Carl Sant Murder Mysteries Collection

Chapter 1

The bus arrived fifteen minutes before the hour, hissing to a stop, thick breeze pulsing ahead of it. He turned his eyes away and noticed the silhouette of a woman against the moonlit ruins. She appeared agitated, waiting for someone. Lengthening his stride, gaze narrowed and shoulders hunched, he felt a rush of adrenalin as he loomed towards the frail figure.

What next? That’s what I love most about this job, he told himself. Every day a different one, every investigation a new opportunity to demonstrate my adeptness at enforcing the law. I’ve made mistakes, true, but my record on paper is unblemished. It’s only a matter of time before the men who matter sit up and take notice.

On closer inspection he saw that the woman was older than her phone voice had conveyed. Fifties? Late forties at best. Even so, her glowing make-up and the vibrancy in her eyes did much to hold back the years.

After what seemed like an eternity, she said, ‘Dryden?’

He nodded. ‘I’d say it’s a pleasure, though from what you told me on the phone–’

‘No time for niceties. Come with me.’

He followed her along the riverside to woods providing shelter from the rain. They found a fallen bark to sit on and she offered him a cigarette. Then she told her tale. He asked if she would mind if he used the voice recorder on his phone. She did mind very much, so reluctantly he settled for the Notes app. Dryden had two smartphones, a smartwatch and some smart sunglasses. His colleagues nicknamed him Inspector Gadget. Irritating. But it didn’t gall him. Gadget always solved the mystery. Eventually.

Forty minutes later the interview was over. They shook hands and went their separate ways, the woman deeper into the woods, Dryden back to the main road, her final words ringing in his ears.

‘Can you be trusted?’

‘Can you be trusted?’He hadn’t answered at first; didn’t know how to. Could he keep his word… and not say a word to anyone else? In the end he’d chosen no words. Just a simple nod.

He glanced at the luminous dual-dial on his Tag Heur – a gift from his other half. The next bus was due any moment. Quickening his long stride, he reached the road at the same time as the bus. It began screeching to a halt. He swiftly crossed the A65, got behind the three other customers waiting at the abbey. Hopped on the bus, flashed his return ticket at the weary driver, considered for a moment before chancing his arm on the top deck. It should be quiet up there, the other passengers settling for the seats below.

Climbing the stairs two at a time, he took a seat at the front, got out his iPhone X and read the few notes he’d managed in the shade of the woods. Best to fill in the gaps while things are still fresh in my mind, he thought. Seconds later came footsteps behind him, someone emerging from the top of the stairwell.

He stole a glance. The man was one of the passengers who’d got on the bus with him. Wearing black from head to foot, the nondescript coat and trousers reminded Dryden of his darkly clad boss. Someone wanting peace and quiet too, he guessed.

Back to the notes. Who? When? Where? And crucially, why? Why murder? And why the cover-up? He dug into his pockets for the Post-It she’d given him containing the all-important address, but he couldn’t find it. Maybe he’d dropped it. Not to worry. It was permanently printed on his memory.

Then came more footsteps. Two pairs of them. Dryden glanced over his shoulder. A young man and woman were climbing the stairs. Hadn’t they boarded the bus at the abbey too? He couldn’t be sure, but it was puzzling-stroke-annoying all the same. Why come up here when the bottom deck had seats aplenty?

Unperturbed at unwanted company, he began keying in names and descriptions, dates and times, all the while drawing on recall training he’d recently undertaken at police college. With so many details buzzing around his head, he swore he heard a swarm of bees close by. Then he looked out at the drizzly darkness, the copper and yellow leaves clinging to the trees. Wrong season, he told himself.

He directed his gaze back to his phone, deep in thought about something the woman had said. That she was related to the girl was undeniable; and anyway, why spell out the whereabouts of the evidence – indisputable evidence – if the whole saga was a hoax or a set-up or some wild conspiracy theory?

He came out of his daydream, wiping condensation off the bus window with his anorak sleeve and peering out of the semi-circle he’d crafted, though the view hardly improved through the mist and damp. He could see his mirror image smiling back, the chiselled curves of his strong jaw and strapping torso heightened by the dim light. Outside, in the murky beyond, there was nothing to be seen – but what the hell was going on behind him?

From the light cast by the ceiling beams Dryden caught the hazy reflection of someone standing up. It was the man in black. Then, from the other side of his vision, the couple were standing, postures frozen. Instinct getting the better of experience, he turned around in an abrupt movement lacking caution and composure.

The last thing Detective Sergeant Liam Dryden saw with both his eyes was the shining barrel of a semi-automatic pistol – pointed right at him. He never saw the bullet that shot out of the barrel, penetrated his right temple, then went through and out of his skull, shattering the misty windscreen behind him. He felt a terrible pain. His head was singing, whining, popping. His left eye went blind. He could hear his own scream. More shots were fired. Where from and by whom, his fading senses couldn’t fathom.

He knew he was dying, knew he was going to die. It had happened so quickly, so inexplicably, he could barely swallow the reality of his doomed condition. So this was what it felt like to stare into the face of Death. Like crashing a car you cannot control, time suspended, impalpable, lost. But he was no longer afraid to die. He was beyond fear; beyond hope.

Before the end; before his muscles packed in and his grip on life gave up entirely, one last gesture. The dynamite must be exposed. It was too hot to be buried with him. His phone had gone, but he still had a cloudy window to work on.

Resting his left arm on a handrail for leverage, Dryden gradually raised his right hand above his drooping head. Then he thought ‘brevity’ – and fingered a series of numbers on the misty glass, marking a course as clear as water.

He willed his body to carry on, commanded it not to fail. But try as he might to get those numbers etched for eternity, his ultimate number was up, his last ounce of energy sapping dry as he slumped to the floor.

To add insult to mortal injury, he died amid the echoes of an almighty boom.