The Never Ending Fall

Book 3: The Falling Awake Mysteries

by Jenny Cutts

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Paranormal Cozy Mysteries; Paranormal Romance; Romantic Suspense; Crime & Mystery; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

A risky habit. A dangerous drop. But will a murderer make her watch her step?

England, 1992. Zoya is a free spirit with a risky habit trying to find her place in the world. When she lands a place at an isolated dance school, it seems like the perfect fit. But, following a mysterious death, the countryside doesn’t seem so idyllic anymore.

When the police aren’t making progress, she starts asking questions of her own. By refusing to accept it was an accident, she finds herself walking a lonely, dangerous path.

Can Zoya bring the murderer to justice or should she tread more carefully?

The Never Ending Fall is the third book in The Falling Awake Mysteries, a captivating character-led series that blends amateur sleuth crime story with an exploration of human connection. If you like compelling characters, leafy lanes, and a hint of the paranormal, then you’ll love Jenny Cutts’ intriguing novel.

Buy The Never Ending Fall and follow the trail today.

Release date: January 28, 2022

Publisher: Stopped Clock Press

Sample

CHAPTER 1
Blood seeps slowly from the skull, darkening hair and pooling on stone. The black, rushing river splashes the rocks; a tearing torrent dashing by deaf, dead ears. Night shadows wash the blue dress grey.
The body sprawls in its resting place, limbs limp, deformed by boulder-snapped bones. Icy fingers trail in the tugging water, yet unpierced by the bite of perch.
A break in the clouds reveals a pattern of printed white daisies. The blossoms crystallise like stars pricking a pitch sky.
The eyes are open, shining with moonlight, bright against the muddied, bloodied face.

CHAPTER 2
Zoya is watching the window. On the other side of the glass, the sparrow seems to hover, an impossible suspension, before its wings flutter and it swoops dramatically out of sight.
‘So,’ continues the interviewer.
Zoya’s attention snaps back to the thin, grey woman and the frowning man sitting across the table, their notes neatly positioned before them in two parallel piles.
‘… aside from your administrative experience,’ the woman continues, ‘what makes you a good fit for Charlotte Carre?’
‘Well…’ Zoya’s eyes flit from one serious face to the other. ‘I love dance. I mean, I love to dance myself – as an amateur. I’ve taken a lot of dance classes, particularly over the last year, and been to see a lot of shows – er, performances.’
She looks up to the vacant patch of sky.
‘I love it. It’s like… the world just melts away and time itself stops… just hangs there floating…’
Zoya realises that this isn’t much of a job interview answer and brings her focus back to the room – the neat furniture, pale walls and neutral expressions of the man and woman waiting for her to say something that will score some points.
‘So, I just really feel that… I just think that by contributing to a – this – dance company, by bringing my administrative skills to the company… it would help me to feel’ – she searches for the word – ‘fulfilled.’
Zoya clasps her hands together neatly on her lap, straightens her spine slightly and smiles a close-lipped smile.

***

Reed’s mouth hangs open, a spot of saliva pooling at the corner. As he wakes, he instinctively wipes it away with the back of his hand and then wriggles free of the tangled covers. Sitting up in bed, he reaches for the retro patterned curtain and pulls it aside to check out the morning. Sycamore trees fill the camper van window with green shadow, the leaves hanging still as a photograph. He runs his fingers through his hair. It slowly flops back into place.
Beyond the leaves lies the wide, grey suburban street and another flat August day. Nobody seems to be about. Eventually, he spies a faraway walker, circled by the curious snuffling of his dog.
Once dressed, Reed opens the cabin door, the sound soon dissipating in the quiet street. He hops onto the pavement and pulls the door shut. A car drives past the distant junction and a blackbird begins to sing somewhere, out of sight.
Reed stretches his spine, his long arms reaching toward the treetops in a wide span. He sets off on the short walk toward Dan’s house, thinking about breakfast.

***

‘Thank you, Miss Carmichael. That concludes the interview.’
The thin, grey woman, whose name Zoya can’t remember, replaces the cap on her pen with a click.
‘As mentioned,’ the grumpy man adds, ‘we expect to make our decision by the end of the day. Thanks for coming in.’
Zoya follows their lead in standing up, extending her arm for handshakes and exchanging polite thanks.
A loud bang at the windowpane startles her. She sees the stunned sparrow plummet to the ground, like a stone.

***

The thud of the car door sounds too loud in the quiet, still street. Dan stands on his doorstep watching Robin drive away. In the open doorway, Dan’s skin prickles as cool morning air seeps into the house.
He watches as the blue Ford Fiesta quietly trundles down the street and rounds the usual corner – and he watches long after it has gone. Dan’s thick, dark brows sink slowly over his stare and his pursed mouth settles in a small, pained frown.

***

In the corridor, Zoya manoeuvres herself out of the way. The thin, grey woman is calling for the next interviewee. A thin, blond woman – almost a mirror image – rises from the waiting area. Zoya notices that they embrace.
‘Hi, darling – we said you’d be back!’
Zoya struggles to stash her resume in her bag and her cheeks feel hot. She stuffs the papers in and hurries down the stairs.
Hitting the open air, she turns a corner to find the back of the building and leans against the wall. She looks up through the muggy, greying skies to the windows rising above her, imagining the affectionate greetings continuing in the interview room above. She already knows that she won’t be getting this job. She steps out of her uncomfortable interview shoes and flexes her feet on the grass.

***

Reed’s Converse make a slight slapping sound on the drive as he ambles up to Dan’s front door. The familiar suburban semi seems quiet today, no signs of life or Dan. He remembers that Sarah and Matty don’t live there anymore, Dan’s sister and nephew having moved in with her new boyfriend, Nathan.
He reaches for the doorbell and presses. As he waits, not hearing anything, he glances up and down the road. Someone along the street is hanging washing out to dry.
He hears faint footsteps inside the hall. Dan opens the door. He has a preoccupied look on his face.
‘Reed!’ Dan says, mustering an enthusiastic greeting that doesn’t land quite right.
‘Had you forgotten?’ Reed answers, following him inside. ‘We were going to go through the vanishing necklace case today…’
‘No, no,’ Dan says. ‘You’re just a bit earlier than… I suppose I lost track of time.’
They head down the hallway and into the kitchen.
‘Oh, have you got company?’ Reed asks. ‘Is Robin still here?’
‘No.’
Reed waits for the explanation, wondering what caused Dan to lose track of time. Dan intuits the unspoken question.
‘I was just… thinking,’ he answers.
They sit at the table.
‘Right,’ Dan says, planting his hands on the tabletop, ‘here’s what we know.’

***

Zoya leans against the wall, feeling directionless in life. As her pulse slumps back to normal, she becomes irritated by the stifling stillness of the London morning and the stiff, heavy cling of her stupid interview suit.
Not far from her feet, she sees the body of the fallen sparrow, motionless on the grass. She looks at it glumly for a few minutes, wondering what to do with the rest of her day.
Then there is a flutter. The stunned bird rights itself, takes a few faltering hops and then flies away.

***

Sharon perches at the edge of the storeroom above the nightclub, tolerating the smell of tobacco, beer and disinfectant that has sunk deep into the walls. The room is crammed with shadowy, decrepit equipment, thick with dust and sweated grime. The music rises in muffled beats and the wasp-swarm hum echoes in the biting buzz of loose screws. One foot rests on a heavy wheel of cable, the other on the grubby floor.
The door to the office is speckled with peeling varnish and stays shut. She can’t hear the men talking inside.
She peers at the paper form she is working through, resting it on the edge of an old mixing desk. She fills in the boxes of the application form in chunky capitals, glancing furtively to the corridor and the door. All she can hear is the thud of the music being played downstairs.
She works her biro carefully, filling in the bursary section, just finishing before a sixth sense tells her to check back with the office door. Her fingers scrabble to fold away the application and hurriedly stuff it out of sight in her bag. She sees the handle turn and the latch release before he emerges slowly, shoulder and hip first, still talking to the men inside.
She adjusts her position, zipping up her bag and smoothing her hair. Alex is half out of the room, still wrapping up his conversation. She sees that he is holding a bag now, one that falls with weight toward the floor. His arm looks muscular holding it. She always liked the way he stands like that; slim hips, poised for action, carrying his weight on one leg.
She tries not to wonder about the bag too much, but the thought keeps pricking her: maybe he is finally going to pay her back. All that money, all those years: it wasn’t his, it was hers.
The music comes to a stop.
Alex steps fully into the corridor and looks around. Sharon stands up, making herself available.
‘Sorry, babe,’ he says. ‘Bit of business. We’re leaving now.’
Alex scoops an arm around her and nudges her forward with a hand at the small of her back. She walks ahead of him down the dark, sticky stairs.
As they move through the club below, Alex nods to all the staff. John is darting around collecting plastic glasses from the floor and Garry pauses with his broom to let them pass. They walk through the cavernous, sweat-sheened room and say goodnight to the bouncers who are crowd-managing clubbers away from the cloakroom and into the nipping, northern night. Alex and Sharon exit through the fire door.
Soon they are outside by his car, a 1977 orange Ford Capri. She watches as Alex puts the bag on the back seat.
‘Babe. Hurry the fuck up,’ he barks.
She opens the passenger door and glances back to the club. ‘I thought we were giving Darren a lift home?’
Alex shrugs. ‘Fuck him,’ he says nonchalantly.
Then he leans toward her with a stern look on his face. She becomes aware that his lips are moving, that he is muttering something at her through gritted teeth. The words become clearer as his voice grows in volume and anger.
‘… five, six, seven, eight…’
She cuts off his counting by quickly getting into the car.

***

My feet shuffle to the edge of the concrete. I can see the River Thames carving its wide passage through the city. I see Somerset House all lit up on the far bank and all the low, wide bridges crouching above the chill water. You cannot imagine how eerie London feels when you’re the only person here.
I look at the illuminated towers in the distance and wonder what it would be like to take off from there. But this is enough.
I look to the toes of my trainers touching the void beyond the theatre roof. It’s enough to get my heart pumping, faster and harder, but I’m not doing it for the adrenaline rush.
I look around at the gust-riven, empty city. I have seen it all before.
There’s still a sick, cloying feeling collecting in the pit of my stomach, the sediment of a day that didn’t go exactly as I’d hoped.
I think of the interview. I was clearly not their cup of tea.
I ready myself to step off now. Nothing fancy, just a step. It still shocks me; that first instant when there’s no ground beneath me – just me and the fall.
I step, leaning my weight forward and soon I’m drifting head-first into the night. The air cools my face and I feel the churn of time slow around me as I fall and fall and fall…

CHAPTER 3
‘Come in, Reed, come in. Good to see you! Come in,’ Richard says, holding the thick, wooden door of Whale House open for him.
‘Thanks,’ Reed says, walking into the broad hall. ‘London?’ he queries, watching Richard expertly turn his wheelchair around.
They move up the shallow slope and into the body of the house.
‘Yes, for a job interview with Charlotte Carre Ballet Company,’ Richard explains.
‘A car company?’
‘Charlotte Carre – some fancy ballet school. In the office. I’m expecting her back sometime today. Come in though. It’s good to see you, Reed.’
Reed walks along, onto the step-muffling carpet, following Richard through to the living room at the back. The house feels quiet. Perhaps some music is playing way up there, above them, in the parlour where Richard keeps his records, but Reed can’t hear it. For a time, he felt at home here, but it’s been a while. There’s a different painting on the wall: an almost-finished portrait of Zoya, gifted by the artist’s widow. It is absolutely her. Reed stops himself from being transfixed by it – before Richard catches him looking.
‘Are you stopping for a cuppa? How have you been?’
Reed eyes the cosy plumpness of the plush sofa and chairs. The light reflecting from the flourishing garden bathes the room with shades of jade, emerald and lime.
‘I, er, I can’t stay long,’ Reed answers, noticing something. ‘Is that your book?’
A proof copy of Richard’s soon-to-be-published memoir is lying on the coffee table. Richard holds it up proudly.
‘Molly and Me: Memoirs of a Zoologist,’ he quotes and immediately erupts in a scratchy chuckle. ‘The publishers foisted that title on me.’
He points a finger at the old family photograph on the cover and Reed makes out a young Richard and Calliope with Molly and a tiny daughter – a child with lively hair and a happy smile. Richard chuckles again.
‘Abigail’s annoyed that she didn’t make it onto the cover. Has insisted on “helping me” with the book tour as compensation. Somehow managed to squeeze in a small cruise for R&R in among it all… purely thinking of me, you understand.’ Richard finishes his book chat with a flash of his eyes and a grin.
Reed settles into an armchair by the window, looking to the greenery outside. In the garden, verdant foliage waves its branches silently at them beyond the reinforced plate glass.
‘So… is Zoya coming back soon? Do you know what time? Listen, I can come back later, when she’s home.’
He notices that they have planted up the outside space more like an actual garden now – now that Molly the rhino has gone. Despite the fluttering leaves, it seems empty and still out there now; nobody to munch at the bushes. He considers the scentless, silent garden beyond the glass.
‘I’m a gardener now,’ Richard says, noticing Reed’s gaze. ‘Had to do something with all that space.’
Reed finds himself looking up to the high walkway that rings the plot. He has some very pleasant memories of nights spent with Zoya up there on the veranda. It all looks so different from down here.
He can hear the swish of his fingers stroking the velvet cushion.
‘You must miss her – Molly,’ Reed says, but Richard doesn’t answer.
Instead, he is regarding him, a knowing look to his twinkling eyes.
‘I know who you mean.’
Reed suddenly feels annoyed by Richard’s all-knowing scrutiny and can’t help the sullen expression creeping across his own face.
‘Richard,’ he says, seriously, ‘we’re friends, okay? Me and Zoya. Friends.’
Richard nods gently and sagely. Reed’s eyes flash wide.
‘Friends?’ Richard asks.
‘Yes,’ Reed replies, drawing the word out in annoyed exasperation, ‘friends.’
He shifts position in the chair and fishes for his notebook, which has slipped into the crack between cushion and arm.
Richard is fun and kind and brave, but he can be really annoying sometimes, Reed thinks, stuffing the precious notebook back into his jacket.
‘Real friends?’ Richard says, pursuing his enquiry with a subtly raised brow.
Reed looks at him coolly.
‘Not the type of friend just waiting around to catch her when she falls back into your arms?’
‘Yes, Richard,’ Reed insists, annoyed. ‘I’m not a child. I know what friendship means.’
‘Sure. It means you’re there for someone even when there’s nothing in it for you.’
‘Look,’ Reed says, getting to his feet, ‘I just dropped by to tell her that we’re going away on a job for a little while – me and Dan – so can you just tell her that for me, please? I’d do anything for her, you know that. So, can you just pass on that message, please? About me and Dan?’
Reed has stomped a couple of paces toward the door. Richard smiles, waiting for Reed to finish his rambling.
‘Of course.’
Reed is standing with his hands on his hips now, his lanky frame looming over Richard’s chair. He calms himself down but still feels annoyed.
‘Look, I’d better go. I’m meant to be meeting him now.’
He pauses for a moment, looking again at the empty garden, then makes for the hall.
‘Paranormal investigations, is it?’ Richard asks, wheeling himself along behind.
Reed nods hurriedly. ‘Yep. So, you’ll pass on the message? I’ll see myself out.’
Reed ambles down the incline and, as he opens the front door, hears Richard calling his name.
‘Hey, Reed.’
Reed pauses and stops himself from rolling his eyes. He knows that Richard’s heart is in the right place.
‘Just make sure all this “anything” you’ll be doing for her, is for her, and not really for you.’
Reed walks outside, shaking his head slightly as he goes. ‘Bye, Richard,’ he mutters, resigned; not looking back.
At the end of the path through the rose garden, Reed pauses to adjust the notebook he had hurriedly tucked away and discovers something unexpected. He seems to have accidentally picked up something else: the cover of this small notebook is plastered in a photograph of Zoya, Richard and Aunt Abigail. He stows it away again quickly, too embarrassed by the stropping off to return it right now.
Back in the safety of the Volkswagen van, buckled in and ready to go, he pulls the notebook out for another look. It’s a really nice photograph. He will always be stopped in his tracks by Zoya’s smile.

***

Zoya stands on the pavement, her smile spreading from ear to ear. On her way back from London, she had stopped off for a rest at Bramchester, and is mesmerised by a poster, brass-edged and important, outside the small theatre there.
She stands grinning at the discovery, but nobody else seems to care.
She doesn’t notice the shuffling shoppers passing behind her, the gentle thrum of light traffic driving by, or the small dog snuffling at her feet. It sneezes as the owner drags it away.
The poster is for a dance show and the figure adorning it, photographed in a mid-air pose, is none other than Leon Foster, her favourite dancer in the whole world. The fact that his isn’t exactly a household name makes this seem an even luckier find.
She checks the details at the bottom of the poster again. Yes, that’s definitely today. She looks again at the blond dancer, his lean, muscular torso twisting in the leap. Then she bustles inside the theatre to find the box office, practically crossing her fingers as she goes.

***

Reed is sitting in the booth at the Little Beach Café, picking at a knot in the wooden window frame. It’s too early for streetlamps in summer, but a muggy gloom seems to be descending over the town. The sky is melodramatically dark, long before sunset; stormless and strange. He watches the shadows creeping over the beach and out to sea.
Inside, the orange lights of the café reflect in shiny teapots and in sugary drops of condensation at the corners of windowpanes. There is a lull; the soporific slap of light mopping from the kitchen, tinkling cutlery at the counter and conversations easing down a gear. The softest of shadows bleeds from beneath the saucer of his cup.
The door rattles in the corner. He looks up to see Dan approaching, a funny expression on his face.
‘What?’ Reed says. ‘You seem surprised to see me. You can’t have forgotten, or you wouldn’t be here.’
‘No, no, I just didn’t expect you to be here yet,’ Dan says, sitting heavily on the seat opposite and slinging his jacket over the back.
‘Oh… Zoya wasn’t there,’ Reed explains, picking off a splinter of wood. ‘She’s been up in London, Richard says, for a job interview.’
‘So, she wants to move away?’ Dan says, resuming his look of surprise. He pulls a pensive expression. ‘Travelling around, wind in her hair, I can see her doing that. Living in Shilly, sand beneath her toes, I can see her doing that too – but moving to London for a job? Doesn’t really seem like Zoya…’
Reed shrugs again. He notices the grain of the windowsill: twisting paths that run alongside each other, together and apart.
‘She must have her reasons,’ he says, though it seems like just as much of a mystery to him.
Reed stops picking at the wood and curls his hand into a ball. He forces his expression to brighten before changing the subject to the matter in hand.
‘So, how are we going about this investigation?’
‘Are you seeing her later?’ Dan asks.
‘No, I’ve got… plans, though.’ Reed looks at his watch. ‘Actually, there’s stuff I need to do.’
Dan adopts a curious expression, mouthing a silent oh?
This time, he sees Reed’s face brighten naturally, an excited little grin appearing and disappearing, something lighting up his eyes. Reed leans forward over the table, tracing a pattern on the Formica with dancing fingers. ‘I’m seeing someone.’
‘You’ve got a date?’
‘Date? We’re not Americans, Dan. There’s just… someone I’ve arranged to meet.’ Reed watches his ice-skating fingers. ‘You know Attic Books in Kembleton… on Bridge Street? Well, anyway, she works there. Lucy, she’s called. You’d know her – she’s always wearing colourful tights.’ He darts a small, bright, glance at Dan, unable to keep his hopes to himself.
‘You sly dog,’ Dan responds playfully. ‘Hang on, what preparations do you need to make? I mean – no offence – but you always look exactly the same…’
‘Effortlessly handsome, you mean?’
Dan rolls his eyes, playing along, knowing that only someone who has never considered himself a looker would make this kind of joke. He finds himself looking at his friend more observantly, though. Reed might not be what people would call handsome exactly, but when you get to know him, he has a certain, unique charm.
Dan watches Reed trying to manage his boyish excitement: changing position in his chair – the floppy hair, the glinting green eyes, the charismatic micro-expressions that flicker across his face hinting at the whirlpool of thoughts and feelings bubbling within. It’s a quality that reminds him of Marcus, whose face Dan can never lay eyes on again.
‘Actually,’ Reed begins, apparently eager to spill the beans, ‘I’ve got a plan. I think she might like it… I’m making her a treasure trail…’
‘Like The Goonies?’ Dan interjects.
‘No, not like The Goonies. A treasure trail – not a treasure map.’
Dan is shaking his head and screwing up his face and shoulders as if to say No, I’m not following at all.
‘So, I’m chalking out messages that will take her from the meeting place to somewhere nearby – where I’ll be waiting.’
‘Lying in wait?’ Dan arches a thick eyebrow.
‘No. It’s not sinister… It will be… cute. I’ve got these little presents for her along the way. And anyway, I think she’ll like it.’
Reed nestles back into his seat. There’s a low-level clinking of cutlery emanating from the other diners eating their meals.
‘So, you’re really moving on?’ Dan asks after a moment.
‘No, I’ve moved on,’ Reed answers, stressing the past tense. ‘Me and Zoya are just friends now. It’s fine.’
‘I see. Well, good. Good plan.’
‘What about you? Are you seeing Robin tonight?’
Dan sighs. He looks out of the window at the darkening water. ‘Yeah.’
Reed stops fidgeting. ‘What?’
Dan screws up his face again. He takes a breath but the words that follow tumble slowly from his lips. ‘I think I’m breaking up with him.’
He opens his eyes to check Reed’s response.
‘I thought it was going well?’
‘I’m not sure we’re in it for the right reasons.’
Reed waits for Dan to say more.
‘I’d lost someone… He’d lost someone… Look, the only reason we know him in the first place is because he wanted to meet the people who discovered Donna’s body… And it’s probably too soon after…’ He doesn’t say the name.
Reed can see his point but doesn’t comment – only Dan and Robin can know. Dan doesn’t seem to want to talk about it anymore.
‘So,’ Reed says, getting back to business, ‘it’s a rare bookshop, up in Bramchester…’
Dan accepts the prompt. ‘Right. Run by two sisters who live above the shop. Can’t see they’ve anything to gain from the story of a vanishing necklace but, we’ll see, won’t we?’
‘Are we taking the usual kit?’
‘Yep, all checked – all present and correct.’
‘So, if we want to be there by eleven, we should leave at…?’
‘Say… nine?’ Dan suggests.
‘Nine’s fine,’ Reed says. ‘You never know, I might be having a late night.’ Reed flashes his eyebrows in pantomime emphasis, meaning his date.
Dan cocks his head slightly. ‘You know, most men might consider taking her for a dinner or to a show…’

***

Inside Bramchester Theatre Royal, the audience is filling up. Zoya sits between empty seats, people-watching in happy anticipation. Of the couples, companions and small groups filling up the rows, nobody seems to be quite as excited as she feels. She picks up the programme, taking out the insert for a closer look.
There, on a small advert the size of a bookmark, she reads about a residential project that the dance company apparently runs. Somewhere near Kedbury, near the Welsh border, she thinks. Her eyes skip to the part about open auditions and then flicker back over it again.
The orchestra finishes the warm-up and the house lights grow dim.
Zoya slips the advert into her bag and settles back in her chair. There is a gentle hush, then the curtain rises. Music starts and spotlights find a lone figure on the stage.
Unusual modernist music begins to grow; like a heartbeat that matches her own. The dancer pulses with the beat, his hair, golden in the light. And then there are shapes and balances and stretches that make him seem gravity-defying. And then there are pulses that pull him earthbound and human again; contradictory phases that she understands – but couldn’t explain.
Zoya has seen him perform on stage before, but she wasn’t sitting so close. She watches his face for a while, turning through beams of light, but it is the dancing that draws her in. She stops thinking and sinks into it.
Somehow, she feels great affinity for the way he moves, as if he is expressing something that she, herself, feels inside. Somehow, she knows that she would dance it that way too, is dancing it now.
Sitting alone in the dark, Zoya completely loses herself, falling, ever falling, into the dancer and the dance. The world melts away and she floats in the air with him.