate agents in general. Despite giving them precise details of what she was looking for, they either sent brochures for properties that would only be feasible when she’d won the lottery, or they omitted to send anything until any possible properties were already under offer. Andy, however, had been a gem. He’d called her from his car phone after an appointment with Mrs Blackman to say Lilac Cottage was about to go on the market.

‘I think it will be perfect for you,’ he’d said. ‘It’s a bit on the small side, but there’s plenty of room to extend. It needs a fair amount of work, hence the sensible asking price. It’s well within your budget.’

She’d met him there that same day, fallen in love with the cottage, and immediately made Mrs Blackman an offer.

Andy had been right; it was perfect for her. On the edge of Kelton Bridge, midway between Burnley and Rochdale, and nestling in the shadow of the Pennines, she was less than an hour’s drive north of Manchester. The location couldn’t have been better.

All thanks to Andy.

He’d invited her to dinner twice, and twice Jill had declined. Perhaps she should have accepted, if only out of gratitude. Her excuses had involved pressure of work, but the truth was, she didn’t want a relationship.

‘Good grief, Jill,’ Prue, her young and bossy sister had scoffed. ‘The bloke’s offered to feed you. How can that translate as wanting his socks washed for the rest of his days?’

Prue was probably right, but all the same . . .

Jill slipped her arm through Andy’s.

‘Come and show me the conservatory. I walk past here most days, but the walls around the grounds are so high that I haven’t been able to get a decent look at it. I’ve been tempted to bring a stepladder with me . . .’

‘You’re just plain nosy.’

‘Merely interested in people,’ she corrected him.

They wove their way around a small crowd and stepped through double doors into the conservatory.

‘Oh, wow! It’s massive. And no UPVC in sight. Are these real?’ A finger on one of the tall, exotic ferns told her that they were indeed real. ‘My entire cottage would fit in here,’ she added.

‘Not quite,’ Andy replied with amusement, ‘but it’s a nice size.’

Jill spluttered with laughter. ‘Oh, yes, I can picture your sales brochure – a nice-sized conservatory at the rear.’ She nudged him and said in a whisper, ‘The lights are a bit tacky though.’

Small white fairy lights had been hung from the ceiling for the party and a few of the ferns were adorned with lights.

‘Behave yourself,’ he grinned.

‘Andy!’ a voice boomed out.

They both turned, Jill hoping her disparaging whisper hadn’t been heard, to see a couple who were strangers to her.

‘Ah, Tony, Liz, lovely to see you,’ Andy greeted them. ‘Have you met Jill? No? Jill, this is Tony Hutchinson, headmaster of the local primary school, and his wife, the lovely Liz.’

Jill shook hands and went through the pleased-to-meetyou routine. Tony was in his mid-fifties, Jill supposed, a tall, handsome man with grey hair, and the lovely Liz looked a good ten years younger. She was also American.

‘I’ve been over here for twenty years,’ she explained, ‘but I can’t seem to shake off this accent.’

From the way she swayed on her feet, she’d also found the wine to be acceptable.

She was short and slim, one of those women with an inbuilt sense of style, and was wearing an exquisite pale mauve linen trouser suit. Jill guessed she only bought the best quality clothes. Her wardrobe would be full of cashmere and, unlike Jill, she wouldn’t have spent a frantic hour searching for a pair of black trousers that were relatively cat-hair free.

‘I’m surprised Kelton still has a school,’ Jill said, ‘when so many village schools are closing.’

‘Fortunately, it’s thriving,’ Tony told her. ‘Pupil numbers have increased each year for the last five years.’

‘Thanks mainly to the two new estates,’ Andy put in lightly, ‘which, if I recall, Tony, you were against.’

‘I wasn’t against the estates, I was against the location,’ he replied, chuckling. Turning to Jill, he said, ‘How are you finding Kelton Bridge?’

‘I love it. I’ve been very busy, work-wise, which is why I haven’t met many people, so it’s lovely to be here tonight.’

‘The pleasure’s all ours,’ he murmured. ‘Everyone’s queuing up to meet our local celebrity.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Tony started a psychology course many years ago,’ Liz explained. ‘It was one of the Open University things. He’s been fascinated ever since. Not fascinated enough to finish the course, you understand.’

Jill was startled by the animosity she sensed between husband and wife.

‘But I’m not a celebrity,’ she pointed out, confused.

‘Your face was in our local paper for days on end,’ Tony told her, ‘when that serial killer was caught.’

The coincidence sent a shiver the length of Jill’s spine. No one had mentioned the case to her for months and now that photograph had been brought to mind twice on the same day.

‘But as you’ll be aware,’ she said, knowing her voice sounded tight, ‘it wasn’t the killer.’

‘I never know the difference between a psychologist and a psychiatrist,’ Liz said, clearly trying to lighten the atmosphere.

‘A psychologist deals with normal mental states,’ Tony told her, ‘and a psychiatrist deals with abnormal. A psychiatrist will have more medical training. Isn’t that right, Jill?’

‘Close enough,’ she replied, eager for a change of subject.

‘But the job, it must be fascinating,’ Tony persisted.

‘It’s OK,’ she told him with a tight little smile. ‘Although not as glamorous as the TV dramas make out. As a forensic psychologist working with the police, I mainly advised on selection and training of officers, prepared behavioural information to support cases in court, and did a variety of counselling roles.’ She shrugged. ‘But that’s in the past. I resigned as I wanted to concentrate on my writing.’

Liar, she scoffed.

‘Yes, we heard you were writing. What sort of stuff are you doing?’

‘At the moment, I’m writing a book to help sufferers of anxiety attacks,’ she said.

From the expression on his face, she gathered Mr Hutchinson wasn’t impressed.

‘Panic attacks, you mean?’ his wife put in. ‘My sister has those. She’s getting better, slowly, but it’s a terrible thing. Her doctor has given her Valium and told her to do relaxation exercises.’

‘I could have done that,’ Tony scoffed. ‘Don’t you think,’ he said, addressing Jill, ‘that people could help themselves if only they put their minds to it? Is there any need for books?’

‘I don’t think we can help ourselves,’ Jill argued. ‘We can often help other people, but we get so wrapped up in our own worries and anxieties that we often can’t see the wood for the trees.’

‘I suppose so,’ he said, grudgingly. ‘And do you enjoy it? Writing, I mean?’

‘I love it.’

That was true. All Jill wanted was to forget Valentine, as the serial killer had quickly been dubbed, forget her work with the police, and concentrate on her life. She wanted to get the work done on her cottage so it was warm and comfortable, then sit back and enjoy life with her cats. A simple life appealed to her.

‘It can’t be as interesting as criminal profiling, though,’ Tony persisted. ‘But is there anything in it? I mean, really. Come on, Jill, you can be honest with us.’

‘Of course there’s something in it,’ she replied, wondering what sort of moron he thought she was. ‘We’re all unique. We all have our different ways of doing things. Criminals leave tangible clues like fingerprints, footprints, saliva, blood and all the rest of it, but by the way they do things, they leave clues that are just as obvious.’

‘What do you think of this conservatory?’ Liz butted in. ‘Isn’t it grand? I am so jealous.’

Jill, grateful for the change of subject, warmed to her immediately.

‘Me, too. It’s gorgeous. I couldn’t believe these ferns are real . . .’

Another man soon joined them. Jill didn’t know him but she’d seen him about the village. She was ashamed that she hadn’t made more effort to get to know these people.

‘Hi, Bob,’ Andy greeted him warmly.

‘Bob’s our local builder,’ Liz explained and to prove that she really had had too much wine, she burst into song, ‘Bob the Builder . . .’

The group laughed, as was expected, but Jill could see that Bob had tired of the joke long ago. Fortunately, he was too well mannered to say so.

The lovely Liz was struggling to keep her eyes off him. With good reason, Jill allowed. It was difficult to give him an age, probably late thirties or early forties. He was fit and strong-looking, with the sort of tanned skin that comes from working outside rather than spending a fortnight beneath a foreign sun. His hair was strawberry-blond, a young Robert Redford, and he had huge work-roughened hands. All in all, a very attractive man.

‘So you haven’t met our local celebrity either, Bob?’ Tony remarked, and Jill groaned inwardly.

Bob looked blank.

‘Jill, here, was in the papers when that serial killer was caught. Or, at least, the police thought they’d caught the serial killer.’

‘I remember that, of course,’ Bob said, frowning, ‘but I don’t recall the details.’

‘Jill was the psychologist who worked out the profile for the police,’ Tony explained.

‘Ah, right.’ Bob tried to look impressed and failed.

Jill had to smile. ‘Don’t worry, Bob, Tony’s having you on. I’m no celebrity. I am in need of a good builder, though. Andy will vouch for that.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’m at Lilac Cottage,’ she told him, ‘Mrs Blackman’s old place.’

‘Ah.’

A man of few words was Bob.

‘My roof needs checking over and making good as soon as possible,’ she explained, ‘and every door and window in the place needs replacing. In the future, I’m thinking of a loft conversion and a ground-floor extension.’

Bob wasn’t surprised. Anyone who drove past could see the state of her roof and windows.

‘Give me a ring then,’ he said. ‘I’m in the book.’

They chatted about other things – the way Kelton Bridge had woken to eight inches of snow on New Year’s Day last year, how Tony, a keep fit fanatic, was determined to walk the Pennine Way next year . . .

‘Jill, there you are.’ Mary Lee-Smith appeared at Jill’s elbow. ‘You must come and meet our vicar and his wife. They say they haven’t met you yet.’ She sounded appalled at the latter.

‘Not yet,’ Jill admitted as she was whisked away.

Reverend Trueman was a tall, imposing man. He looked quite stern and, for a moment, Jill remembered her late grandmother saying ‘And what shall I say when the vicar asks where you’ve been? I can’t lie to a vicar.’ Jill, eight years old at the time, hadn’t cared what her gran said. No way was she sitting in church for hours while her friends enjoyed themselves outside and that was that. She felt much the same about church twenty-six years later.

During the customary ‘lovely to meet you’ and ‘how are you settling in?’ conversation that followed, his wife, Alice, appeared warm, friendly and down-to-earth, so Jill gave Reverend Trueman the benefit of the doubt.

Alice was also stunningly attractive which was strange, Jill thought, given that (a) she wasn’t exactly a spring chicken and (b) she seemed to have made no effort whatsoever. Her hair could have done with a good cut, she wore no make-up, and her simple grey dress would have suited a Quaker. Despite this, her finely boned face with those stunning cheekbones, her height, her slim figure and long, shapely legs gave her a style and elegance of her own so that she couldn’t fail to turn heads.

‘I take it you’re not a churchgoer,’ Jonathan Trueman remarked.

‘I’m afraid not, no.’

‘Why afraid?’

‘Silly choice of words. Although I do feel I need to make excuses for myself.’ Blame my gran, she added silently. ‘But you’re right, I’m not. I love the buildings, and I love the whole idea of it all, but I’m not a fan of religion. It causes too many problems and creates too many fanatics for my liking.’

‘For a psychologist –’

‘Jon,’ his wife scolded, ‘this isn’t the time or the place for one of your theology discussions.’ Alice gave Jill an apologetic smile. ‘Once he gets started, there’s no stopping him.’

‘Nonsense,’ he argued, slipping a fond arm around his wife’s slender waist. ‘We’ll save it for another time,’ he promised with a wink for Jill.

‘Here’s Michael.’ Alice waved to a young lad across the room. ‘Our son,’ she added for Jill’s benefit. ‘Michael, come and meet Jill Kennedy.’

He came over to them, all smiles. ‘You haven’t run out of petrol lately?’

‘I haven’t,’ Jill told him, laughing. ‘We’ve already met,’ she explained to his parents. ‘Michael helped me unlock my petrol cap at the filling station.’

‘His Saturday job,’ Jonathan put in. ‘He’s in his last year at school and then it’ll be off to university.’

Clearly Reverend Trueman wanted the world to know about his clever son, not the friendly lad who sat in the kiosk at the filling station. An intellectual snob, Jill decided.

They were discussing the universities they’d each attended when Mary appeared at Jill’s elbow.

‘Sorry to intrude, but Ella Gardner’s dying to meet you, Jill. Ella’s our resident historian . . .’

Jill knew she’d never remember anyone’s name by morning, but she set off to be introduced to the resident historian.

‘Spend too long in a place like Kelton,’ Ella warned, ‘and you’ll be the one needing a psychologist. I swear all the misfits are born with an inbuilt route planner to get them here.’ She frowned. ‘I haven’t seen you at church. I wouldn’t go myself as I’m a confirmed atheist, but it’s easier to go than put up with Jon’s lectures. Besides, he enjoys the challenge.’

‘I managed to avoid his lecture,’ Jill told her.

‘Ah, yes, he lulls you into a false sense of security and then goes in for the kill,’ Ella warned her.

‘I gather you’re our resident historian,’ Jill remarked.

‘Ha! I seem to have earned that dubious title since passing the age of sixty.’ Ella grinned. ‘Before that, I was just another dull civil servant. Hmm. Exciting to have a resident psychologist though. Are you married?’

Ella, Jill suspected, excelled at the frank question.

‘Widowed.’

Jill was accustomed to the shock on Ella’s face. She’d seen it on dozens of faces before. She could understand it, too. Widows were grey-haired old ladies who knitted scratchy jumpers for their grandchildren while looking back on a lifetime’s memories. They weren’t smiling thirtyfour-year-olds.

‘What about you, Ella? Are you married?’

‘Me? For my sins, yes. Tom doesn’t get out much. Blames his arthritis but, basically, he’s a boring old fart. As he’d tell me though, it takes one to know one. I love him really, and given tonight’s crowd, I can’t say I blame him. God, what a dull lot. In the next breath, they’ll all be complaining that the youngsters leave the village at the first opportunity. Can you blame them? There’s more life in the graveyard.’

‘I’m enjoying myself,’ Jill said, amused by Ella’s scathing comments.

‘Ah, but as the new resident, you’re obliged to say kind things ab. . .