CHAIN REACTION an absolutely addictive crime thriller with a huge twist

  CHAIN REACTION

  An absolutely addictive crime thriller with a huge twist

  BILL KITSON

  DI Mike Nash Book 12

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  First published in Great Britain in 2021

  © Bill Kitson

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Bill Kitson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  ISBN: 978-1-78931-678-0

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  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

  About the Author

  ALSO BY BILL KITSON

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  GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH USAGE FOR US READERS

  For Val

  My all-round superstar.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to express my gratitude to everyone who has contributed with guidance, professional knowledge, and criticism throughout the DI Mike Nash series.

  In this particular instance, thanks to knowledge I’ve acquired along the way, I have been able to construct the plot of Chain Reaction with little outside advice.

  However, I am, as always, very grateful to my readers, Wendy McPhee and Julian Corps, and above all my in-house editor and critic Val for their invaluable assistance. I should also add Jasper and all the team at Joffe Books for the faith they have shown in my work.

  Prologue

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  1989

  The scream was involuntary, but it was sufficient to wake the boy, and send him running into his parents’ room, fearing that this was yet another instance of the physical abuse both his mother and he had been subjected to in the past. What he saw made him stop on the threshold, his eyes wide with bewilderment. His father was clearly enjoying himself; his mother apparently less so. Despite the look of pain on her face, she was making no effort to stop her husband or even discourage him.

  The interruption angered his father, and retribution came swiftly and brutally. He vented his frustration on the nine-year-old, courtesy of the wide leather belt from his trousers. It had come easily to hand, having been unbuckled before the boy entered the room. He supplemented the chastisement with a few blows delivered more directly, his fist being the weapon of choice.

  For Elijah Nelson, the beating was merely one of a chain of such events that discoloured his childhood. The pain was intense and long-lasting, but even as he attempted to sleep while lying on his stomach, his curiosity as to what his father and mother had been doing was whetted. Over the weeks and months that followed, he resolved to try and discover more, but to go about it covertly, to avoid further recriminations.

  His location, an old farmhouse, was set in woodland and formed part of the Harland estate, and made such voyeurism more readily available than for that of most children. The old coach house at the entrance to the manor house drive was now the Boar’s Head Hotel, where his father was the chef, and his mother was employed as a chambermaid. The woodland gave Elijah ample opportunity to see the arrival and departure of guests, and, with his local knowledge, he was even able to witness some of their deeds — and misdeeds.

  All the bedrooms to the rear of the hotel, away from the road, backed onto the woods where Elijah lived. Many of the occupants of those rooms, their priority being to consummate their desire for each other, were careless of their security. Their reasoning, that it was unlikely that anyone would be able to see what they were up to, was based on their ignorance of the surrounding area. With the aid of a pair of binoculars purloined from his father, Elijah watched human nature in action many times, and in a wide variety of ways.

  By the time he was eleven years old, he had learned the meaning of what he had witnessed in his parents’ room, and the activities he’d regularly viewed with growing interest from his place of concealment deep in the undergrowth at the edge of the woods. But it was several more years before he understood the emotional part of the procedure, and, with it, the pain that accompanied such pleasure.

  His voyeuristic activities provided one huge surprise, in that he recognized one of the couples involved in a prolonged series of amatory encounters. Because he was aware of their identities, he kept this guilty knowledge secret, not knowing that when he reached a crisis point in his life, the information would prove extremely useful.

  * * *

  Five years later, after getting off the school bus, Elijah walked across the hamlet’s main street to the hotel that stood at the northern end, where the road forked in two directions. The Boar’s Head was renowned throughout the dale and much further afield, attracting visitors from the UK and abroad. Part of its appeal was its cuisine, comfortable rooms and excellent hospitality, which outweighed the outdated decor and fittings. The principal asset was the surrounding countryside, making the hotel an ideal venue for ramblers, cyclists and other tourists.

  Elijah walked quickly past the inn and headed for home, anxious to get indoors, away from the biting northeasterly wind. He crossed the hotel courtyard and walked down the alley alongside the small stable block that had been converted to a row of mews cottages for the benefit of the hotel employees. Beyond there, the space widened into the hotel car park, and to the rear of the yard was a small footpath, the speediest route to Elijah’s home. The only other buildings he passed were workers’ cottages, now disused.

  There was a knack to opening the front door. His father had promised to fix it, but, like so many other things, had failed to get round to it, except that today, the door swung open as he inserted his key. Did that mean Elijah would find his father passed out from drink? That was happening more and more often, ever since his mother had left some years ago. She’d gone suddenly, without a word. It was much later that his father told him what had happened. She had left them; left England to go and live with a man she’d met. Her lover had been a regular guest at the hotel. With his wife no longer ava
ilable for Elijah’s father to vent his anger and frustration on, his son had become his target of choice to deliver violent punishment for offences, be they real or imaginary. As Elijah grew taller and stronger, the beatings lessened and eventually ceased, and although they lived under the same roof, it was convenience, not affection, that kept them together.

  The boy had been sickened on hearing that his mother had abandoned him. If he was angry and unhappy because she had deserted him, it seemed that his father was even more upset. Quite how distressed his father had become, Elijah didn’t discover until he opened the kitchen door.

  Having lived in the country all his life, Elijah was well used to nature in its raw brutality, but one look at the bloody mess the shotgun had made of his father’s head was too much even for his stomach. He turned and bolted, reaching the garden before being violently sick.

  After a long wait to recover, he ventured back inside. He didn’t want to go in, but knew he had to, if only to use the phone. He went cautiously back into the kitchen and spotted a note on the dresser. Keeping his eyes averted from the table, from the bloodstained corpse and from the weapon with which his father had ended his life, he read the note. I couldn’t go on any longer. Beneath that, another line read, You’ll understand when you read the diary.

  Elijah walked upstairs to his father’s room. He saw the book on the dressing table, sat down and began reading. He gasped at the shock of what was written there. He took the diary and concealed it in his own bedroom before returning downstairs. He used a sharp kitchen knife to remove the second line of the suicide note, placed the scrap of paper on the fire and watched it burn. Only when the grey ash mingled with the rest in the grate did the boy replace the shortened version of the note, cross to the telephone, and lift the receiver. The time it took for the emergency services, headed by Detective Inspector Tom Pratt, to arrive, proved highly productive for the boy.

  Now, as he stayed in the cottage, well away from the bloodbath in the kitchen, comforted by a female officer, Elijah tried to settle the jumble of thoughts and emotions that the terrible event had raised. Among them, the need to plan for his future surfaced. Conscious of what he’d learned from his father’s diary, Elijah had to ensure that he had support to continue on the path he was beginning to realize was his only option. He needed to remain on the estate. It was then that the image entered his mind of the couple he’d seen disporting themselves in one of the hotel bedrooms some years earlier. Remembering this, and being aware of their particular circumstances, made him confident he would get the backing he needed. All he had to do was to let slip the extent of his knowledge. The fact that what he was considering could be construed as blackmail didn’t occur to him. Nor would he have been worried if it had. At the time, it seemed straightforward.

  Left alone, many sixteen-year-olds who had witnessed such a horrific act would have crumbled, but Elijah knew he would be able to count on support from his father’s employer. The fact that this assistance would be provided not out of kindness, but from a more unworthy motive, that of self-preservation, didn’t alter the end result. Elijah’s continuing education and training were assured, as was his future as a member of the Harland estate workforce, and even more important, as the occupant of the tied cottage.

  Elijah knew everyone would believe his father, obviously distressed by his wife’s infidelity and desertion, had been unable to live with the pain. It was only later, when all attempts to trace her had failed, that questions might have been asked, but by then the authorities had other priorities, different, more urgent matters to contend with.

  Chapter One

  Present day

  The Boar’s Head Hotel had been subject to a takeover, and at last renovation work was underway. The new venture was the latest by a successful national company, who had acquired a ninety-nine-year lease on the property. The new proprietors had decided to expand the business. This would involve total refurbishment of the interior and a single-storey extension to the kitchen; replacing dated equipment with modern, state-of-the-art appliances. Even the layout would be drastically altered. “Gutting the place” was the term the contractors’ foreman used when briefing his men before work on the project commenced.

  The hotel had closed in June, courtesy of a defaulting tenant, and would remain shut until renovation work had been carried out, once the planning permissions had been granted — a process scheduled originally to be completed in six months. In the event, the closure remained in place far longer than anticipated. The expectation of being reopened by Christmas was dwindling daily.

  It had been late autumn before the work could begin. The first order of business was the removal of all the units and appliances. Replacement of the antiquated heating system throughout the building also involved the dismantling of the boiler room and clearance of the adjacent storage area at the rear of the kitchen. It was during this procedure that one of the workmen, charged with sweeping up debris after his colleagues had swung their sledgehammers enthusiastically in the old storeroom, noticed something strange. Before inverting the shovel into the nearby wheelbarrow, his gaze fixed on two items that didn’t belong there. He paused and bent over to get a closer look. Curiosity compelled him to pick up the two small objects. A split second later he dropped them, revulsion evident from his expression as he called the foreman over. ‘Look what I’ve found. They were on my shovel. I swept them up.’

  The foreman’s reaction reflected his own. ‘Oh Lord, that isn’t good. I think we’d better get someone to look at this. If those are what we think, it’s going to delay things even more, but we’ve no choice in the matter.’

  * * *

  DI Mike Nash had barely entered the CID suite when his phone rang. He listened to the message relayed by Sergeant Jack Binns before replacing the receiver. ‘Clara,’ he called through to the main office, ‘we’ve work to do, out at Thornscarr. I’ll get hold of Mexican Pete and the forensic’ guys.’

  Detective Sergeant Clara Mironova, his second-in-command, appeared at Nash’s door, tucking her blonde hair into a clip as she entered. ‘Mexican Pete and the forensic’ guys sounds like a failed 1970s Glam Rock band. Any idea who the stiff is?’

  Nash smiled slightly at her facetious remark. ‘It isn’t a stiff as such, not precisely. Workmen renovating the Boar’s Head have found what they believe to be two dismembered fingers. It sounds as if they’ve been there a long time.’

  ‘There’s a lesson in that,’ Clara refused to be daunted by this macabre revelation. ‘Never sack the chef while he’s holding a meat cleaver. Mexican Pete’s reaction should be worth listening to.’

  Nash winced at the suggestion and waved her out of his office while he rang the pathologist. Having listened to Professor Ramirez’ blistering rhetoric about the too-frequent calls on his time, Nash managed to arrange for the backup team to attend. Once that was done, Nash turned to DC Viv Pearce. ‘Viv, take care of things, will you? We shouldn’t be too long on this one.’

  The tall Antiguan detective looked up from his computer screen. ‘OK, Mike,’

  The detectives walked downstairs, where Jack Binns, an inveterate gossip, was eager to pass on all he knew about the area they were to visit.

  ‘I don’t know much about Thornscarr,’ Clara admitted. ‘I’ve been through it a few times, but that’s all. It looks a pretty village, and there’s that famous hotel, but that’s about all there is.’

  ‘I don’t know much more than Clara,’ Nash agreed, ‘except that the village belongs to a big estate, doesn’t it? Tell us more, Jack. Mexican Pete can’t get there for another hour, and the body parts have been undisturbed for years by the sound of it, so we’re in no hurry.’

  ‘Hang on, Mike. You just told Viv we wouldn’t be long,’ Clara reminded him.

  ‘Don’t worry about him. He’s too busy working out how to fit a cot and pram in their small flat. That’ll keep him occupied.’

  Jack Binns smiled and nodded agreement before telling them, ‘For a start, you’re
both wrong. It isn’t a village, it’s a hamlet. There used to be a few people living there, estate workers or hotel employees, but that was back in the sixties and seventies, before mechanization changed the way farming works. The hotel has been on a downward trend; it’s been sold to one of the big national groups. So the hamlet is a bit like one of those ghost towns from the Wild West.’

  ‘You’re becoming quite a social historian, Jack,’ Clara teased him as they headed for the door to the car park.

  * * *

  On the outskirts of Helmsdale, they took the side road that would lead towards Wintersett village, where Nash lived, and beyond to Thornscarr. As he drove, Nash reflected on the grim discovery they were about to inspect. There might be an innocent explanation, but he couldn’t think of one. The finding of two severed human fingers could hardly be explained as the result of an accident. The fact that the condition of the fingers suggested they had been there for a considerable time didn’t make the cause any less sinister.

  Nash had often admired the ivy-clad building that housed the Boar’s Head. Prospective guests would get a favourable impression even before they entered the building. Normally, the approach to the hotel, via a wide apron filled with tables, benches and an impressive array of pot plants was highly attractive.

  However, before the renovation process commenced, the exterior fittings had been moved to the car park at the rear of the building, and replaced by a quartet of much uglier yellow skips bearing the logo HSH, which Nash knew stood for Helm Skip Hire, together with three more anonymous vans that he guessed belonged to the contractors. Nor was the front aspect improved by the more recent addition of blue-and-white incident tape that was fluttering gently in the breeze. This, together with the flashing beacons of a pair of police cars, signalled that something amiss had been discovered in the building. Why, Nash wondered, was it necessary for two cars to remain in attendance? He suppressed the gallows humour instinct that led him to speculate that the control room had allocated one vehicle per finger.