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131 pages

English

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On a searing summer's day on an idyllic beach in South Devon, a young boy plunges to a horrific death from the overlanding cliffs, the tragic event graphically captured on film by the enigmatic Salcombe painter and entrepreneur Lois St John. Five years later, the boy's father suffers the identical fate at the same location. Called to the scene, Moorland Forensic Consultants uncover a prophetic link between Liam Mercer's fatal fall and a controversial painting of his son's death titled 'Falling Memories'. James, Fiona and Katie Sinclair draw upon their professional expertise as a string of mysterious deaths follow. They uncover a web of corruption and foul play, which leads to the very top of the judicial system and the international art world. Moorland Forensics work in conjunction with DCI Mick Rose and high-profile Home Office forensic practitioner Nick Shelby to uncover the truth behind the murders, all set within the stunning landscape of the Salcombe Coast and the South Hams.

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Publié par	Austin Macauley Publishers
Date de parution	30 avril 2019
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781528960489
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

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Moorland Forensics - Devil’s Realm
Julie D. Jones
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-04-30
Moorland Forensics - Devil’s Realm About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Acknowledgment Preface July 12th, 2013 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
About the Author
Julie was born in Bovey Tracey, Devon, and grew up in the South Hams near Kingsbridge.
This is her second novel in the Moorland Forensic crime series set in and around Salcombe and Dartmoor.
Julie is a classically trained flautist, proficient horse rider and journalist.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my husband, Terence, and all the other law enforcement personnel who worked for the Australian Federal Narcotics Bureau.
This book is in memory of Christopher Robin (son of AA Milne), a family friend who read to me when I was a young child. His love of books inspired so many.
Copyright Information ©
Julie D. Jones (2019)
The right of Julie D. Jones 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 9781528913461 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528913478 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781528913485 (Kindle e-book)
ISBN 9781528960489 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgment
A special thank you to my children, Alexander (Zander) and Tamsin.
To the team at Austin Macauley, friends and family in the UK and Australia.
Preface

July 12th, 2013
Mill Bay Beach, South Devon presented a hive of activity. Tourists and locals revelled in a rare burst of warm summer weather, truly welcome following a long drawn out winter. The sun danced on pristine waters creating a mystic vista; scattered strato-cirrus clouds hung motionless, suspended kilometres above in a hazy sky.
A small passenger launch hummed rhythmically on its short journey across the shallow waters from Salcombe, its impertinent two-stroke beat echoing along the green-blue divide.
Sonia Mercer scanned the beach for her son, anxious to locate him amongst the hedonistic throng. Her eyes swept the stark, foreboding cliffs on this stretch of coastline, embedded in folklore for their entrapment of the unwary.
For a fleeting moment an alien sensation rippled over her, the ominous crash of thunder sounded far out to sea; a portent of predictable late afternoon storms brewing down Channel.
At first upon hearing the scream, everyone thought the young lad was having fun until they saw him plunge from the cliff face on to the jagged rocks below. A few people watched in horror, others looked away. It occurred in the blink of an eye; yet, rolled out like a slow-motion replay.
That day on the East Portlemouth beaches was one artist Lois St John would never forget. As events unfolded instinct prompted her to keep her finger pressed firmly on the auto shutter of her Leica. She captured the event on film and eventually one of those photographs became a celebrated painting “Falling Memories”.
Chapter One
‘I’ve always liked Salcombe,’ James remarked, negotiating his old Land Rover through the main street, no more than a narrow passageway, scarcely allowing room for one vehicle to pass.
‘Yes, it’s an attractive little town,’ his sister replied, happily soaking up the bubbling atmosphere, ‘I rarely come here in summer, too many sightseers.’
It was now late July. Hordes of holidaymakers strolled along the narrow Fore street not seeming to care that a car was only inches from running over sandaled feet. The scene was one of relaxation and enjoyment, a picture postcard day in glorious Devon.
James located the car park on his left-hand side near the Victoria Pub, his keen vision searching frantically for a parking spot. After a frustrating ten minutes of watching and waiting he finally secured a place, backing up to the water’s edge. ‘We need to turn left, head up the road where a small ferry will take us across to Portlemouth,’ he informed Fiona, jumping out of the Land Rover to consult his note book.
Although, barely a hundred-yard stroll to the jetty they attracted many glances striding along clad conspicuously in their white forensic overalls.
‘They must be filming one of those detective shows.’ James heard one lady say to another. ‘I do like a good murder mystery. It’s fun to guess who the murderer is. They must get through a fair amount of tomato sauce.’
James smiled inwardly. If only it were that simple, sadly, real life forensics was not quite so theatrical.
A young constable stood sentinel at the top of the ferry steps preventing all access to the waterfront and ferry except for authorised personnel. He stepped aside as James and Fiona approached.
‘We’ve been told to ask for Ralph Morris who will escort us to the scene,’ James informed the young officer, producing his ID card.
‘Yes of course, sir,’ the constable acknowledged, ‘wait here. I’ll let Detective Inspector Morris know you’ve arrived.’
Without delay, a burly-looking chap appeared, sweating profusely from the combined effects of a scorching sun and an inappropriate dark grey suit. ‘That didn’t take you long,’ Morris said, clapping James firmly on the back, ‘I’ve already got some of my guys doing the preliminaries, but now you’re here you can take over. The ferry is waiting if you’d like to follow me. Watch your footing, these cobbles can throw you off balance if you’re not careful.’
By “ferry” he was referring to a wooden, half cabin dory about fifteen feet long with a small outboard motor hanging off the back. Despite not being state of the art water transport it did the trick, within ten minutes all three were standing on the white, silky sands of Mill Bay Beach.
With forensics already underway a large section of the beach had been sectioned off to prevent the gathering crowd encroaching on the deceased. A few jostled for vantage points stepping in the way of James as he tried to manoeuvre himself under the police tape.
‘There’s nothing to see folks,’ James snapped. ‘If you could kindly move back and let us do our job it would be greatly appreciated.’
Almost immediately the assembled flock began to disperse like mist rolling out to sea. James instilled authority into his voice, indicating he meant business.
As he trod the soft sand James reminisced back a few years to the early challenging days before Moorland Forensics, when he’d not always been so assured. For the first two years they’d survived hand to mouth begging forensic work from old mates at the Bristol Home Office Labs and on occasions James had undertaken casual lecturing roles for his ex-Professor at the School of Chemistry over at Exeter University. Many a time having a Ph.D. in DNA Analysis proved more hindrance than help.
Things finally changed when James convinced Katie and Fiona to throw in their inheritance share as partners enabling them to set up the private forensic practice in Bovey Tracey, on the edge of the Dartmoor National Park, a town which could trace its origins back to the late Anglo-Saxon period. His siblings being single-minded, no nonsense business women with expert qualifications in forensic pathology and psychology was the key, granting them the diversity to finally turn a profit, securing the future of Moorlands.
‘This way,’ Morris bellowed, jolting James back to reality, guiding them to a remote stretch of sand. ‘You’ll have to hurry, the tide has already turned and is coming up the bay.’
Clambering over rocks laced with wet seaweed Fiona reached out for her brother’s arm as she almost lost her footing under the thick slime.
‘We don’t want any more accidents,’ she murmured softly, moving to where the body lay in one crumpled mass screened from view and insulated from the late morning heat inside a white makeshift tent. Placing her forensic case on to the soft white sand Fiona donned a pair of gloves and knelt down near the corpse, taking hold of the dead man’s arm whilst James busied himself adjusting the settings on a 35mm SLR camera.
‘The deceased was found around seven this morning by one Lady Scott-Thomas whilst out walking her dog,’ the DI informed them. ‘She owns that big white house, visible between the oak trees,’ he pointed with his stubby right hand, his other moving to shield grey eyes from the blinding glare.
‘Been dead at least 6 hours,’ Fiona noted after a few minutes of careful, systematic observation checking the usual physiological indicators. ‘The body under the arms is still slightly warm. Rigor has set in but only moved half way down the body, therefore time of death must be greater than 3 hours, also the cornea of the eyes is milky.’
These comments were made of emotion. After a brief silence, she continued, ‘Fixed livor or purple discolouration of the skin has developed but is not complete on the side of the body against the sand, indicating the body has not moved from the right lateral position since impact and death. At a quick glance it appears unlikely he committed suicide. If you look carefully you can see red strangulation marks around his neck probably caused by twine or tie. I’m assuming there was a struggle, then he either slipped or was pushed over the edge.’
Fiona shuddered, glancing upwards to survey a precipitous sixty-foot drop. There was no way anyone could