The Blood Line

Book 0: DI Alex Finn

by Will Shindler

Genres: Police Procedurals

Synopsis

The next instalment in Will Shindler's critically acclaimed and explosive DI Alex Finn and DC Mattie Paulsen series - a gripping London-set detective story full of twists and turns

An ordinary day. An ordinary street. A gruesome delivery waiting on the doorstep that's going to set off an spine-chilling chain of events...

Claire Beacham returns from a busy day at work to a parcel on her doorstep - no note, no label. As a politician, she's used to being suspicious of anonymous hate mail but today she's too tired to worry. She opens it, finding a gruesome surprise inside. A severed head falls to her kitchen floor; the rich, red drip of blood on her hands.

It is clear to Claire and those around her that this terrifying package is a message. But who sent it, and why?

It's Claire's first delivery - and won't be her last.

DI Finn cannot enjoy the gentle return to his role in the Murder Investigation Team of the Metropolitan Police that he planned. Someone is targeting Claire and with every message comes another casualty. With the clock ticking, DI Finn and DC Mattie Paulsen must wade through the depths of the murky political sphere before the bodies start piling up.

Praise for Will Shindler's DI Alex Finn series:

'Riveting' The Sunday Times
'Excellent' Weekend Sport
'Unmissable' Sunday Express Magazine
'Gripping' Heat
'This is the best kind of police procedural' Literary Review

(P)2023 Hodder & Stoughton Limited

Release date: February 2, 2023

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 320

Sample

Acknowledgements

I submitted the first draft of this book to my publishers on Wednesday October 13th 2021. I was feeling a little smug – I’d enjoyed writing this one (doesn’t always happen) and had fallen a little in love with Claire Beacham after spending almost a year inside her head. Then, just two days later on Friday October 15th came the appalling murder of Sir David Amess the MP for Southend West at a constituency surgery in Leigh-on-Sea. Suddenly, what I’d written seemed to have a whole new and very tragic resonance. As I listened that evening to some of the cross-party tributes to Sir David, one phrase stuck with me. Forgive me – because I’m paraphrasing, but it went along the lines of:

‘Far from being out of touch with society our MPs are probably more in touch with what’s happening on the ground in their constituencies than they’ve ever been before.’

It’s a view that flies against the popular stereotype and I appreciate there’ll be plenty reading this who won’t agree with it (goodness knows a lot’s happened since I wrote the book!) But the thing that’s always struck me when I listen to people talk about politicians is our conviction that we ‘know’ them. I think, often, we only see a fraction of the true person and I was keen to dig into that. Partly, because recent years have so skewed our view of MPs I wanted to try and move away from the popular stereotypes and cliches – I’ll let you decide how successful I’ve been.

In particular, I wanted Claire to feel relatable. She’s a Labour politician because the story needed her to be an opposition MP but I hope she’s representative of many of our Members of Parliament across the board – someone, normal and fallible, simply trying to do the right thing. Sometimes a lot of good goes unseen, with actions that make a meaningful difference receiving little press attention – and yes, that includes even those MPs you don’t like.  Did she stand again at the next election?  And if not, what happened to her next? It might be fun to find out one day . . .

Once again, I need to thank the fine people at Hodder for the fantastic continued backing that they give me with this series. Huge thank you’s to the guv’nor Eve Hall who’s edited this series from the start – and welcome to Beth Wickington who’s seamlessly jumped aboard with this book. As ever – a big thanks too to my brilliant agent Hayley Steed for her continued wisdom and support in all things. And a particularly special thanks to police advisor Stuart Gibbon for answering a near endless stream of questions this time around. Each and every email ended with the words ‘I think these are the last ones’ – which in hindsight was a flagrant lie.

Finally, I suppose I ought to say a few words about the ending of this book. I mean, I ought to – but maybe I should just leave you just with this:

 

‘To be continued!’

Chapter 1

Detective Inspector Alex Finn rolled out the blue mat and sat down on it cross-legged, focusing his attention on a framed picture hanging on the far wall of his flat. It was a painting of a small port with a perfect azure sky, some tavernas, and a handful of bright white yachts moored close by. He knew the place well – Fiscardo village on the Greek island of Kefalonia, a place he’d once visited with his late wife Karin. He stilled himself, slowed his breathing down and cleared his mind of everything except the image. Meditation was something that once upon a time he’d have poured scorn on, but in recent months he’d come to appreciate.

He was a tall, lean figure with short, grey-flecked brown hair and high cheekbones. Expensive Prada glasses adorned a well-moisturised face, giving him a slightly professorial look. He didn’t fit most people’s stereotype of what a murder detective looked like – but then he hadn’t been one for a while. Finn was currently on a sabbatical from the job, after suffering from what he now accepted had been a breakdown just over six months before.

In the aftermath of his wife’s death from a brain tumour just over two years earlier, he’d rushed straight back to work. At the time he’d thought it was the best way of dealing with his grief. As it turned out, he’d been wrong – horribly wrong. He hadn’t been able to let go of her – bereavement as addiction is how it had been described to him. How close he’d come to taking his own life the day that addiction finally overwhelmed him, he wasn’t sure. The memory still made him shiver.

It had proven to be the catalyst for change that he’d needed. Since then, he’d been undergoing bereavement counselling, learning to enjoy life once again, and slowly easing his way back into a healthier state of mind. Now on the eve of his return to work, he felt rested, refreshed and just a little bored.

‘Proud of you,’ said Karin.

‘Hush now,’ he replied with a smile, focusing again on the picture.

Finn was a man of routine. After his daily meditation, he went for a swim. After the swim, he went for a walk and then there was a stop for a leisurely coffee at his favourite cafe on Wandsworth Common. Force of habit meant he still studied the news websites closely. He often pictured his colleagues at the Cedar House major investigations team going about their business, and he enjoyed following the progression of their investigations through the media. There’d been a frequent temptation to call in and see how they were doing, but his counsellor had made it clear that to do so would be rather defeating the point of his sabbatical.

As he sipped at his espresso, he flicked through the BBC News website on his phone. The world seemed a little less restless than usual – a Commons debate over domestic violence was dominating most of the headlines. But there were no reports of any fresh murders in south London and his return to work looked like it would be a gentle reintroduction. He watched the world go by for a moment, absorbing the sights and sounds around him. This particular routine was about to come to an end and he would miss it.

 

He spent his afternoon in the Marylebone office of his bereavement counsellor. One last session to put a cap on things for the time being.

‘Do you feel ready?’ she’d asked him and he’d only been able to shrug in response. He’d replied that they’d soon find out, but she didn’t let him go without a warning:

‘Be on your guard, Alex. We’ve talked about triggers – you need to be aware if you feel yourself sliding again.’

The conversation stayed with him on the tube journey home. His job would bring him into contact with death – he led a major investigations team, after all. And with it came the bereaved and with the bereaved came triggers. She was right – he would have to be on his guard. He looked around the carriage and saw a discarded copy of the London Evening Standard on a seat. The headline on the front page read:

‘Domestic Violence Bill disregards needs of victims, warn campaigners’.

He flicked through the pages and again was struck by how quiet things were. If politics was the front page splash, it told you something. A quiet start the next day was probably not the worst thing. He was looking forward to going back, but there were some nerves too. He wasn’t entirely sure how his colleagues were going to receive him after his time away.

That night he made a curry, slow-cooking it until the chicken was hanging off the bone. Spicy and creamy, it was rather sumptuous, even if he said so himself. He’d deliberately laboured over it – one last meal before the job consumed him again. Then, it would be the usual snatched bites to eat, as and when. He was just starting to think about bed when the call from DCI John Skegman came. Skegman was his superior at Cedar House and Finn sighed when he saw the name on the display. It felt like his dad was checking up on him. They’d spoken several times during his sabbatical – the DCI keeping abreast of Finn’s progress. That was fine – but this call, the night before his return, felt a little unnecessary.

‘How are you, Alex?’ said Skegman.

‘I’m good. So what can I do for you that couldn’t wait until tomorrow?’

There was a slightly compressed huff of irritation on the other end and Finn smiled. He knew the face that usually accompanied that sound. The two men generally got on very well, sharing a mutual respect for one another’s abilities. But the DCI was a pedantic and slightly humourless man; not someone you’d want to be trapped next to on a transatlantic flight.

‘You been watching the news this evening?’ asked Skegman.

Finn had seen the main BBC bulletin at ten but nothing particularly noteworthy had jumped out at him.

‘Yes . . . why?’

‘It’s the MP who was in the top story, Claire Beacham . . . well, there’s been an incident at her house tonight.’

Finn sat up, suddenly alert. It felt like Beacham had been subtly following him all day. He recalled the front-page piece in the Standard, the snarky exchange with the minister in the Commons that had been on the news. Skegman explained about the box she’d been left and the severed head it contained.

‘Bloody hell – any idea who the victim is?’ said Finn.

‘No, not yet. Beacham didn’t recognise him. So far we’ve had no fresh reports of a missing person or a body either – so it’s early days.’

Finn dredged his mind for as much as he could recall about Beacham.

‘What is she? The shadow minister for domestic violence?’

‘Yes – “domestic violence and safeguarding”, to give it its full title. But she’s quite low-key most of the time – not one of those that can’t keep their face away from the cameras. The only previous time she’s called the police was over some online trolling.’

‘So what do we think? Is this terror-related?’ said Finn.

‘The head is of a white male – we estimate in his late thirties or early forties. SO15 have been informed but they’re letting us handle the initial investigation.’

Finn nodded. That made sense – counter-terror tended not to get involved until a proven link had been established. But the terrible murders of Labour MP Jo Cox in 2016 and the Conservative MP Sir David Amess in 2021 hung over the conversation.

‘So the day Beacham asks a high-profile question in the House – this happens,’ said Finn. ‘Can’t be coincidental . . .’

‘No. I didn’t think there was much point mucking around, Alex – thought you might want to go to the crime scene for yourself tonight and take a look. It’s not too far from you.’

Finn felt his curry repeat and was grateful he’d only had the one can of lager with it earlier.

‘Makes sense – who’s there now?’

‘Jackie Ojo.’

Finn smiled at the name. Ojo was as much a friend as a colleague, which was rare for him – he tended to keep his workmates at arm’s length socially. With his full support, she’d been temporarily promoted from her rank as a detective sergeant to acting detective inspector in his absence. It was fifty-fifty whether she’d be happy to hand a job like this on to him or be sad to surrender it. The latter, if he was a betting man, he thought.

‘And how’s Beacham?’

‘Pretty traumatised, as you can imagine. Very keen that we keep this away from the media for as long as possible. Jacks can fill you in when you get there. I’ll text you the address.’

Finn was already crossing the room searching for some appropriate footwear. There was a pause on the other end of the phone.

‘What is it, John?’ said Finn, knowing full well what it was.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

It was a fair, if irritating question. Finn had deceived his colleagues before about his mental health. He couldn’t blame the man for asking.

‘Don’t you worry about me – I’m fit and raring to go.’

Chapter 10

It didn’t just feel like a zoo, it sounded like one at times, thought Benjamin Ngomo. He was standing patiently at a bay of small phone kiosks on D wing at Cromarsh Prison. He could hear the usual cocktail of men chatting, shouting and laughing around him. There was the occasional yell that could be anything – a boisterous game of table tennis or someone’s fingers being broken.

He focused simply on the man in front, currently talking on the phone Ben was queuing to use. The guy was a lifer – but still seemed hell-bent on dictating to his wife how his family should be living their lives. He was micromanaging everything from where they should be eating to where they should be going at the weekend, in patient, patronising terms. Benjamin wondered idly if they actually obeyed his instructions or simply humoured him on the phone each week.

Finally, the man gave way and Benjamin stepped forwards. He picked up the receiver, looked around carefully, then made the call.

‘Hey . . .’ came a warm greeting and he felt his heart lift immediately. Emma was far more than just his girlfriend – she was his best friend too. They’d been together for just over a year, and despite his incarceration she’d stuck by him. That didn’t feel a surprise either – the connection between them had been instant and strong and right now she was just about the only thing keeping him going.

‘Hey yourself,’ he replied.

‘You sound tired. Are you sleeping okay?’ she said. He loved the sound of her voice, just a hint of a cut-glass accent but down to earth with it.

‘What do you think? I’ve been trying to work out the number of days I might have left if this goes against me – I mean, I could be on the plane by the end of the week,’ he said.

There was a silence as the implication hit her.

‘I didn’t realise it would be that quick. What are we going to do, Ben?’ she said.

He shrugged, checking to see whether anyone was eavesdropping. Behind, a young man waiting for the phone glared at him.

‘What will be, will be.’

‘You can’t just roll over and accept it.’

‘What else can I do?’ he said. ‘I’ve got no control over what happens, have I?’

He heard Emma sigh.

‘What about that MP – she must be able to do something.’

‘I wouldn’t get too excited about her. I think she’s full of shit,’ he said. ‘She’s just using me – it’s all propaganda. As soon as I’m on the plane, she’ll be finding someone else to do the same thing with. That’s all it’s about with people like that.’

‘So what? Let her use you,’ said Emma. ‘She’s all you’ve got. Have you seen though? She’s been in the news.’

Benjamin hadn’t seen – he’d never been particularly interested in current affairs outside of prison, let alone in his current predicament. Emma brought him up to speed with the severed head and its connection to Claire Beacham. His eyes widened as he slowly tried to make sense of it.

‘It’s intimidation – because she wants to help me . . .’ he said, the panic rising in his voice.

‘Shhh,’ said Emma. ‘You don’t know that. Like you say, you might only have days left and she’s the best thing you’ve got going for you. So you help her – you do everything she says. And when this is over – you and me, we’ll disappear, we’ll go somewhere where no one will ever find us. Hold on to that thought.’

‘Where’s that going to be then?’ he said, softening.

There was a pause.

‘I dunno – Blackpool, maybe.’

He could hear her smile as she said it. One began to spread across his own face too.

‘Blackpool?’ he said.

‘Or Chipping Sodbury – wherever. But just you and me.’

For a moment he felt a wave of pure happiness. Just the very idea of it was like a window into what could be – then hot on the heels came the reality of his situation. That he was likely to be imminently deported and he may never set eyes on her again.

‘We aren’t going to Blackpool and you should forget about me. This severed head – it’s hardly a coincidence, is it?’

‘I don’t care,’ she said immediately.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘And you heard me – there’s no chance of me letting you go.’

He could hear her breathing heavily on the other end now; hear his own breath too.

‘Come on, mate, I ain’t got all fucking day . . .’ said the man behind, but Benjamin ignored him – he did have all fucking day frankly.

‘Do me a favour, Em – trust no one. Not that MP, or anyone else. It’s just you and me, yeah?’

 

Ray Spinney loved Whitstable in the sunshine. He’d grown up in these parts and a walk through the town centre and along the beachfront always brought the memories flooding back. His parents had run a guest house just five minutes’ walk from Tankerton Beach and on this visit, he was disappointed to find the old turn-of-the-century building had finally gone. Rightly or wrongly, he felt safe in the area too. He knew – because he’d checked – that the police didn’t know of his connection to it. His parents were long since dead and he’d lived most of his adult life in and around London. A few familiar shops and businesses appeared to have become victims of the pandemic but as he surveyed the seafood market by the beach, it all still felt and smelt very much like his childhood.

Waiting by one of the giant wooden groynes that subdivided the pebbled beach was Fuller. Wearing cheap mirrored sunglasses and a beanie hat on his head to hide his tell-tale scar, he looked faintly ridiculous.

‘What have you done?’ snarled Spinney by way of greeting.

‘What do you mean?’ said Fuller, surprised.

‘Colin Jakes – why didn’t you tell me that you smashed his skull into pieces? Our new friend Mr McElligott tells me the police have footage of you with him. Your description has been circulated – you’re a wanted man.’

Fuller was momentarily nonplussed as Spinney spat the words out.

‘I couldn’t help it. He’s got a smart mouth on him,’ he said. ‘I know I shouldn’t have – but he’s no loss.’

Spinney controlled himself.

‘Are your brains leaking out of that gash in the back of your head? We’ve already got a random element in play with Beacham, and now you, quite needlessly, have created a second problem.’ He leant in until he was almost nose to nose with Fuller. ‘That temper of yours is going to be the death of you, Kenneth.’ Behind them, the sea swept across the shingle. ‘You keep your head covered until the job is done and you stay indoors as much as possible until then, too. You do not attract any more unnecessary attention – am I clear?’

Fuller looked chastened.

‘Do you want to postpone the job – wait for things to calm down a bit?’

Spinney scowled at him.

‘We have a date and we have a plan. My question for you now is . . . do we have the personnel?’

Fuller nodded quickly.

‘Yeah – I’ve recruited the last one. We’ve got a full team now and we’re ready.’

He told him who he’d found in place of Jakes. Another ex-con – disaffected and hungry to change their circumstances. Spinney listened in silence.

He often thought pulling off a job like this was like constructing a house. First of all, you needed an architect – someone to meticulously draw up the plan. To estimate the cost, determine timelines, think through every eventuality until you had something that was completely watertight. Then you brought in the builders – people with a different skill set, but no less important to the outcome. The artisans to execute your plan. And just like building a house, the key was to avoid cowboys.

‘This is the largest team I’ve ever assembled,’ said Spinney when Fuller was finished. ‘As you know, I usually prefer small numbers – but the nature of this job is different. I need to know each and every man can be relied upon. And I need to know their weaknesses too. Because someone will let us down – experience has taught me someone always does.’

Fuller shook his head.

‘Not this time – they all know how much money they stand to make from this.’

‘We’re only as strong as our weakest link,’ said Spinney. ‘And trust me – somebody will get greedy. So we need to have some leverage – an ability to control them after the job’s done.’

Fuller reached into his pocket and produced a thumb drive.

‘These are the details of the whole team – just like you asked. It’s a full dossier on every one of them. Who they are, what they can do and how they perform under pressure. Also, their personal details – who their wives and girlfriends are, where their kids go to school and everything else you need to know. Have a look through – if you’ve got any doubts, it’s not too late to make changes.’

Spinney took the thumb drive and nodded approvingly.

‘And they all know their roles?’

Fuller nodded.

‘We’ve been doing dummy runs at the warehouse for the last fortnight. So far, everything’s gone like clockwork.’ He looked at Spinney hesitantly. ‘I’d be happier if we had a few more insurance policies in place—’

‘That’s in hand,’ said Spinney, cutting in. ‘Our new friend at Cedar House can help us there. Leave that to me – you just make sure those men are ready when I need them to be ready.’

Spinney looked out across the sea. It wasn’t far from here that he’d kissed his first girlfriend. He wondered what that version of him would have made of the man he’d become. More than likely he’d have been disgusted.

‘Do you mind me asking?’ said Fuller suddenly. ‘Why did you come back for this job? You didn’t need to – you could have stayed in Switzerland. You were safe there, it wouldn’t have made any difference.’

Spinney smiled, took in a lungful of salty air.

‘Because this is personal.’

 

‘. . . and I’ve written to Lukasz Mazurek’s wife to offer my deepest condolences. I don’t want to say too much more because I think we all need to respect the family’s privacy. What’s really important is that the individual who was responsible is caught and brought to justice. I don’t want to give this person any more publicity either – because that’s what they’re seeking. So what I’d like to focus on instead is the appalling injustice that one of my constituents Benjamin Ngomo is now facing . . .’

Michael Beacham was watching the clip of his wife – taken from the lunchtime news – on a laptop in his office. As ever, she looked composed and was hitting precisely the right notes. With the Doll Street deal moving to a conclusion, he’d come in on a Saturday to continue working on it. He envied her – he was still struggling with what had happened. Even he was surprised at the extent to which it had unnerved him and he’d found it hard to keep his concentration since. He’d been home alone when the box had been dropped off. That thought wouldn’t leave him either – that the killer might have peered in through a window and watched him for a while.

There was a knock at his office door and he snapped back into the moment, flipping his laptop shut. He’d lost track of time a little, almost forgotten someone was coming to see him. He composed himself, opened the door and found a smartly dressed silver-haired man in his early sixties smiling at him. Andrew Colleter, a wealthy philanthropist who shared many of the same ideals as the Beachams, was the driving force behind the Doll Street Collective. Michael liked him – he was calm, determined and didn’t let obstacles get in the way. When he wanted something, he had a long track record of making it happen. And regenerating a run-down street in south London into a major new social enterprise for the local community had become a passion project for him.

‘Thanks for coming in on a Saturday, Andrew – it’s a bit saner round here at the weekend. We can talk in peace,’ said Michael.

‘Never mind that,’ said Colleter. ‘How are you? I saw what happened, obviously. Are you okay? How’s Claire?’

‘We’re fine,’ Michael lied. ‘Life goes on, doesn’t it?’ he added, remembering the way Claire had said something similar in the Premier Inn. He hoped he sounded as convincing. He talked Colleter through what had happened as quickly as possible, keen to move the conversation on. It didn’t take long to get to business.

‘So where are we with the consortium?’ said Colleter.

The group he was referring to were his co-investors. A small collection of businessmen who’d come together to support and co-finance the Doll Street venture. It was a complex deal and Michael was the key broker charged with holding it all together.

‘Everything’s fine – we’re just crossing i’s and dotting t’s . . .’ he said. Colleter smiled and then so did Michael as he realised what he’d said. He held up a hand by way of apology. ‘God, I’m tired. You know what I mean . . .’

‘It’s understandable in the circumstances. So what kind of time frame are we talking about?’ said Colleter. ‘I was hoping we might get this done by the end of the week. It’s been a long road.’

Michael shook his head apologetically.

‘And it might be a little longer – but hang in there, Andrew, we’re almost over the line.’

Colleter smiled and put a hand on Michael’s shoulder.

‘When this is finally completed, I’m buying you and Claire dinner. No arguments. It’ll be somewhere with Michelin stars and it’ll be on me.’

After he’d gone, Michael sat back down at his desk and put his fingers to his temples. After a few seconds, he flipped open the laptop again and typed into Google: Los Angeles real estate. A list of results came up and he began to flick through them.

‘Keep your eye on the prize,’ he murmured to himself, hoping to God that Claire would forgive him when this was all over.

Chapter 11

‘. . . is the appalling injustice that one of my constituents Benjamin Ngomo is now facing. He’s been told he faces deportation to the Democratic Republic of Congo and has no legal representation or legal aid to fall back on. This is a man who’s lived almost his entire life in this country, but the Home Secretary has apparently deemed deportation to be conducive to the public good . . .’

How exactly did the woman’s hypocrisy not climb up through her oesophagus and strangle her, the man thought. He was watching the lunchtime news with a cup of tea and a biscuit. To his disappointment, Beacham still had that smug I know best tone about her voice. There was no sign that what he’d done had shaken her in the slightest. It had certainly shaken him though.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the feel of the blade as he’s sawed through Mazurek’s neck, the grid of steel on bone. He hadn’t forgotten the accompanying noise either. And then there was the blood – more than anything else, that’s all he could see in his mind’s eye; the red haze creeping around him while he knelt.

He put his teacup down and turned the television off. He’d had quite enough of Beacham’s sanctimonious face. He checked his phone – there was a missed call from his sister and he felt a twinge of guilt. He was going to break her heart. Eventually, he’d be caught and all this would come out. The nagging irritation of it was that despite everything, he still felt he owned the moral high ground. That what he was doing was right – not that he expected anybody else to see it that way, but when you knew the history, truly understood why . . . then it all made a kind of sense.

And that’s what infuriated him – because people would judge him later. The jurors discussing him wouldn’t get it. The judge passing sentence would deliver one of those patronising homilies those privileged old duffers enjoyed dishing out. And as for the court of public opinion . . . well, he’d be a monster, wouldn’t he? But he wasn’t. If just one of those people – a juror, a lawyer, a journalist – had been through the experience he had, then they might see that.

He was equally convinced there was a . . .