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92 pages

English

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Detective Constable John Barry is a widower from the village of Bishopsgate. When a serial killer terrorises the up-market village, murdering six women, chosen seemingly at random, DC Barry is forced to re-visit the killing of his beloved wife, thirty years before. After being promoted out of pity, can DC Barry rise above the department hotshots and solve the mystery, while trying to close the door on his past?

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Thriller

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Publié par	Austin Macauley Publishers
Date de parution	30 avril 2019
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781528959094
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0175€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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The Executioner
M L Round
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-04-30
The Executioner About The Author About The Book Dedication Copyright Information Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two
About The Author
Born in Wolverhampton in 1984, Michelle is a qualified chef and hospitality professional. She has been a fan of Wolverhampton Wanderers Football Club for many years and is a season ticket holder.
Michelle has been married for five years and has a young daughter.
Creative writing has been a passion since her late teens since a coursework assignment allowed her to write with no boundaries.
About The Book
Detective Constable John Barry is a widower from the village of Bishopsgate. When a serial killer terrorises the up-market village, murdering six women, chosen seemingly at random, DC Barry is forced to re-visit the killing of his beloved wife, thirty years before.
After being promoted out of pity, can DC Barry rise above the department hotshots and solve the mystery, while trying to close the door on his past?
Dedication
To MR for all your support and having the best ideas.
To HH for being patient all the way to the end.
Copyright Information
Copyright © M L Round (2019)
The right of M L Round to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528908948 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528908955 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781528908962 (Kindle e-book)
ISBN 9781528959094 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Chapter One
The drizzle of early December was hitting the hood of my red cagoule as I stood and looked at the heavy, un-welcoming front door of the police station. Painted in black with one large knob in the middle, it didn’t inspire you to step inside; in fact, this part of my day always reminded me of being late for school, having to walk in the classroom by yourself while everyone else was seated and all those beady eyes looking at you, but nevertheless Monday morning had arrived and I would have to face what was on the other side.
“Good morning, Detective Constable Barry,” the tubby little desk sergeant mumbled as I walked past his glass box in the reception, not bothering to make eye contact. Twelve months ago, his lack of manners bugged me, but I had come to learn that as the runt of the department, people rarely used manners when addressing me. My journey through the wood chip clad station continued, and as I left the grand Georgian façade behind and walked the 90s green-felt carpet to the briefing room, I could feel the tension in the air.
The grey windowless box they called the briefing room had been shoved into the corner of the squad room and felt as cheery as the melamine tables that adorned it. I had taken my familiar seat at the back, where nobody would notice me and waited for the boss to take the stand. Detective Chief Inspector Anders was at the helm, talking in his familiar cockney accent (that was becoming more refined the longer he lived in Bishopsgate), briefing us on a spate of serial killings. The moment the two words had left his mouth, a hush came over the normal hum of weekend banter that accompanied the Monday meeting. There had only ever been one serial killer in the village of Bishopsgate and that had been thirty years previous, before most of the officers in the room were born. DCI Anders continued to talk, but I didn’t hear anything that he said; all I could think about was those two words: serial killer… serial killer… serial killer. They played round and round in my mind until, eventually, they became just letters.
By the time I had snapped out of my trance, I was alone… again.
Still feeling slightly dazed, I perched on the edge of my seat, drumming my fingers into the old wooden desk. The paperweight that displayed my name and rank―Detective Constable John Barry―sat in front of me and as I stared at it, I felt a shiver―could I go through this all again? Could I finally succeed where I had failed so miserably before? Eventually, I looked down; the wad of paper on my desk contained the briefing pack and my assignment but I didn’t want to look inside, I didn’t even know if I could, the memories from last time still too vivid. I sat back in my chair, letting it take my weight and closed my eyes―the gentle wurr of the fan from my ancient laptop, the almost un-audible drip, drip, drip from the coffee percolator and the hushed voices discussing their weekend provided some soothing white noise as I wondered where the hell to begin. I opened my eyes and looked deep into the Artexed ceiling, saying a prayer under my breath
“Please give me strength, Marie, I need you to guide me.”
Chapter Two
My task was to gather background information on the women, social media profiles, financial reports―anything that could potentially give us a link to why they had been murdered. I found myself staring at the before and after pictures of the two female victims that had been pinned to the un-sympathetically named ‘murder board’ in what was once our bright and airy squad room. One brunette and two blondes with perfect skin and perfect smiles looked back at me. I could feel myself forming connections with each of them, trying to imagine what their lives had been like, trying to see if there was anything hidden behind the ‘perfect’ smiles. I blanked the ‘after’ pictures from my mind―there was nothing that could help me there.
I looked at the empty brown file that sat open on my desk and went back to the beginning:
Victim 1, Mrs Zoe Summers.
Twenty-seven years old.
Strawberry blonde, no tattoos, blue eyes, slim build.
1st degree from Cambridge University in English literature.
Married to Ethan Summers since 2010.
No children.
No criminal record.
Both parents deceased.
No siblings.
No foster family listed.
One grandparent (Ella Thompson) d. 2008.
Excellent credit score.
Zoe Summers was coming alive in front of my eyes and I couldn’t stop delving. The more I found out about her, the more I needed to know. Her love of classical music, experimental cookery and first edition Beatrix Potter books, she was awaiting the arrival of ‘Peter Rabbit’ to complete her collection. I was transfixed by her Facebook page. I scrolled and scrolled trying to find any picture of her; I went through her friends’ pages, friends of friends’ pages, any event that she had been to―I needed to know more!
The more I learned, the angrier I got. How could someone justify murdering her in cold blood? I prayed that she didn’t see it coming and that her last thought was a happy one.
By the time I looked up from my ancient laptop, my eyes were adjusting to the daylight pouring in through the fourth-floor sash windows―I had worked all night. Starving and exhausted, I hauled myself up and went to splash some water on my face. Due to equal opportunities in the workplace, the small office space at the end of the wood chip clad corridor had been turned into the gentleman’s ‘facilities’. This consisted of one sink, one mirror and one toilet with enough breathing space for about half a fully-grown man. I stood just inside, staring at my grey complexion, feeling old and haggard―how had I ended up in my fifties? The last thirty years had not been kind, but I had never expected them to go so quickly, especially when at times my entire world had stopped.
My mind went back to a simpler time. I had worked the ‘beat’ for thirty years, been married to the love of my life, had the big house that everyone covets, but one day it all disappeared and all it took was one mistake. When the chief constable promoted me out of pity, to bring diversity into the department, I had thought it might help me find the answers I was looking for, but all it brought was more self-doubt―I was just there to make the numbers look good. At least something looked good!
After splashing water onto my face and soaking my slightly shiny, polyester blend trousers, I ran my fingers through my hair (that was thankfully still all there) and walked the magnolia hallway back to my desk, slumping all my five-foot-nine frame into the posture correcting office chair. I looked up at the images that now adorned the ‘murder’ board; pictures of spouses, family members and the houses they lived in showed the investigation was well under way. I focused on the ‘before’ images until the latest rush of adrenaline kicked in.
It was only when I felt a sudden jolt to my desk that I realised I must have fallen asleep. Detective Sergeant Cole was grinning at me like a Cheshire cat from the desk opposite. “Sorry to disturb you, Constable,” he said sarcastically. “Did you get any last night, Constable?”
I ignored his offensive quip; this was his morning routine since my promotion―try to piss off the old guy. Annoyingly, it was working. I didn’t dare tell him that I couldn’t remember the last time I ‘got any’. I put my head down and trie