Murder on the Moorland

  Murder on the Moorland

  Also By

  Also by Helen Cox

  Murder by the Minster

  A Body in the Bookshop

  Title

  Copyright

  This ebook edition first published in 2020 by

  Quercus Editions Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © 2020 Helen Cox

  The moral right of Helen Cox to be

  identified as the author of this work has been

  asserted in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication

  may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

  or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopy, recording, or any

  information storage and retrieval system,

  without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library

  HB ISBN 978 1 52940 227 8

  EBOOK ISBN 978 1 52940 229 2

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

  businesses, organizations, places and events are

  either the product of the author’s imagination

  or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

  actual persons, living or dead, events or

  locales is entirely coincidental.

  Ebook by CC Book Production

  Cover design © 202 Ghost

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk

  Dedication

  For the doctors and nurses at the Whittington Hospital who have shown my husband and I such kindness and ceaseless care.

  Contents

  Murder on the Moorland

  Also By

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Detective Inspector Malcolm Halloran jammed his foot down hard on the accelerator of his black Fiat Linea and sped past a road sign for Esk Valley prison.

  Three miles.

  Three miles of rugged moorland between here and the fusty visiting room where he would once again look his wife’s killer in the eye.

  If he could do that then he would know for sure whether somehow, even from behind bars, Jeremy Kerr had managed to murder again.

  Halloran tried to breathe through the many ways in which that thought stung him. This was all supposed to be over. Had Kerr really found some way of killing again, even if only vicariously? If so, how would he get Kerr to confess to it now that he was disgraced and incarcerated? There was no hope of a get-out-of-jail-free card for the likes of him, no matter how much information he offered. Regardless, Halloran had to find a way of squeezing out the truth. Last time, Kerr had taken seven lives before Halloran noticed a book about Anglo-Saxon gods sitting on his bookshelf one night. If he hadn’t been so desperate to close the case after the death of his wife, maybe he wouldn’t have spotted it amongst the number of other innocuous volumes about moorland walks and military history. One of the runes on the spine of the book had matched a symbol carved into the hand of Kerr’s third victim and it was the first breadcrumb in a trail that would lead to the conviction of a ritualistic killer and once-close colleague. If somehow Kerr had been responsible for ending yet another innocent life, Halloran had to do whatever it took to make sure the body count stayed at one.

  Desperate to dismiss the swarm of questions hazing his mind, he tried instead to focus on the purple heather scrolling past the windscreen, fixing his eyes on the point where the bracken met the pastel blue of a dawning June sky. Not even the ravishing colours of the midsummer moorland could hold his attention, however, or help him forget the scene that had played out at York Police Station a little over three hours ago.

  Halloran let out a weighty sigh. Today wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was scheduled for a Sunday off this week for a start. But not just that. He was supposed to be spending the morning in bed with Kitt. The night before had been special. After six months of proving himself worthy of her trust, she had given herself to him, completely. Before he could even think of showing her the desires he had kept hidden from others he’d been intimate with, it was important to him that Kitt knew how tender he was at heart. Thus, when they had started sleeping together a couple of months ago, he’d made sure their encounters had been slow and gentle. That they were purely about connecting with this new, extraordinary person in his life. Last night though, for the first time, he had been able to do what he had wanted to do with her since they’d met – or at least make a start on the list.

  He remembered the sultry smile on Kitt’s face as he had looped his belt around her wrists. He should be with her right now, whispering a few more suggestions in her ear and watching her eyebrow rise in mock outrage. Instead he was out here on the moorland, hunting ghosts from a past life.

  Halloran shook his head, trying to shake off his thoughts. He had left a note on his pillow letting Kitt know how much the night before had meant to him and that he had been summoned to the station. But at the thought of all they had shared he wanted to call her. To hear her voice and let her in on what was happening. Giving in to this urge, however, would probably force him to think twice about what he was about to do and he couldn’t afford that. No matter the cost, he was determined to face Jeremy Kerr once again.

  The car crested a small hill and the Hole of Horcum, a 400-foot-deep hollow in the Levisham valley, opened up by the roadside. Local legend told that the depression had been forged by a giant who, during an argument with his wife, had scraped up a handful of earth to throw at her. In truth, the chasm had been formed by water welling up from the hillside and wearing the rocks down slowly over thousands of years. The feeling of being hollowed out, of a primal force welling up inside and eroding what you once were, was one Halloran was more familiar with than he ever wanted to admit.

  He had never cried publicly over the death of his wife. Not even at her funeral. There had been many nights, however, where the whiskey bottle had called and in solitude he had allowed himself to mourn. Before this morning he had managed to convince himself that he had finally left those dark times behind, but he had been wrong.

  Skirting around the abyss cut into the heart of the moorland, the car climbed another hill. This time, Halloran found himself staring across the short stretch of road ahead to a long, sandy-coloured building less than a mile in the distance. He frowned and felt his heart quicken. Could he smell K
amala’s perfume? He breathed in deep again. No. That was impossible. Any last traces of her scent had long since drifted out of his life. In fact, save for a wedding ring packed away in a box of odds and ends in the attic back in York, there was no physical evidence left that he had ever had a wife. And yet right now, in this moment, there was no mistaking the gentle hint of jasmine and peach that seemed to hang in the air. Winding down the window, Halloran welcomed the cool breeze and rubbed his hand over his face as though trying to wake from a bad dream.

  He looked at his watch: 7.40.

  The message to get down to the station had buzzed through to his phone just after four. Kitt had been sleeping so soundly, he wouldn’t have awoken her for the world. When he got to the nick, they had all been waiting for him: Chief Superintendent Ricci, Detective Sergeant Banks and Detective Sergeant Redmond. He would never forget the look on their faces when he walked into that room, the news they broke to him, or the reckless manner in which he had reacted to what Ricci had to say. He was sure he’d seen a flash of fear in Ricci’s eyes as he had raved and ranted. He couldn’t blame her for being unnerved. His behaviour had frightened him too; he needed to get a grip before he faced Kerr again.

  Halloran overtook a group of cyclists already making a start on whatever epic ride they had planned across some of the steepest terrain in England. He’d never understood the draw to cycling steep hills, to him it seemed borderline insane, but then Kitt thought the same about his morning jogs.

  ‘What are you running from, I wonder?’ she would say with a wry smile whenever he pulled on his running shoes.

  ‘Definitely not you,’ was all he could ever bring himself to tell her.

  After a minute or so Halloran indicated left down a side road full of potholes that led to a tall black fence built of reinforced steel, strong enough to keep criminals in and strong enough to keep anyone who wanted revenge on them out. Usually, if an officer wanted to visit a prisoner there would be forms to fill in and several other bureaucratic hoops to jump through. If you were a high-ranking police officer with connections in the community, though, it was possible to pull in a favour. If Kerr refused to speak to him, there was nothing he could do to force him, but something told Halloran that Kerr wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to confront, and likely taunt, the man who had put him away.

  Halloran pressed the security buzzer to announce his arrival to the officer at reception and a moment later the iron gate began to swing open. Somewhere inside this building, amongst the maze of long white corridors that echoed with the footsteps of wardens and sometimes the wails of a tormented convict, Kerr was shovelling down a prison breakfast, unaware of the fact he was about to be visited by the man whose life he had tried to destroy. Exactly what Halloran would do when he once again came face to face with his wife’s killer, he hadn’t yet decided.

  Two

  Halloran’s stomach clenched as the door to the west wing interview room creaked open. Slowly, he raised his eyes. Kerr almost swaggered towards him in his prison-issue tracksuit. Burgundy, Halloran noted, the colour of congealed blood.

  Halloran knew Kerr would be accompanied by two officers but he didn’t even glance at them. He couldn’t just now. He was too busy taking in the cut of the man responsible for upending his life five years ago.

  The prison diet didn’t suit Kerr, that much was for sure. He was slimmer than he had been when he had worked alongside him as a DI at Eskdale station. It had been a tranquil existence: closing workaday cases and living in the quaint moorland village of Irendale with Kamala, before Kerr strangled her to death. Kerr’s hair had been shaved short during his time inside, making his big ears stick out even further than they once did. But those grey-green eyes were still as cold and empty as they had always been, even before Halloran had unmasked him as a serial killer.

  Kerr sat down across the table from Halloran with a faint smirk on his lips. Though he held the prisoner’s gaze, Halloran tried not to focus on that. It was the sort of expression that made him want to punch Kerr’s lights out but, satisfying as that would be, getting himself locked away on a GBH charge wasn’t going to achieve anything. If Halloran wanted to get to the truth he was going to have to keep his cool and stay focused on one thing only: luring Kerr into giving something – anything – away that spoke of his connection with the body that had been found early yesterday evening.

  ‘Just give us a knock when you’re done with him, sir,’ said one of Kerr’s chaperones, before turning her back on them and walking out of the door, her colleague in tow.

  The pair stared at each other in silence for a moment. Kerr probably thought Halloran was using the same interrogation tactics they had once used together. Waiting a suspect out. Forcing them to speak first just so you could interrupt them and show them who was in charge. In fact, Halloran was merely taking the time to size him up. Looking for some telltale sign that indicated just how surprised, or otherwise, Kerr was to see him. But his ex-colleague’s face remained cryptic. That smirk could indicate he had been waiting for Halloran to call but it could just as easily be a sign he had no clue what was going on. Either way, Kerr probably sensed he had the upper hand in this conversation. He was smart enough to understand that Halloran wouldn’t come to him unless he had no other choice.

  ‘’ave you missed me then, Malc?’ said Kerr.

  Halloran’s innards tightened another notch. It wasn’t just the reminder of how much Kerr’s raspy voice grated on him. Since he was knee-high, everyone had always shortened his name to Mal, except Kerr. He had to have his own special pet name. In all the nights Halloran had obsessed over what had passed between him and Kerr, he had wondered if even this had been a manipulation. A way of tricking him into thinking they had a unique bond, and thus allaying his suspicions. Was Kerr really mad enough to believe any residue of that friendship remained? Or was he just trying to rile him?

  ‘Been counting the days.’

  ‘I bet you ’ave. I bet you’re going to be there the day those gates open and I walk back out into the sunshine. But you’ve got a long wait for me to get out of ’ere. You saw to that.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself. I haven’t thought about you in years.’

  Kerr leered. ‘’ad other things on your mind, ave yer? Or other people, perhaps? Got yerself another woman already? That didn’t take long.’

  Halloran resisted the urge to argue but under the table his fists flexed. He had waited several years longer than most other men would have before moving on. The insinuation that he thought the women in his life in any way disposable stung nonetheless. Kerr was baiting him, then. He mustn’t bite.

  ‘I did think of you this morning, though,’ Halloran said, somehow managing to keep his tone casual.

  ‘Whatever floats yer boat,’ Kerr said. ‘I always thought you maybe had a dark side yer kept to yerself. If thinking of me and what I’ve got away with gets you through the day, satisfies some need, I’m happy to help.’ His leer broadened but Halloran could see from a flash in his eyes that a curiosity had been ignited. Was he feigning to create an air of innocence? Or just curious over how much Halloran knew about the murder?

  ‘I looked through your visitor records just now and a familiar name jumped out.’

  ‘Aye, we worked together for three years, Malc. It’s not like you don’t know me friends and family. Or the ones who are still willing to call themselves that.’

  ‘Since when were you such good friends with Kurt Goodchild?’

  Halloran fixed his eyes on Kerr’s face, searching for a twitch or a tell, but mentioning Goodchild hadn’t ruffled him.

  ‘Ah, Kurt, ’e always was a bit of a lost little lad.’

  ‘You know it’s worse than that.’ Halloran was trained to remember important details such as the defining features of a person’s face, but Kurt Goodchild’s was particularly distinctive. It was his eyes. He had the eyes of a startled rabbit: wary and co
wering. It wouldn’t take much to intimidate him.

  ‘Aye, well, when yer live in a small village like Irendale word gets round. Schizophrenia, isn’t it? Terrible thing. Can make people—’

  ‘Impressionable.’

  Kerr eyed Halloran. ‘Aye. I suppose.’

  ‘So you’re admitting it?’

  ‘A man in my position never admits to anything, Malc, you know that.’ Kerr leaned back in his chair. ‘But I’ve got time on me hands, thanks to you. So, go on. Tell me a story.’

  ‘You’ve been talking to Goodchild.’

  ‘When people make the effort to come and visit you in prison it’s a bit rude to sit there in silence, where’s yer manners?’

  ‘You better get serious,’ Halloran said. ‘Right now.’

  ‘Being in prison puts things in perspective, Malc. When you don’t ’ave the personal freedoms you’ve become accustomed to, you don’t sweat small things. I’ve got more disturbing characters to deal with on this side of the fence than the likes of you. So if you want me to take you seriously, you’re going to ’ave to give me something to get serious about.’

  ‘You know better than to test me,’ Halloran growled.

  Kerr’s leer only widened. ‘Maybe testing you is an entertainin’ way to pass the time.’

  ‘What did you and Goodchild talk about?’ Halloran said, doing all he could to ignore Kerr’s jibes.

  ‘’is ma, most of the time. Difficult to get ’im to talk about anything else, if you remember. She’s really the only friend he’s got, besides me, of course. So he likes to talk about her quite a bit.’

  ‘And if I asked Goodchild, would he tell me the same?’

  ‘I ’ave no idea what a kid like that might tell you under the duress of interrogation.’

  Halloran could feel his temper shortening by the second but couldn’t afford to give Kerr any outward sign he was getting to him.

  ‘All right. Let’s play it your way.’ Halloran’s tone was easy but he stood, placed both palms on the table and leaned towards Kerr. ‘Here’s what you want to know: a woman was found dead in Irendale last night. According to current information the investigating officers believe the murder took place on Friday night.’