LOGINJohn Handful’s first client is a member of the local Polish community wanted by the police for the disappearance of his pregnant wife. A new miracle cancer drug is stolen from a pharmaceutical complex located on a shingle spit, just off the Suffolk coast. A wealthy local financier is blackmailed, and a ripple of malice spreads across the village of Oxmarket. Each household of a cul-de-sac have a secret that could point to them being the murderer of a man found shot dead in his bedroom.A perplexing case unfolds with the revelation of secret lovers, flowers from the garden and a death that is not as it appears.John Handful finds himself enmeshed in a violent, multi-layered plot at a luxury hotel on a remote island. A man kills himself despite receiving the good news that his lover’s husband has agreed to a divorce.A woman is witnessed shooting herself by her husband even though she had already been dead several hours.A man has been found shot through the head in a locked room with suicide well and truly ruled out. How did he die?Severed limbs in a concrete block, leads, John Handful to believe that a cold calculated killer with a thirst for revenge is on the loose. Ten cases, one connection. What is it?
View MoreDI Silver put money in the machine and got out two coffees. “White, no sugar.” I took the coffee with one hand. In the other I held a polythene laundry-bag, inside which was my shirt. “Do you want to tell me what happened then, John?” He sat down next to me. I sipped the coffee, it tasted awful. “Professor Stephen Baker lured Cairo Nickolls, Robert Trefoil and Bernard Catterall to his house, drugged them and then systematically cut them up.” “Jesus,” DI Silver exclaimed. “What did he drug them with?” “Chloroform.” I replied. “It’s vapour depresses the central nervous system of a patient, allowing the Professor to cut them up without them even knowing.” “But why?” “He wanted justice for the murder of Jenny Davies.” I replied. “As pathologist on the case he provided the evidence for the Crown Prosecution Service solicitor, a certain Gerard Forlin. It should have been an open and shut
I found a deserted corner in the Waggoner’s Rest while DI Silver ordered a pint of Wellington Bomber for himself and a pint of Calvors 3.8 for me. He had already sipped his drink on the way over to the table and when he sat down he wiped away a white moustache of froth from his upper lip with the back of his hand. Suddenly, a scuffle broke out at the bar, apparently over a woman. A glass fell to the floor, followed by a hush in the bar. Then everyone seemed to calm down a little. One man was led outside by his supporters in the argument. Another remained slumped against the bar, muttering to a woman beside him. “Where’s Robert Trefoil?” I asked, referring to the landlord. “Today is his day off,” DI Silver replied. &ld
A sandstone arch marked the entrance to Oxmarket Woods. The narrow access road, flanked by trees, lead to a small car park, a dead end. This was where I met DI Silver; his car was parked amongst the fallen leaves. Thirty yards from the car park was a signpost pointing out several walking trails. The red trail takes an hour and covered approximately two miles. The purple trail is shorter but it took in an Iron Age fort. Fallen leaves were piled like snowdrifts along the ditches and the breeze had shaken droplets from the branches. This was ancient woodland and I could smell the damp earth, rotting boles and mould: a cavalcade of smells. Occasionally, between the trees I glimpsed a railing fence that marked the boundary. Above and beyond it there were roofs of houses. &n
“What were you arguing with Mr Gannaway about last night?” I asked Craig Osborne brusquely. “Look, Mr whatever your name is, please don’t waste my time, I have very urgent business to attend to in London.” “And you’ll have some very important questions to attend to down the police station,” DI Silver bellowed, “if you don’t answer Mr Handful.” I suddenly saw fear in Osborne’s eyes. “We were arguing about something he had stolen from Miss Bellagamba,” he said quietly. “Which was?” “An Anthonie Van Borsom oil painting.” “Pricey,” I exclaimed. &
WPC Softly decanted me outside my flat. After showering, and changing into some fresh clothes, I made myself some coffee and toast.The flat had three bedrooms but I had turned one end of the smallest into an office when I had set up Handful Investigations. I sat at my desk
When I got back into my car and checked my mobile which I had left in the glove compartment. I had two missed calls from a number I didn’t immediately recognise. I removed Sir Gerard’s business card and compared the two numbers. They were the same. I dialled it
Within twenty minutes of receiving my fee of seven hundred pounds from Bio-Preparations in the post, my mobile started singing with an unknown number lighting up the screen.“Hello?”“Is the fee satisfactory, Mr Handful?”“More than sati
It was quite late when DI Paul Silver dropped me off at my flat. An old Victorian house that had been converted into flats and I had the one on the top floor. I stood at the communal door and waved him off and instead of going upstairs to the warming comforts that awaited me – I had l
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