The Development

Book 0: The Cora Baxter Mysteries

by Jackie Kabler

Genres: Mystery; Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

How far would you go to prove the truth? The third book in the much-loved Cora Baxter Mysteries series, from the acclaimed broadcaster, USA Today bestseller and bestselling author of The Perfect Couple and Am I Guilty? Investigative journalist Cora Baxter is on her way home after a challenging but successful week, resulting in the suspension of a corrupt police officer. Looking forward to a quiet night in, the last thing she expects on her drive home is for a young woman to fall from a bridge and land on her car bonnet. With a history of depression, Leanne's death is ruled as suicide and the case is closed. But something doesn't quite add up for Cora and when a visit to Leanne's family home leaves her with more questions than answers, she begins to dig a little deeper. As Cora draws closer to the heart of story, she threatens to unravel the web of lies that have permeated a powerful establishment. But the closer she gets, the higher the stakes and soon it's more than just the truth on the line . . . Readers LOVE Jackie Kabler's Cora Baxter mysteries: ' Grabs hold of you and wont let you go ' Amazon review ***** 'I could not put the book down and sat up one night to read the ending' Amazon review ***** ' My only problem with this book was that it had an ending ' Goodreads Review ***** 'I could have continued reading forever ' Goodreads Review ***** 'This book is just fabulous and worthy of ALL THE STARS from me!! I can't recommend the Cora Baxter series highly enough!' Goodreads Review ***** 'I completely adored Kabler's style and already can't wait to read more from Jackie' Goodreads Review *****

Release date: May 10, 2018

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 279

Sample

1



‘Well, at least it’s getting you out of the Brussels sprouts story. Be thankful for that, at least.’

The producer’s voice sounded like that of a slightly manic Scottish robot as it crackled out of the Audi’s speakers, and Cora Baxter smiled despite her anxiety.

‘I think sprouts would have been a joy tomorrow actually, Sam, compared with the story we’re on. But fair enough. Nathan hates cramming his floppy mane into a hairnet when we do food factory stories anyway, so at least he’ll be pleased.’

She braked as a car slowed in front of her on the dark road, its left indicator flashing.

‘Well, happy cameraman, happy life, eh? Anyway, stop worrying, OK? Go home, get some sleep, and I’ll speak to you in the morning.’

‘I’ll try. That’s if I get home at all, this traffic is murder. Speak tomorrow, Sam.’

‘Night, Cora.’

Cora hit the button on her steering wheel to end the call and sighed, wishing heartily that the events of the past few days hadn’t happened and that all she had to think about tonight was a straightforward story about Brussels sprouts. The warm summer had promised a bumper crop this year, but heavy rain through much of October had caused so much water damage that now, in early November, farmers had started issuing dire warnings about a Christmas sprout shortage across the UK. It was the perfect story for a Friday morning at this time of year for TV breakfast show Morning Live, on which Cora had worked as a reporter and newsreader for the past four years. After what had happened this week, though, the sprout story had tonight been given to another reporter, with Cora and her crew assigned to a live broadcast from Bristol for the third time this week.

As her mind drifted back to the past few days, she shivered despite the heat pumping out of the car’s powerful air conditioning system, then groaned and braked again as red taillights suddenly glowed in front of her once more. She was still in south Bristol, at least an hour’s drive from her home in Cheltenham even without congested roads, and her alarm would be going off at three tomorrow morning. She was used to the early starts, but even so…Cora glanced at the clock on the instrument display and made a sudden decision. It was after six o’clock, and she was exhausted. Time to forget attempting to reach the M5 motorway and try wiggling northwards along the back roads. She looked swiftly left and right, checking her exact location. She knew this area quite well, and suddenly remembered a right turn up ahead that should, she thought, take her onto a winding country lanes route she’d used once or twice before after seeing a taxi driver take it as he drove her to Bristol airport during rush hour. It was definitely a longer way home on paper, but with this congestion…

Five minutes later Cora was navigating the dark twists and turns of a narrow road that was single-track but blissfully free of traffic. She took a deep breath and rolled her head towards one shoulder and then the other, trying to release some of the tension. She’d get home, run a deep, fragrant bath, have one glass of wine – just one – and then collapse into bed. She might get five hours’ sleep, if she was lucky. Not bad for a work night. And, hopefully, after tomorrow this horrible story would be over and she and the boys could get back to having some fun.

Cora stopped at a T-junction, checked the road signs and drove straight across. This was definitely the right way. There was a bridge a mile or so up ahead, she remembered, then a left turn, and then it should be an easy drive home on familiar roads. She breathed deeply again, relaxing a little, and reached over to turn the radio on. It was tuned to a classical music station, one she’d started listening to recently when she was feeling particularly stressed. It was a new habit which had resulted in much gentle mocking by her camera crew, and questions about whether she was “channelling Inspector Morse”. Cora cheerfully ignored the jibes and now, as the reassuring strains of Grieg’s Piano Concerto in A minor filled the car, she felt a sense of calm descend. She really must stop getting so anxious about work, she thought. It was just a job, after all; just a news story, as her boyfriend Adam repeatedly told her. As a London-based police officer, he had his share of difficult work days too, but over the years he’d learned to take them in his stride, generally getting a little less agitated about work than Cora tended to, and encouraging her to take a slightly less uptight approach too. Yes – as her friends never stopped reminding her, Detective Chief Inspector Adam Bradberry was good for her, very good indeed, in so many ways. They’d been together for about a year and a half now, since they’d met on a murder investigation Adam was leading, and Cora couldn’t remember a time she’d been happier in a relationship. She wouldn’t be seeing him this coming weekend because he was on duty, but she’d call him as soon as she got home, she thought. Tell him the latest news from Bristol, offload it before attempting to sleep. He’d know what to say to make her feel better. He always did.

The story had seemed fairly straightforward at first, if pretty nasty. Last weekend, the seventy-year-old Iraqi owner of a small north Bristol corner shop had been the victim of a vicious attack which had left him in intensive care in Southmead Hospital; not content with beating the man, the perpetrator had also smashed his shop windows, looted his shelves and daubed racist slogans across his walls. A strong story for the local press, it wouldn’t normally have made the national news, but the victim, Ahmed Alwan, had recently been awarded an “Unsung Hero” award by the Daily Mail for his work in the community. The man, it seemed, never stopped – as well as keeping his shop open for fifteen hours a day he also managed to run a youth group, manage a children’s football team and provide a home delivery service for local pensioners. The outrage which followed the attack drew the attention of the national media, and on Monday morning Cora and her crew had duly been despatched to cover the story.

So far, so simple. But on Tuesday, when Cora had been making some follow-up calls to the hospital, and to the police press office to check on the investigation’s progress, she had received an email to her Morning Live account which had turned everything on its head. The anonymous tipster – giving his name simply as “Paul”  said that he had watched Cora’s report from outside the hospital and wanted her to know that despite the police saying that attempts to find the attacker had so far failed, he was being named locally as Alan Gregory, a thirty-something man who’d appeared in court several times on minor assault charges, and who’d been warned by fed-up magistrates that his next offence would most likely land him in prison.

“He’s very well known in this neighbourhood for his racist views”, the email continued. “Many of us have seen him standing on street corners, shouting abuse at anyone whom he considers to look ‘foreign’ – Muslim ladies in headscarves, Sikhs in turbans. He’s a nasty piece of work.”

“Paul” went on to say that at least two witnesses had seen and recognised Gregory running from the scene of the crime, and had informed police, but that officers had failed to act. And then he dropped the bombshell – the fact that residents believed that Alan Gregory was the younger brother of Detective Chief Inspector Gordon Gregory of Avon police.

‘What? Gordon Gregory? DCI Gregory, who’s leading the investigation into the attack on Ahmed Alwan? Are you sure, Cora?’

Senior producer and Cora’s close friend Samantha Tindall had been astounded when Cora had forwarded the email to her on the news desk in London and then called her to discuss it.

‘Yep. I did some Googling and it appears that DCI Gregory does indeed have a younger brother called Alan – there’s a photo of them together at a police open day event last year on Avon’s website. And then I checked the Bristol Evening Post website for court stories about Alan, and several come up, all assaults, two on Pakistani shopkeepers, although nothing nearly as serious as this latest one. And a couple of the articles have photos – it’s definitely the same guy. Right little thug, by the look of it.’

‘Blimey.’

There was a pause as Sam digested the news.

‘And these witnesses, they’ve told the police they saw Alan Gregory running from the scene of this latest crime? And the cops have done nothing? Seriously?’

‘Yep,’ said Cora again. ‘I emailed this Paul guy back, and asked him a few questions. He says the shop doesn’t have CCTV, and there aren’t any cameras on that particular street either, so there won’t be any footage unfortunately, just the eye-witness reports. But the two witnesses who saw Gregory running off are absolutely positive it was him, apparently. They went straight to the police who said they’d look into it, but according to Paul, they’ve done nothing. He says the guy’s still wandering the streets, being abusive to everyone as usual and looking smug. There are mutterings locally that the cops are unwilling to arrest him because he’s Gordon Gregory’s brother, especially as an assault this serious will definitely result in him being banged up.’

‘Gosh.’

The line went quiet again.

‘I know.’

Cora, who had been calling from her car, parked in a quiet side street near the scene of the crime, pulled down the driver’s mirror, ran her fingers through her dark brown bob and frowned at her reflection. She looked a mess, she decided. Those dark shadows under her eyes…an early night was badly needed.

‘OK, so you’re due to interview DCI Gregory on tomorrow’s show, aren’t you? When we do an update on Mr Alwan’s condition, and film his kids’ footie club bringing that massive card they’ve made for him to the hospital?’

‘Yes. Gregory said he’ll come up to Southmead and do a slot on the eight o’clock news, update us on the enquiry. Why?’

‘Well…’ Sam hesitated. ‘I hope I won’t regret suggesting this – but how do you feel about confronting him about it live on air?’

It was Cora’s turn to hesitate. She thought for a moment, unsure.

‘Really? Flipping heck, Sam. Isn’t that a bit risky? I mean, I have no problem with it in principle – I can say the man is being extensively named locally as Alan Gregory, a man known for his racist views and with a history of assault charges. But to accuse him of covering up for his brother, on national TV…?’

‘I know, I know. He’ll probably walk off, but oh Cora – what great TV it will make! And if you’re sure of your facts…just think carefully about how you word it. Are you up for it?’

Cora had thought for a moment again, then nodded slowly.

‘OK. Let’s do it.’

The following morning there’d been a knot of apprehension in her stomach as she’d greeted DCI Gordon Gregory, a tall, brusque, ruddy-cheeked man in his late forties, ahead of their 8 a.m. interview. As the camera rolled, and the interview was beamed live to the nation, she had taken a deep breath and calmly informed the police officer that the attacker was being named locally as Alan Gregory.

‘And I also believe, DCI Gregory, that this man is your younger brother. Is there any truth in the rumours flying around this neighbourhood that that is the reason he has not been arrested for this horrendous attack?’

DCI Gregory’s face had flushed a deep red, his eyes narrowing. For a long moment he stared at Cora, then swallowed hard.

‘I cannot comment on that. And if that’s all you’ve got to say, I have work to do,’ he had growled, in his strong Liverpudlian accent. Cora had swiftly ended the interview, the police officer glowering at her. As soon as the camera had been switched off, DCI Gregory stepped menacingly towards her, standing so close she could smell the stale coffee on his breath.

‘How dare you try to embarrass me like that on live television?’ he hissed. ‘How dare you? Consider the relationship between Avon police and your breakfast show well and truly over. And I’ll be making a formal complaint to your editor, Miss Baxter, mark my words.’

Now, Cora drove wearily through the darkness, music still playing softly, her headlights illuminating the sharp edges of the old stone walls that bordered the narrow road, their outlines intermittently softened by hedgerows, bare now as winter took hold. There was already a shimmer of frost on the tarmac, the promise of another freezing cold night ahead. Cora shivered again. She knew that as a news reporter, confronting Gregory about what she’d learned had been the right thing to do, but the confrontation had unnerved her. True to his word, the DCI had made a formal complaint to Betsy Allan, editor of Morning Live. Betsy had reassured him that the matter would be looked into, and then immediately called Cora, telling her not to worry, that she had done the right thing and that ‘it would all blow over, in time.’ Sam too had been straight on the phone, telling her friend and colleague not to get stressed about it all.

‘It was bloody awesome, Cora. Well done. Great TV.’

Then this afternoon, Thursday, two pieces of news had reached the news desk – one, that Alan Gregory had been arrested and charged with the attack on Ahmed Alwan. And two, that DCI Gordon Gregory had been temporarily suspended from duty while a misconduct investigation was carried out. Tomorrow, Cora and her crew would be reporting on these facts, on location outside Avon’s south Bristol police headquarters, and she wasn’t looking forward to it, knowing that their welcome from Gregory’s colleagues was unlikely to be a warm one. Police officers, like journalists, were fiercely protective of their own.

‘I have well and truly had enough of this story now,’ she announced, as she rounded a corner and saw the silhouette of a bridge a few hundred yards ahead. She braked, remembering that the road became single track again where the bridge crossed it, then slowed the car to a halt as another vehicle approached, deciding to let it pass before she navigated the narrow way. As she waited, she admired the curves of the old bridge, rising high above the road, its graceful arch crowned with decorative ironwork, the detail blurred in the darkness but, Cora remembered, by daylight a striking example of Victorian craftsmanship, with fleur-de-lis topping elaborate scrollwork. There was a car parked on the bridge now, headlights on, the light casting a golden glow on one ornate section of the hundred and fifty-year-old structure.

‘Clarton Bridge, I think it’s called. Beautiful,’ Cora thought, as she moved off again. As she drew closer to the bridge, a sudden movement high above caught her eye. Confused, she glanced upwards for a moment then braked sharply, snapping her eyes back to the road in front of her, aware that it was about to narrow significantly. And then, in what she would later describe as a series of events that appeared to happen in slow motion, but which in reality took mere seconds, there was a scream, a whooshing sound, and a terrible, violent thud as something crashed into Cora’s car. She stamped her foot on the brake and then recoiled in horror, skull slamming into the headrest.

‘Oh my GOD. What the…what the HELL?’

Heart pounding violently, breathing in ragged gasps, she shrank back in her seat as far as she could, trying desperately to get away from what was now just inches away on the other side of the windscreen. Because something hadn’t crashed into her car. It had crashed onto it. Onto it from above. And not something. Someone. Lying on the Audi’s bonnet, face pressed grotesquely against the cracked glass, blank eyes staring straight at Cora, neck at an unnatural angle, was a young woman. A young, and clearly very dead, woman.



2



‘Recovery truck will be here in a few minutes. I’d stay in there and keep warm until then if I were you. It’s perishing out here.’

The female police officer shut the rear door of the car and wandered off, back towards the cluster of emergency service vehicles parked near the bridge, their blue lights flashing. In the midst of them, Cora’s Audi looked small and broken: windscreen shattered, bonnet buckled and bloodstained. She shuddered and dragged her gaze away from the scene, hearing again the sickening thud, and seeing in her mind’s eye the hideous image of the dead woman’s face pressed against the window. She had stopped shaking now, but it had taken a while, the combined effects of shock and cold making her tremble uncontrollably until one of the first police officers on the scene had ushered her into the back of his marked car, kindly leaving the engine on and turning the heating up high. When the paramedics arrived, one had tried to check her over but she’d told him she was fine. It wasn’t entirely true – she felt dizzy and queasy – but she knew she hadn’t been physically hurt. The shivering and sick feeling in her stomach were simply a reaction to what she had just witnessed, and they would pass.

But that poor woman…

Cora had leapt out of her car in horror as soon as she’d managed to bring it to a halt and switch the engine off. By then, the young woman who’d slammed into the bonnet had slid to the ground, a slumped tangle of limbs in denim jeans and a dark coat, and it had taken just a moment for Cora to confirm her first thought – that this was most definitely a dead body, the neck clearly broken, blood streaking dark highlights through long red-brown hair, soulless eyes still wide open. Hands shaking violently, she had called 999, and then waited, trembling, on the dark road for what seemed like hours, gaze drawn repeatedly and helplessly to the face of the dead woman, a white blur in the darkness. With the Audi blocking passage under the bridge, there was soon a small queue of vehicles on either side, impatient drivers getting out of their cars to see what was causing the obstruction and then withdrawing with shocked expressions. It had taken around twenty minutes for the police and ambulance service vehicles to fight their way through the evening rush hour, Cora gabbling her way through the events of the past half an hour as a tall, serious-faced policeman took hasty notes.

Now, as she sat in the warm car, her body slowly calming down, her mind finally clear enough for logical thought, she remembered the conversation she’d overheard through the then slightly ajar door as two of the police officers had stood near the vehicle a few minutes earlier, confirming what Cora had already assumed.

‘Suicide by the looks of it, then,’ the younger of the two, a wiry looking man with a red goatee beard had said.

‘Aye. Broke her neck in the fall so it woulda been quick, at least. Poor kid.’ The older officer was shorter and stocky, with a Geordie burr.

‘Mmm. Didn’t look much older than eighteen, nineteen, did she? Shit. Don’t envy whoever gets to tell the family. Any ID on her, did you hear?’

‘Don’t know. Paul found what’s probably her handbag up on the bridge though. Not much in it except a laptop and purse. Ange is going through it now…’

There’d been a yell from the bridge where the ambulance was preparing to leave, and the two officers had marched swiftly back to the scene, leaping into their own vehicles to move them out of the way. Now, waiting for the recovery truck to take her car away – and, hopefully, to drop her home Cora shook her head sadly and rubbed her eyes, feeling her mascara smearing on her cheeks and not caring. Suicide. How utterly, utterly dreadful. What was going on in that poor woman’s world that had driven her to take her own life, leaping from a road bridge in such a deserted area on a cold November night? Lost in thought, Cora jumped as there was a sudden sharp tap on the car window.

‘He’s here.’

The officer Cora had seen earlier gestured with her thumb to where a recovery truck was now moving slowly towards the bridge, a revolving amber beacon flashing on its roof.

‘Oh, great, thank you.’

Suddenly feeling overwhelmed with tiredness, Cora climbed slowly out of the car and headed towards the bridge. The ambulance had left, and just two police vehicles remained at the scene, the Geordie officer now issuing instructions to the recovery driver. The man, plump and grey-haired and wearing a luminous yellow jacket, nodded vigorously.

‘Right you are. And I’m to take the driver – this young lady – ’ome too?’

He gestured at Cora, and she smiled weakly.

‘Yes, please. If that would be OK?’

The officer nodded at Cora and she smiled again.

‘Thanks. That would be great. It’s been kind of a long day.’

‘Right you are,’ the recovery truck man said again, his Bristol brogue drawing out the ‘are’ in what Cora’s cameraman Nathan always described as ‘pirate style’.

‘If you want to grab all your personal items from the vehicle, my love, I’ll get the truck ready. Won’t take long.’

‘OK. Thank you. There’s not much, just my handbag and some bits of kit in the back seat and the boot.’

‘Plenty of space, no worries, love.’

The man rubbed his hands together and marched off. Suddenly shivering again as she approached her battered car, and carefully averting her eyes from the spot where the woman’s body had lain, Cora gingerly opened the driver’s door and lowered herself onto the seat. Her bag had flown off its normal perch on the passenger seat when she’d slammed on the brakes, and her belongings were scattered across the footwell. As she leaned down and began to gather them up, the lights of the departing police cars illuminated the Audi’s interior for a few moments, aiding her task. Confident that she’d found everything, she sat up just as the vehicles moved slowly off down the road, blue lights still flashing. She watched them for a moment in the rear-view mirror, then climbed out of the car again. As she did, something caught her eye. What was that, on the windscreen? Something seemed to be caught under one of the wipers. She leaned closer, wondering if it was just a piece of debris from the accident, then frowned. That wasn’t debris. It looked like…but how would that have got there?

She reached out and carefully retrieved the small, oblong-shaped object, gently lifting the windscreen wiper to release it. It was, as she had first thought, a computer memory stick. Or a ‘flash drive’ as Adam calls them, she thought, although she wasn’t entirely sure whether that was the same thing or not. How weird. Cora shrugged her bag onto her shoulder as she stared at her find, wondering why the police hadn’t noticed it. It wasn’t hers, she knew that. So did that mean it was the victim’s? Had it fallen from the bridge with her, or fallen out of her clothing when she landed? Maybe.

Cora looked around, but the police had definitely gone. Unsure what to do,. . .