Her Final Hour , livre ebook

Saxon Publishing - Rachel Amphlett

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176 pages

English

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Description

What if the perfect friend was hiding a deadly secret?When a championship jockey discovers the body of a young woman during a cold morning's training ride, the local racing community is shocked to its core.Everyone says she was the perfect friend, the perfect daughter and the perfect fiancee.However as Detective Mark Turpin delves into the girl's fateful last hours, he discovers a past full of lies and mystery. Investigating the truth behind her savage death, Mark uncovers jealousy and ambition within the tiny community, accompanied by a disturbing reluctance to help the police. When another death takes place only days later, Mark realises he is running out of time to stop a killer who will do anything to keep a dark secret hidden...Her Final Hour is the second book in a new murder mystery series from USA Today bestselling author Rachel Amphlett."Mark Turpin is a welcome addition to the ranks of fictional detectives" Peter Robinson, bestselling author of the DCI Banks series1. None the Wiser2. Her Final Hour3. Detective Mark Turpin, book 3 (out 2021)

Informations

Publié par	Saxon Publishing
Date de parution	26 octobre 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781913498221
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0250€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Her Final Hour
A Detective Mark Turpin murder mystery

Rachel Amphlett
Copyright © 2020 by Rachel Amphlett
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. While the locations in this book are a mixture of real and imagined, the characters are totally fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Contents

Reading Order & Checklist

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

About the Author
Missed a book? Download the FREE Official Reading Order and Checklist to Rachel Amphlett’s books here

Also available in audiobook
Chapter One

Winter wrapped its grip around the Oxfordshire countryside, feathering the bare hedgerows of the Berkshire Downs with a dusting of frost, determined to maintain its hold on the hills and valley below.
Will Brennan flexed his hands and let the leather reins give a little in his grip.
A cold mist blanketed the landscape, creating ghost-like silhouettes of the horse chestnut trees that bordered the training yard, and obscuring the large Georgian farmhouse beyond.
He was losing circulation in the tips of his fingers, despite the weather forecaster on the radio enthusing about the mild start to winter, and despite the thin wool gloves he wore. At least his helmet, covered with a bright green and blue silk cap, stopped some of his body temperature escaping.
Grey light hinted at the approaching sunrise before a cold breeze sent a discarded plastic feed bag tumbling across the concrete. It snagged on the tendrils of an ivy bush that climbed up the side of one of the brick-built stable blocks, fluttering as if to free itself.
The other stable lads called out to each other, swearing as they prepared the horses, their voices muffled by the thick air.
Brennan murmured a greeting to one of them as he passed, a new kid whose name he couldn’t remember, who had the soft facial features of someone who hadn’t yet spent a winter on the Downs, exposed to all its elements. Another year or so and he’d be as ruddy as the rest of them.
Vapour escaped Brennan’s lips, mixing in the air with the heat wafting from the horse’s nostrils, the beast snorting and shaking its head as he led it across ice-covered puddles.
Coffee would have to wait until he returned, and after the horses had been tended to.
At a call from the back of the string, he was given a leg up into the saddle and the horses set off at a brisk pace.
Weak sunlight began to crest the horizon as the string of racing horses entered the lane from the yard, their hooves clattering across the pitted surface while their riders shivered and grumbled.
Not too loudly, though.
After all, MacKenzie Adams was known for choosing a lucky few to ride his horses in races even if, to begin with, those races were at the smaller courses around the United Kingdom.
For many it had been the start of an illustrious career, and Brennan was hungry for the same.
His stomach rumbled loudly, and he cursed the turn of thought. Keeping the weight off was a constant struggle, especially when his girlfriend’s mother insisted on feeding him twice as much as everyone else whenever he was there.
He peered between the horse’s ears, a tight grip on the reins, listening.
At this time of the morning it was unusual to see any traffic, but the lane was narrow with a twisting curve that had spewed out its share of speeding motorcyclists over the summer, touring the Oxfordshire countryside at high speed with little regard for their safety, or that of a horse and its rider.
Half a mile up the hill, they turned onto the gallops through a gap in the bramble hedgerow, and Brennan’s heart rate edged up a notch in anticipation.
From here the view swept over an undulating field, fallow and ready for planting, abandoned hay bales spiky with thick frost. In the distance, clumps of ancient oak and birch trees huddled close within shaded copses.
The hillside swept down through the valley and past the space where the old power station cooling towers had once pierced the horizon, then onwards through the Vale to Oxford.
Years ago, before his time, these had truly been the Berkshire Downs. A flourish of ink, a handshake at local government level, and the boundary had slipped into Oxfordshire.
And on April Fool’s Day, according to his grandfather.
A mud and stone track led across the field to the gallops, and when the horse paused at the bottom of the slope, Brennan loosened the reins before giving him a swift kick that sent the animal trotting towards the open gates.
The lush green grass on either side of the gallops sparkled with frost that reached out to the dirt- and sawdust-layered track, clumps of churned-up earth shadowing a racing line created by yesterday’s training session.
Brennan sniffed, resisting the urge to wipe his nose with the back of his glove. He needed both hands on the reins.
The beast beneath him tended to lose his riders if given half the opportunity, and Brennan had no intention of being the horse’s latest victim. He knew that the rest of the stable lads were running a sweepstake to see how long it would take.
He scowled. They may have been eager to make some money from his misfortune, but he was keener to make MacKenzie Adams sit up and take notice of him.
He glanced over his shoulder to where Adams stood next to a dark-green four-by-four vehicle at the side of the track, binoculars in his right hand, thermos coffee cup in the other, bundled up in a padded jacket and scarf against the elements.
He raised his thumb, and Adams lifted the cup in response.
Brennan turned his attention back to the course and kicked the horse, relishing the sudden power as he leapt into action.
He squinted to see through the swirling mist that cloaked the oval course and leaned forward as the horse pushed into the first corner, recalling McKenzie’s instructions to him before they had set out from the yard.
‘He’s racing at Newbury on Saturday, so give him a gentle workout. The last thing we want is an injury.’
The problem was, Empire of the Sun – or Onyx, as he was known in the stables – didn’t understand the concept of a gentle workout.
It was why MacKenzie had sent him out ahead of the rest of the string, given it was common knowledge that any hint of another horse in front of him would send Onyx into race mode. The trainer always joked that the animal possessed two speeds – fast, and faster.
The horse’s withers tensed as his shoulder muscles trembled, and Brennan felt the power beneath the sleek black coat. The temptation teased him as they entered the first straight. It would be so easy to loosen the reins further and let the horse fly over the soft earth.
Almost as if Onyx could read his mind, the horse surged forward, straining at the bit between his teeth.
Common sense prevailed, and, with some reluctance, Brennan kept a tight grip and eased the animal back to a slower pace as they approached the next sweeping corner.
Onyx tensed, and Brennan dug his heels into the stirrups at the sudden deceleration in speed, confused.
He stood and peered between the horse’s ears, and then saw what was spooking the animal.
To the left of the track, under the white metal railing that the horses followed along the gallops, was a discarded bundle of rags.
‘It’s nothing, you idiot. Get on with it.’
He dug his heels in and urged the horse forward.
Onyx reared up and twisted to the right without slowing down, without giving Brennan a chance to correct his position or slow his trajectory as he was catapulted into the air, the reins snapping from his grip.
He had a swirling view of green grass and grey sky tumbling over one another, and then hit the ground.
Seconds later, winded, Brennan rolled over and lay on the dirt, staring at the swirling mist. He wiggled his toes and fingers, slowly working his way along his limbs until he was sure no bones were broken, and then eased into a sitting position.
Onyx stood on the far side of the track, peering down his nose at him.
‘Dickhead.’ Brennan brushed off his jodhpurs and stomped across to the horse, snatching up the reins before it decided to take off without him.
The mist blanketed his position from the start of the training oval and, if he could remount, no-one would know and he’d still have a chance of a race at the weekend.
Except the horse refused to cooperate.
Onyx whinnied, then sidestepped, turning his rear to the course.
‘Bloody hell. Move, will you?’
Brennan tugged at the reins, and then glanced over his shoulder.
Under the soles of his boots, the ground began to tremble a moment before the thunder of hooves reached him.
‘Come on. Please.’
He used all his weight to turn the horse, pushing against his flanks in an attempt to get Onyx to do as he was told for once, and then collapsed against him, sweat pooling under his arms.
‘Right now, I hate you.’
He sighed, and then raised his gaze to the horse