Death in Cold Waters Read online

  Death in Cold Waters:

  a murder mystery perfect for lovers of British crime fiction

  A Madeleine Brooks Mystery – Book 1

  Tannis Laidlaw

  Copyright 2020 by Tannis Laidlaw.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, including

  photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical

  methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher,

  except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical

  reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by

  copyright law.

  For permission requests, write to the author,

  addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,”

  at the email address below:

  Forth Estate Books : [email protected]

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

  and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination.

  Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric

  purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or

  to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Death in Cold Waters published by Tannis Laidlaw 2020 at Smashwords

  “Man is not what he thinks he is; he is what he hides.”

  ― André Malraux ―

  Table of Contents

  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

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Other books by Tannis Laidlaw

  About Tannis Laidlaw

  Chapter One

  He was running. Because he wanted to, had to. The sheer joy of it finally swept everything else away as he knew it would. Sweat dripped off his forehead and stained his t-shirt, ran down into his crotch and left his feet squelching in his trainers. He loved running. Kept him fit and produced a feeling of being the only person in the entire world. He loved the freedom. He ran whenever he could.

  That feeling of being the king, the chief, the total best or even the supreme commander now ran strong and true through his bloodstream. Suffusing his skin, his muscles, his brain and his genitals. A king of all he surveyed. Ruling with divine right. Absolute authority. Majesty. He loved that word. Maaa jesss teee.

  He approached the towpath which ran along the Thames. One side of the path formed a wide grassy embankment in front of houses in the distance; the other side, bushes, trees and the occasional track to the water’s edge only a few metres down the slope. When he’d been a child, it had been a good place to play, strictly forbidden, of course, in the bushes right on the river. When little, with other little boys. When a teenager, with little girls. Scene of his first sexual experience, so this place was special. With that thought, he reduced his speed as he ran along the path. Slowed as he passed lush bushes leaning over the shoreline, visions of little girls, innocent little girls playing in the sunshine.

  He stopped.

  He’d spotted something. A school uniform? A girl’s school uniform. His body zinged. With an easy flexing of his muscles, he jumped down the steep part of the bank and landed right beside the startled girl.

  “Now, what have we here?” he asked.

  A little thing. Blond. Pretty. Young.

  Scared.

  Recognised her but what was her name?

  He told her what he wanted. Quiet. Authoritative.

  She shook her head. Scurried back. Closer to the water’s edge.

  He shook his head. A very different shake.

  The breeze was cooling his sweat. He dropped down close to the cowering girl and, with fumbling fingers, fished out his condom, always carried in his wallet.

  Nobody else was around. He stole a quick glance at his watch. His last rational act until, sometime later, reality pounded all subsequent thought back into insignificance. By then it was too late.

  Too late for little, reluctant, whatsername.

  Chapter Two

  The evening before, Madeleine Brooks stuffed the unfinished work into a plastic sleeve as she prepared to leave work.

  “I see the reports are not in,” Romania said from behind Maddie. “You know the rules. All reports in a full 24 hours before they’re due. No exceptions. I shouldn’t have to tell you that, Madeleine. You, of all people.”

  “We made that rule to give us plenty of time to go over the junior Service Officers’ reports,” Maddie said. “The directive wasn’t meant for the senior staff.” The irritation at being treated like an ignorant underling came to a slow boil inside her. This was not the first time.

  Romania didn’t deign to discuss the rule she had adapted. “Nine tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

  Maddie jammed the folder into her business bag. Before leaving, she took off her I.D. ‘Madeleine Brooks – Senior Probation Officer’ and dropped the tag into her top drawer. Her position hadn’t changed. Even if the work had.

  Maddie used her backside to push open the door of her house in Surbiton. Her hands were full: the business bag from work, her handbag and the groceries she’d bought on her way home.

  “Anybody here?” she called.

  Silence greeted her query. Not to worry; she could get dinner prepared before the impatient duo returned. She headed straight to the kitchen to dump everything on the table. Not before noticing that Wayne, in spite of fresh promises, had still not begun refurbishing the kitchen cabinet doors.

  Chicken curry tonight. She liked to construct her curries from scratch. No factory packed curry powder for her. From her spices drawer she grabbed the vials of turmeric, cumin, fenugreek and chili pepper and the coriander from one of the supermarket bags and set to work. Soon zesty smells were filling her kitchen and she could pause. A chance to take her business bag up to her home office.

  Once there, her irritation flooded back. Damn that woman. Throwing her considerable weight around. Differentially piling the report writing onto her shoulders. Never ending paperwork. Ordering her around as if she was the newcomer rather than her. Maddie dropped the files onto her desk without a care. Another hour’s work at least. Her evening’s entertainment. She went back downstairs to check on the burbling pot on the stove.

  Maddie had always prided herself on doing a good job. A senior Probation Officer at Surrey and Sussex Probation Trust, long-term employee, who, when her beloved supervisor decided to retire and gave her the nod, had been confident she’d been chosen for promotion.

  Not so.

  They, whoever ‘
they’ were, had decided new blood was needed. Change. And a replacement had been brought in from the north. Affirmative action, some of her colleagues had said with a sly grin. Their new supervisor, Romania Carlisle, was obviously, enthusiastically and belligerently gay. Sorry, LGBT. Or, to be pedantic, lgbtqqip2saa … the ever-expanding attempt to give everybody their own initial. Also, Romania was young.

  Maddie was unexpectedly feeling her 49 years. Almost 50. At the height of her whatevers, she told herself. But no longer with a goal. And the extra money would have been nice.

  The front door slammed.

  “Who’s home?” Maddie called.

  “Your ever lovin’,” Wayne called back. “Hungry as a….”

  “Pig?”

  He came into the kitchen, swiping at her bottom with his hand. “Talking about bears…”

  “Were we?” She grinned at him. “You’ve been at the studio?”

  “Jamming with Rick.”

  Rick, part of his group. They produced esoteric albums highly appreciated by a few, very few, diehard fans. Maddie’s salary kept the mortgage paid and food on the table and, indeed, the rent paid for the studio space he shared with four other musicians. Not that she was complaining. She and Wayne had a twenty-six year marriage, longer than any of her close friends.

  She heard a click. Must be her daughter sneaking in.

  “Jade? Dinner in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Footsteps sluggishly sounded on the stairs.

  She walked like Maddie felt. Slow. Enfeebled. Jade was seventeen.

  “Did Butchy-Bitch load you up again with paperwork?” Wayne asked as he set the table in the kitchen. Since Olivia had left home to live with her then boyfriend, they’d stopped eating at the dining room table. Now they only used it when Olivia and her family were over for a meal. In a way, Maddie felt she was slacking. But it was difficult being formal when she was the only one comfortable with it. She glanced at Wayne. He was wearing cargo shorts he must have owned for at least a decade and they looked it. And a faded t-shirt advertising a Rolling Stones tour they did in 1978. Scuffed sandals. He dressed exactly the same way he’d dressed when they’d met in 1992. She’d bought him that vintage t-shirt off the internet a few years ago. It had become his favourite and still was. Now it looked as if it had actually been worn since 1978.

  “Don’t use that name,” Maddie said as she saw Jade slip into the kitchen. She passed the full plates around. “I might be tempted to call her that in polite company.” But she smiled to take any sting away.

  “Did she?”

  Maddie sighed. “Probably an hour’s work tonight.”

  Soon after Romania had started, she’d decided that the Probation Service Officers, who were assigned the easier cases, weren’t up to writing suitably concise reports for the courts. What she needed was an experienced Probation Officer to clean up the wordy and overly passionate reports produced by the Service Officers. Aha. She had just the person in Madeleine Brooks, ex-applicant for her own position and the most senior person in the office.

  What was galling, was that after all the difficult work of turning purple prose into legally suitable language, only the Service Officer’s name went on the report. And often they didn’t appreciate her work. The opposite, in fact. It drove Maddie crazy. Mad, actually. And, look out world when Maddie was mad.

  Because it was pure scut work. And the darling young probation Service Officers only saw their precious reports – over which they had slaved – being reduced to plain English.

  “You said you’d confront her.” Wayne shot a glance at his wife.

  “No opportunity.”

  Wayne had never confronted anyone in his entire life. But he loved hearing how others could do so. Especially Maddie.

  “The time will come,” she said.

  “That bitch has just got her knickers in a twist because she knows you should have been appointed, not her.”

  “I can only hope.”

  “He’s right, Mum,” Jade said, looking up from her meal to break into the conversation. “You got to have it out with her. Otherwise, you’re a mouse. She’s walking all over you.”

  “Probably fancies you like stink,” Wayne said with a smirk.

  Maddie was sick of them goading her into doing something she fully intended doing anyway. But timing was everything. “Who wants a sweet? I’ve got some ice cream in the freezer.”

  “I’m done,” Jade said, pushing away from the table.

  “After the dishes, you’re done,” Maddie said.

  “Practicing standing up for yourself?” Jade asked, sarcasm dripping from her blackened lips. “You’ll never win with me. You know that.” She flounced out the room and clumped upstairs, her studied lethargy apparently forgotten.

  “Jade…”

  “Leave her be. She’s pissed off because she was sent home to change her shoes.”

  “Don’t tell me: she wore her trainers to school again.”

  “Nope. Her hiking boots.”

  Maddie couldn’t help it. She laughed.

  Chapter Three

  On arriving into work the next day, Maddie looked at her schedule. One repeat arsonist who was a talkative pain. One recidivist burglar, boring. Morning meeting with the b… with Romania and other senior Probation Officers: a training session with the green-as-grass psychologist who apparently knows everything there is to know about criminal behaviour. Then Henry-the-child-molester in the afternoon. A pleasure. She knew she shouldn’t have favourites, but reality meant all Probation Officers did. Or the opposite, like the stupid man who kept lighting fires so he could fantasise despicable things, the very things he loved telling Maddie about in gross detail. Lucky he was first. She could then wash her hands thoroughly after their session and forget about him.

  She girded her loins (or so the saying goes) for Lawrence Reilly, the fire lighter with the obsessive sexual fantasies. Lawrence – such a soft name for such a despicable man. Today, she was determined to get more out of him than his appalling fantasies. How had he arrived at this point? He had been married, had two children, but he now was alone, living in a rough room near the wood-yard where he worked. At least he had a job. Probably fantasized how he could burn down the wood-yard. She mentally slapped her hand. No, today she was going to delve a little bit deeper.

  He sat down opposite her. A small man. Scrawny but with a small pot belly. Most likely on the edge of starvation, maintained by fast-food carbs. She knew he was 47 but he looked far older. Rough hands with dirty fingernails. Unshaven. Thank goodness he’d stuck to his promise to wear trousers. She’d had problems with him wearing the shortest of shorts so he could touch himself when talking about his fantasies. So disgusting, Maddie had insisted he would not be seen, in fact would be in danger of being thrown back into prison to serve out his sentence incarcerated, if he ever, ever touched himself in the Probation Offices again. Plus, he would threaten his freedom unless he wore trousers. Everywhere. At work, at home and definitely at the Probation Office.

  Maddie usually started conversations with her clients by asking how things had gone over the time since they’d last met. That, of course, meant Lawrence had an opening to talk about his fantasies, what triggered them and what he’d done about each and every one of them. Not today.

  “Hello, Lawrence. To start with, I’d like to ask you about your marriage. How old were you when you got married?” She could see she’d startled him. Not what he expected.

  “Twenty-two. Never been with a girl before Sal. I thought all my Christmases, you know. She was lovely. I was the happiest man alive when we got married.”

  “Did you have the fantasies back then?”

  “No. Not a one. A golden time, Mrs Brooks, I can tell you.”

  “And your marriage lasted until when?”

  “Not long after I got out of hospital. Had myself an injury at work.”

  “Why did you break up?”

  “These things. I told you I can’t help it.”
His voice wavered. “Lost Sal. She couldn’t take it. Lost my kids. Not seen them in years. It’s not like I want to be like this.”

  “So the sexual obsessions only started after you got out of hospital?”

  “I wasn’t supposed to live,” he said with some pride in his voice. “They turned off the machines. And, guess what? I started to breathe. All by myself. Didn’t wake for a while though.”

  Maddie searched her memory. She’d read nothing about a serious accident. One in which there was undoubted brain damage. No hospital intensive care unit turns off a life-saving machine without serious lack of brain activity, especially in a young person. “How long were you unconscious, Lawrence?”

  “Three months, seventeen days.” Again, pride in his voice. “The doctors said I was a miracle.”

  “Head injury.” She said it as a statement.

  “But here I am,” he said with a smile.

  Yes, here he was. Living in poverty on his own with horrible obsessions that, on acting them out, got him a long prison sentence. But a history of a head injury? “When did you last go to the doctor, Lawrence?”

  “Dunno. I move around a bit. You know. Not easy to have a doctor.”

  “What about the specialists? Your neurologist?”

  He shrugged. “Haven’t seen him in years.”

  “What hospital? Who was your main doctor?”

  She gathered all of the details. What if this aberration was medical in origin? What if there was some treatment?

  Once Lawrence had left, she rang for more information. Official records. They’d be sent.

  But seeing her other client convicted of a sexual crime was different. After they had got to know each other when he was assigned to Maddie, Henry Macgregor told her very quietly that he had not molested little Geneva. Maddie nodded and smiled; so many of her crims claimed they’d been wrongly incarcerated, she’d almost expected the denial. Of course, each of her crims had had to pretend to be remorseful to the parole board or they would not have been awarded their parole, but, confidentially, they had not dunnit.