The Chosen Ones

Book 5: Detective Robyn Carter

by Carol Wyer

Genres: Police Procedurals; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

On a hot summer’s morning, a young father is found murdered in a cornfield, outside the quiet town of Colton. Tied to a post, arms spread wide; Detective Robyn Carter is reminded of the crucifixion, and she knows she’s looking for a killer with a twisted sense of right and wrong.

The victim’s girlfriend is devastated, unable to fathom how she will tell her sick little boy.

Still reeling from her own loss, Robyn vows she will find the killer – no matter what. But then a local doctor – a popular woman with a young family of her own – is found dead outside her surgery.

There are similarities between her and the first body and Robyn must take another look at the picture-postcard town, where no one has any enemies.

Can Robyn untangle the hidden web of secrets, lies, and smouldering grudges, at the heart of this close-knit community, before another life is lost?

An absolutely unputdownable thriller that will keep you reading into the night. If you love Angela Marsons, James Patterson or Tess Gerritsen, The Chosen Ones will have you hooked. 

Release date: May 24, 2018

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 374

Sample

Jordan Kilby didn’t hear the car. He was only aware of the rush of cold air as the vehicle drove past so closely, he felt metal against his elbow. His reaction had been swift and violent. Tugging the handlebar to the left, he’d met with gravel and a raised kerb. The bike had ridden it and toppled, taking him with it.

He lay sprawled on the damp grass verge, chest rising and falling quickly, his heart hammering like it would explode. His legs were entangled with the front wheel and his wrist exploded with pain when he attempted to lift it. He didn’t dare check his other limbs for fear of what he’d discover. He cursed the motorist who had almost killed him. Then he cursed himself and the cans of beer that had dulled his senses and made him deaf to the vehicle’s approach.

He stared into the dark starless night and cursed the clouds that covered the moon and had made him invisible to other road users. Then it struck him, the car had been crawling past, not travelling at high speed. He hadn’t heard any engine noise.

Ahead of him, the vehicle had drawn to a halt and the driver’s door opened. Jordan turned his head, squinted into the darkness and swallowed hard. A lump formed in his throat and stuck there. He recognised the car. He knew who had driven him off the road. The driver approached him, slowly, casually, as if prolonging the anticipation of what was to come. Inside Jordan’s head, a terrified voice screamed at him to get up, make good his escape, but he knew it was futile. His limbs refused to cooperate.

As the person drew closer to him, the clouds above parted for a moment, allowing moonlight to fall on them both and on the object gleaming in the person’s gloved hand. More terrifying was the look on his attacker’s face. Jordan’s mouth opened and closed, no sound escaping. His mind curled into a ball like a terrified animal, leaving him unable to function. He couldn’t even plead for his life. He waited as his assailant smiled at him, pressed two fingers to his lips and then held them aloft to Jordan, the gesture of a kiss.

Jordan was never going to walk away from this.

DAY ONE – MONDAY, 5 JUNE, MORNING

The crows were to blame. Their hoarse caws had penetrated Jane Marsh’s dreams and as their cries had grown louder, they’d towed her from her cosy, sleepy state into full consciousness. Opening one eye, she read the digital display on her clock and sighed. It was only 5 a.m. She still had two hours before she had to get up and make the journey to town with her bread, cakes and jams for the farmers’ market. She needed those two hours to rest up. She wasn’t getting any younger and every minute in bed was savoured. Two more precious hours and she couldn’t enjoy them because of the bloody crows.

She kicked off the bedcovers, swung her legs over the side of the aged divan and ambled to the window to see what all the fuss was about. Her husband, Toby, was already downstairs, grabbing an early cup of tea while listening to Radio 4 before he started work on the John Deere. It had been misfiring and he wanted to give it a quick look over before he was forced to call in the engineer. Farming wasn’t as lucrative as some of the locals imagined it to be, and Toby was used to being a crop farmer, mechanic and jack of all trades. He wasn’t miserly, but he’d rather resolve any mechanical issues himself than pay handsomely for call-out charges.

The commotion was coming from the far field. Crows were circling excitedly around a scarecrow her husband had erected. One or two were landing and pulling at its face. Fat lot of good it was doing. The crows were supposed to be put off by it not landing on it and pecking at it. She slipped on her dressing gown and padded to the top of the stairs.

It was a bright, crisp morning, heralding a beautiful June day. Toby had wanted to collect silage before the rain arrived. She hoped he got the tractor fixed in time. That was another problem with farming: you were hampered by the perversities of the weather – one day it was as warm as the south of Spain, the next, wet and humid. The weather forecast had predicted a few days of hot and sticky weather. At the moment there wasn’t a cloud in sight. Good day for selling jams, she mused. She entered the farmhouse kitchen with its smell of old pine furniture that had been there ever since they’d moved in. The house had belonged to Toby’s parents. Jane wasn’t keen on the dark oppressive furniture that made the place seem lost in a bygone age: the outdated kitchen table, stained over the years, and the wooden floor to ceiling dresser that held their best china plates, but retained a deep-rooted smell. They’d never been able to afford new furniture or a complete kitchen revamp, and although she wasn’t fond of any of it, she’d got used to it. It somehow belonged to the house. That was the main problem with living in the place – it was outmoded and reminded her that time was ticking by too quickly. Their twelve-year-old Labrador, Brandy, raised her head from her basket and stared in Jane’s direction, with milky eyes. Her tail thumped on detecting the arrival of her mistress. Jane caressed the animal, hands running through her oily coat. Yes, they were all getting old.

Toby, mug of tea in one hand, was flicking through a tractor operational manual, lost in terminology she would never understand. He only looked up when she approached the sink, and he threw her a smile.

‘You’re up early. Thought you didn’t have to get off until seven.’

‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘It’s the crows. They’re making a right racket outside. I couldn’t sleep. They’re pestering that new scarecrow you put up.’

Toby put his manual aside and cocked his head, eyebrows furrowed.

‘Scarecrow? I haven’t put up any new scarecrow,’ he said.

Jane’s face clouded in confusion. ‘Then what is it they’re attacking in the field?’

DAY ONE – MONDAY, 5 JUNE, MORNING

Silence hung in the offices of R&J Associates, broken only by the odd snuffle coming from Duke, the Staffordshire bull terrier, who’d been confined to his basket for almost half an hour, and was clearly bored.

Ross Cunningham scratched his nose and shrugged. He gazed at his cousin, Robyn, dressed casually in jeans and a loose-fitting baby blue jumper that brightened her sallow complexion. She was wearing the same intense expression she’d worn ever since they’d sat down to discuss his findings. For the last four months, he’d been trying to help her determine the validity of a photograph she’d received that hinted her fiancé Davies had not been killed in an ambush near Marrakesh in March 2015, over two years ago.

It was proving a difficult task, and in spite of Ross’s contacts and skills as a private investigator, he’d found little to confirm it had not been a hoax. Robyn, as usual, wasn’t giving up until she had all the facts and at the moment they were still missing vital information, in the shape of Peter Cross, Davies’ superior, the man who’d know for sure if Davies had been alive that day.

‘We can say with almost certainty, the photograph was taken at Birmingham Airport,’ said Robyn for the third time.

Ross nodded. Robyn always chewed information over and over until it made sense to her. Her mind never stayed quiet. If something didn’t feel right, she’d pick at it, worry it, until it fitted in with her thoughts or conclusions.

‘And Davies’ name wasn’t on the passenger list for the flight that got into Birmingham that day?’

‘The airline ran checks on all their flights from Morocco that arrived in the UK before three o’clock, and Davies wasn’t on any of them.’

‘Which means one of three things: he used an alias, he took a private flight arranged by intelligence, or that photograph is a fake. Pretty much the same three thoughts that have been bouncing about since I received the wretched picture.’ She dragged a hand through her long, dark hair.

They’d set up a whiteboard like the ones Robyn favoured at work. The photograph in question took centre position. Robyn scowled at it and threw down the latest email Ross had handed her.

‘I don’t know why she’s suddenly backed off.’ The ‘she’ in question was Peter Cross’s ex-secretary, Daphne Hastings, who’d promised to talk to Ross back in March but since then had cancelled their meeting. ‘You don’t suppose Peter Cross put pressure on her?’

Ross tilted his head and grimaced a response. It was almost a rhetorical question that both had pondered on several occasions. The email had been Ross’s latest attempt to get the woman to change her mind. She’d replied saying she was bound by the Official Secrets Act and couldn’t talk to anyone about her work, or about those connected to it.

‘I’m pretty much done with this,’ said Robyn, pushing her chair back from the desk. ‘We’ve wasted hours of free time chasing our tails. I haven’t heard anything about or from Davies since January, when I got this photograph. There have been no further incidents or sightings of him, and the surveillance cameras you set up for me after that intruder got into my garden have yielded nothing.’

‘Well, at least I’ve stopped worrying about you possibly being in danger.’ Ross gave a weak smile. ‘For a while there, I thought somebody was after you.’

Robyn agreed it had been on her mind as well. ‘I’ve decided it has to be a hoax. What I can’t work out is why somebody would send this to me. It’s a cruel prank to play on anybody. That’s what keeps bringing me back to the thought there might be some truth in it.’

Ross agreed with her. ‘We’ve got as far as we can, Robyn. Sorry. I really wanted to find out something positive, if only to give you closure on this. I know how it eats into you. I feel like I’ve let you down.’ His face crumpled. Robyn stared at the man who’d stood by her when life was unbearable, the man she’d always looked up to. Ross was her only close relation and he’d gone out of his way to support her. His craggy features looked mournful, and as she glanced from him to Duke, with his eyes downcast and head hanging over his basket, she choked back a laugh. ‘You do realise you resemble that animal a little more every day,’ she said, aiming for levity.

Ross grinned. ‘You mean, I’m in great physical shape, of course?’ He patted his flat stomach. Weeks of long walks with Duke and sticking to his wife Jeanette’s strict diet had paid off. He is looking good, Robyn thought to herself.

‘Of course. Listen, you haven’t let me down. I’ve spent far too long even considering the possibility of Davies being alive, or a more sinister scenario. The fact remains, if he was alive, he’d have contacted me by now. The hidden cameras haven’t revealed anyone or any suspicious activity in or around my house, over the four months they’ve been in situ. I’m going to have to accept this photograph for what it is – a hoax – and move on. However, if I find out who set me up and wasted my time, and more importantly, got me half-believing Davies was alive, I’ll throttle that person.’

‘You’ll have to join the queue. I’m at the front of it,’ Ross replied. ‘And I think Jeanette wants a few strong words with them too. She’s been most upset about this. Says it’s completely unfair you’ve been targeted like this.’

Robyn smiled at the thought of petite Jeanette, with immaculately coiffured hair, dressed in one of her 1940s outfits, being cross on her behalf. She might rise to shaking her fist at somebody, but that was about the extent of the range of her anger. Jeanette was the kindest, sweetest person on the planet.

‘Now that, I’d like to see,’ said Robyn.

‘You’d be surprised. Right, we’ll call it a day and I’ll get on with some PI work. I have yet another insurance claim to look into. The fun never stops, does it?’

‘Want me to walk Duke for you?’

At the mention of his name, the animal raised his head.

‘He’s part of my ploy. I’ll be taking Duke on a nice long stroll past my quarry’s house on the off chance we’ll catch the man doing something he shouldn’t be doing. No one gives a dog walker a second glance. You up for it, Detective Duke?’

‘I’ll get off too. I need to get some shopping. Schrödinger ate my last tin of tuna this morning. I’d better stock the cupboard again.’

Creases formed around Ross’s eyes again. ‘My cousin, Catlady.’

‘You mean Catwoman, the feline, femme fatale of Gotham City.’

‘No, I definitely mean Catlady. You’ve become one of those women who buys gourmet tins of cat food, or who cooks pieces of organic chicken for their feline friend. Duke gets whatever is left over. No pampering for him.’

‘That’s because, like his owner, he’s a guzzle guts.’

Ross held up his hands. ‘Me-ow! You win. Anyway, it’s good to see you smile.’ He studied her carefully. ‘Give me a call if you need anything, or if you want me to pick this back up.’

‘Cheers. I think we’ll lay it to rest.’

Robyn trotted back down to her car and reflected again on the photograph of Davies. Five months had passed since its arrival. There’d been plenty of time for whoever was responsible to have made him or herself known. She had to let it go.

As she bounded lightly from the bottom stair and into the building’s entrance, her mobile buzzed. She noted the caller ID.

‘Hi Mitz. Everything okay?’

Sergeant Mitz Patel’s voice was composed. ‘Sorry, guv. I know it’s your day off but there’s been a suspicious death in Colton. Looks like a murder.’

‘Stay on the line and give me the details. I’m on my way.’

As Robyn rushed outside to her aged VW Golf, phone clutched to her ear, she was completely unaware of the man observing her from inside a black Audi. He waited until she’d left, then pulled away from the kerb, lips moving as he spoke into a hands-free phone.

DAY ONE – MONDAY, 5 JUNE, MORNING

The village of Colton, a thirty-minute drive from Stafford, held a timeless charm, enhanced by its medieval church and an ancient stone bridge that traversed a quaint brook. The bridge today was obliterated from view by the emergency vehicles that littered the lane.

Robyn parked in the first available space and headed towards the commotion. Villagers had gathered near the scene and she had to repeatedly ask them to move so she could make her way to the field, now cordoned off with police tape. She called out, ‘If any of you believe you saw any suspicious movements or activity here yesterday, or this morning, please make yourself known to the officers, who will take a statement from you. If not, would you please kindly move away. Thank you for your cooperation.’

A makeshift tent had been erected around the victim, and several officers were combing the area around it. She recognised several of them, eyes fixed to the ground as they hunted for any evidence.

She donned her white protective clothing, flashed her warrant at the officer guarding the tent entrance and entered. Mitz was inside, his face unreadable.

‘SOCO?’

‘Matt was first officer on the scene.’

Matt Higham was her other sergeant, a competent officer whose take on life always kept the team buoyed up. He was their joker, light-hearted and at ease with most situations. Today, his face was etched with concern, his usually bright eyes downcast. He was recording the scene with his bodycam, ensuring he’d captured every minute detail.

Robyn was struck by the victim’s crucified pose. The killer had ensured the man’s arms were tightly bound to the wooden pole fixed crudely to a large stake. A thin belt had been tied around his neck to further attach him to the post. At about five foot six, he only just reached Robyn’s shoulders. He was slight in build, almost delicately so, his hooded top and jeans hung limply on his slender frame. He had been an ordinary-looking young man whose most attractive attribute was his dark wavy hair that hung just below his ears and lifted his sharp features.

Robyn had an instant flashback to a weekend spent in Paris with Davies. The scene reminded her of a painting she’d seen at the Louvre, of the crucifixion of Jesus. Had this man been deliberately arranged to emulate that well-known tableau, or was it simply to create the impression of a scarecrow? The man’s face bore several marks where small pieces of flesh had been ripped from his cheeks. On the ground below him was a sheet, scrunched and positioned at his feet. It was stained bright red with blood.

‘Any identification?’ she asked.

Mitz held up a black wallet in a transparent plastic bag. ‘This was found about 100 metres from the road.’ He pointed towards a marker stuck in the ground near the field entrance. ‘There’s ten pounds in it and a credit card. Name is Jordan Kilby. Waiting for more information.’

‘Nothing else? No mobile phone? Car or house keys?’

Mitz shook his head. An involuntary shiver ran through Robyn’s body as she looked at the gruesome sight in front of her. It took a few moments for her to be able to study the young man’s face and wonder why somebody would torture and murder him this way.

Harry McKenzie, the pathologist, had arrived ahead of Robyn and was checking Jordan over for clues as to time and cause of death. He spoke quietly. ‘There are several superficial lacerations to the exposed skin, largely around the facial region, most certainly made after his death.’

Matt spoke up. ‘The farmer, Toby Marsh, who discovered him, said crows were attacking him. He stood by the body and kept them away until we arrived. There used to be a scarecrow here but it disintegrated over time and only the post remained.’

Harry nodded. ‘There are marks on his hands and face produced by something sharp – could be beaks. Have you recorded everything here?’

Matt spoke. ‘All done. Did you want to move the body?’

‘In a sec. I’ll need to determine cause of death although it’s probably due to…’

He lifted Jordan’s hooded top carefully. Mitz turned away at the sight of the bright red intestines bulging from the stomach wound.

‘You okay?’ mouthed Robyn.

Mitz nodded. ‘Just caught me unawares. I’ll be fine.’

The sight before them was one of the grisliest Robyn had seen. Between the murder and the crows, Jordan Kilby was a complete mess.

‘Connor, do you want this?’ Harry called.

Connor Richards appeared instantly. ‘What have you got?’

‘Another feather but you never know. It might yield something.’

Connor lifted the black feather, trapped under the hooded top, and placed it in a plastic evidence bag. Robyn nodded in his direction. Connor, in charge of Forensics for the last six months, had moved from Southern Ireland to take up the position. Robyn was glad he’d done so. He ensured the department ran efficiently and was as much a workaholic as her. She liked his gentle demeanour and ability to remain completely unflustered no matter how daunting the task. He winked at her.

‘This reminds me of the Hitchcock film The Birds,’ he said. ‘That scared me rigid. I was only fifteen when I watched it.’

Harry continued studying the incision on Jordan’s abdomen. ‘The most likely cause of death is exsanguination. It looks like the weapon entered his intestines and was driven upwards towards his heart. I’d say it was a very sharp implement. Can we cut him down now, so I can get him back to the lab?’

Connor agreed.

‘Any idea of time of death?’ Robyn asked.

‘Body temperature and state of rigor indicate he’s been dead about twelve hours. Probably murdered sometime late last night, between ten thirty and midnight. Death was most likely from a stab wound, puncturing one of the major blood vessels in the abdomen. I’ll give you a detailed report confirming that. As you can see, there was significant bleeding, which indicates a cut to an artery – possibly, given the location of the wound, the abdominal aorta. I’m assuming the blood on the sheet is the victim’s.’

‘We’ll get that checked,’ said Robyn.

‘There’s bruising to his right wrist, nothing on his left. Could have been caused through struggling against his bounds, but there’s an absence of chafing I’d associate with repetitive movement against twine, and these bounds are very tight, making any movement almost impossible. There’s no chafing or bruising around his neck. My first impression is he was dead before he was strung up. The crows seen attacking him might have made the marks and tears on his body. I’ll have to examine them in more detail to confirm that.’

Robyn stared at the bloodied sheet, like red waves lapping at his feet, and wondered if the killer was sending some message she had yet to comprehend.

Matt joined them. ‘I’m done here. Anna is with Mr and Mrs Marsh, the people who found our victim. They live in the farmhouse over there.’

Robyn looked into the distance and saw the roof of a farmhouse half-hidden behind oak trees and hedgerows. She didn’t need to go across. PC Anna Shamash would get a full statement in her usual efficient yet compassionate manner. ‘Good. Head back to the station and write up the details. Harry, you nearly done?’

‘I’ll only be a few more minutes then we can cut him down and move him out of here.’

Robyn took a last look at the body. Whoever had done this had planned it. They’d known about the post in the field and had brought twine to tie Jordan up. Had they hoped his body would have remained undiscovered long enough to be mutilated by the crows? She left the forensic team to do their job, removed her protective clothing, exited the tent and marched across the field, head down towards the squad cars. This was the crucial golden hour where they had to collect as much evidence as possible, before trails ran dry and witnesses’ memories dulled. A handful of locals were still gathered, hoping for news. No doubt rumours were flying.

Mitz, behind her, let out a soft groan. ‘Amy Walters is there,’ he said.

‘Why am I not surprised?’ Robyn had had several run-ins with the eager journalist. Amy, who was also writing a book about serial killers, had taken a three-month sabbatical to do research for it. Robyn had heard on the grapevine she was back in Staffordshire, working as a freelance reporter for the Stafford Gazette, and was keen to uncover further material for what she hoped would be a bestseller.

Amy’s short, blonde, spikey hair stood out among the crowd clustered behind the cordon. Stylish in a fuchsia leather jacket, skinny jeans and with sunglasses propped on her head, she resembled a tourist at a holiday resort rather than a reporter at a murder scene. Robyn noticed she was talking to a couple next to her, undoubtedly recording everything they said.

She spotted PC David Marker talking to a man, holding an eager dog on a lead. ‘Instruct David to canvas the area and ask the crowd if anybody saw any unusual activity. There’ll be a briefing at three. Ring me if you need more time here.’

She watched Matt drive away. He’d ensure all the footage from the scene was loaded for them to watch. ‘If Connor finds anything of note, let me know. See you back at the station.’

She strode back to her car and was about to duck into it when she heard a voice she recognised. ‘DI Carter, have you anything you’d like to say for the Stafford Gazette.’

‘Amy, you know I can’t comment at this stage.’

‘But a body of a young male has been found, hasn’t it? Can you confirm that?’

‘I can’t confirm anything until we’ve identified the victim and notified the next of kin. Please don’t ask me any more questions, Amy. I have an investigation to head and I can’t waste time here.’

Amy gave her a knowing smile. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

‘Go through the proper channels. I’m not talking to you,’ said Robyn, slamming her car door and driving off, past the field and down the lane.

DAY ONE – MONDAY, 5 JUNE, AFTERNOON

Dark clouds the colour of charcoal had replaced the clear blue skies of the morning. The back of Robyn’s neck was damp due to the humidity that wrapped itself around her as soon as she left her car and marched into the station. On days like this she hated the large south-facing windows that heated up her office, making it unbearable to work in.

‘No air con?’ she asked Matt.

‘Broken,’ came the reply, ‘or budget cuts mean we aren’t allowed it on yet. It’s not officially summertime and this is freak weather.’

‘You can say that again. It’s boiling in here.’ Robyn picked up the internal phone and punched in a number to request an electric fan.

‘I don’t care if he has taken the last two. My officers can’t conduct an investigation in these conditions. Don’t bother. I’ll fetch it myself.’ She threw the receiver down with a huff.

Matt, hunched over his desk, spoke. ‘They’ve run out of fans. I asked when I came in.’

‘We’re getting one,’ said Robyn. ‘I’ll make sure we do.’

She stomped out of the office, pulling at the jumper clinging to her body and wishing she’d had the foresight to wear something lighter. It’d been crisp and cool when she’d come back from her morning run and dressed to visit Ross. She hadn’t anticipated a sweltering day at work.

DI Tom Shearer’s office was a floor above hers. The door was shut so she knocked loudly and waited for him to call. When he did, she plastered a smile on her face, the picture of friendliness. Shearer’s face usually wore a permanent look of disappointment and today it was extra miserable with furrowed brows and a glistening sheen of sweat visible on his forehead. He’d rolled up his sleeves and was scowling at some paperwork. The other occupants of the room looked as red-faced and uncomfortable as him. PC Gareth Murray, ruddy-faced at the best of times, resembled a rosy red apple. In spite of the two desk fans whirring noisily, Shearer’s office was marginally less disagreeable in temperature than her own.

‘Yes, DI Carter,’ he said with no preamble and a quick glance up from his paperwork.

‘I wondered if we could borrow one of your fans. It’s like an oven downstairs.’

‘And it feels like the chilled aisle in a supermarket in here, does it? I don’t think so. It’s impossible to work in here even with the perishing things. They make such a racket. Bloody global warming!’

‘So that’s a “no” then,’ said Robyn, maintaining a fixed smile. She’d learnt a while back, letting Shearer rant for a while was usually the best way to handle him. He’d see reason once he’d had his say.

‘There aren’t any others available. There’s been a run on them for obvious reasons. I’d be most grateful if you’d lend me one of yours.’

Shearer glared at her. ‘You’d think in this day and age we’d be able to keep a building cool on the three warm days a year we get.’

Robyn nodded in agreement. Gareth kept his eyes lowered. Shearer had only just begun his tirade. It took a further ten minutes of listening to his pontificating before she escaped with one of the fans.

Back in her office, Matt ran a large hand over the top of his bald head, wiping perspiration from it. He sighed in relief as Robyn plugged in the electric fan and a blast of cool air shot towards him.

‘Is it me, or has it got really warm in here?’ he asked. ‘I’m not going through some sort of male menopause, am I?’

Robyn threw him a grin. Matt could always be counted on to ease any tension.

David Marker had returned and was collecting information from the police database. Robyn settled behind her desk and read through it: 23-year-old Jordan Kilby lived in Newborough, a village set between Burton-on-Trent and Rugeley, with his girlfriend, Rebecca Tomlinson, a 24-year-old admin assistant at Pharmacals Healthcare, a medical facility specialising in distributing wound dressing and drugs to the NHS. Jordan Kilby had no previous convictions, a good track record of employment and had worked as a delivery driver for Speedy Logistics since 2012. On the surface, there was nothing dubious about the man at all, but as Robyn knew, it was surprising what secrets people hid.

‘Matt, who’s informing the girlfriend?’

‘Michelle Watson. She’s the new liaison officer. She was in here a minute ago while you were locating a fan. She’s headed to Pharmacals Healthcare, that’s where the girlfriend, Rebecca, works.’

Robyn read through the rest of the notes quickly. Rebecca Tomlinson had a son, six-year-old Dylan. A quick look at the child’s birth certificate revealed no named father and Robyn wondered if it was Jordan. It was always painful to deliver such dreadful news, especially when children were involved. Robyn glanced at her watch. It was only just coming up for one o’clock. There was time for her to accompany Michelle and return for the briefing. The sooner she got some information on Jordan Kilby, the sooner she could track down his killer.

‘I’ll go with her. It might help me get a feel for Jordan Kilby. Learn a little about him. While I’m out, keep gathering as much as you can.’

Pharmacals Healthcare was a futuristic development of six enormous dome-shaped warehouses located in a private business park covering several hectares of land. It was accessed via electric gates manned by a guard in a green uniform bearing the Pharmacals Healthcare logo of a serpent entwined around the letters P and H. He requested both their ID cards and buzzed the reception before allowing them entry.

They drew up outside the offi