Devils way, p.1
Devil's Way, page 1
Books by Robert Bryndza
STANDALONE CRIME THRILLER
Fear The Silence
* * *
DETECTIVE ERIKA FOSTER CRIME THRILLER SERIES
1. The Girl in the Ice
2. The Night Stalker
3. Dark Water
4. Last Breath
5. Cold Blood
6. Deadly Secrets
7. Fatal Witness
8. Lethal Vengeance
* * *
KATE MARSHALL CRIME THRILLER SERIES
1. Nine Elms
2. Shadow Sands
3. Darkness Falls
4. Devil’s Way
* * *
COCO PINCHARD ROMANTIC COMEDY SERIES
1.The Not So Secret Emails Of Coco Pinchard
2. Coco Pinchard's Big Fat Tipsy Wedding
3. Coco Pinchard, The Consequences of Love and Sex
4. A Very Coco Christmas
5. Coco Pinchard’s Must-Have Toy Story
* * *
STANDALONE ROMANTIC COMEDY
Miss Wrong and Mr Right
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Epilogue
A note from Robert
Fear The Silence
Hear about Robert’s new books
About the Author
For Janeken Skywalker, my first reader
You must be proud, bold, pleasant, resolute,
And now and then stab, when occasion serves.
― Christopher Marlowe, Edward II
Prologue
Thursday June 21st 2007
Jean Julings knelt down inside the small tent and tucked her three-year-old grandson, Charlie, into his sleeping bag. He had a tousled mop of white-blond hair, and his face was flushed with tiredness from fresh air and fun. He held onto a small brown teddy bear who had one eye missing.
‘Did you have a fun day with your gran?’ asked Jean. Charlie nodded sleepily and grinned, showing his perfect white baby teeth. ‘Good boy. And what about Button-Eye? Did he brush his teeth?’
‘Top and bottom,’ said Charlie, holding up the teddy bear. Jean laughed, and her heart swelled with love for the little boy.
‘Good. It’s just as important for a teddy bear to brush his teeth. They eat all that honey.’ Her knees clicked as she sat back on her haunches and reached for the small battery-powered lamp, which was casting a soft yellow glow.
‘No, light on,’ Charlie whined. His little brow creased, and he kicked his feet inside the sleeping bag. Jean flicked it off, and a soft glow remained inside. The moon was full, and it shone through the canvas.
‘Look at that. We don’t need a light. We have God’s nightlight in the sky,’ said Jean, stroking his soft blond hair. ‘It’s not scary when the moon is so bright at night, is it?’
Charlie shook his head and tucked Button-Eye under his arm.
‘I’m just going to go outside for some fresh air,’ she said, patting the pockets of her shorts and feeling the pack of cigarettes and the lighter in the left-hand pocket.
‘No…’
‘I’ll only be a few minutes. And then I’ll come back in, and I’ll tell you a story if you’re still awake. Okay? I’ll be outside, and you can say “Gran”, and I’ll hear you and come back inside. Yes?’
Charlie nodded.
‘Good boy.’ Jean kissed him on the cheek, and as she crawled out of the tent, she saw that Charlie’s eyes were already fluttering closed. They’d been on the go all day, playing and paddling in the river. He’d be asleep in a flash.
Jean crept out of the tent doorway onto the long, matted grass outside and pulled down the zip behind her. The tent was pitched under the broad canopy of a vast, ancient oak tree, and its thick, bare branches reached far out like ragged arms casting malformed shadows across the grass. Jean stood up, hearing her knees click again. She took out a cigarette and lit up, exhaling into the night sky. Stars twinkled above, and she listened to the nearby river running into the gorge. It seemed louder at night. The moor stretched away like a blanket of blue satin, dotted with rocks, and a faint mist clung to the troughs and lowland areas.
Directly to her right, across a short expanse of grass, Devil’s Tor towered above everything. Despite its imposing height, the stack of rocks looked very zen and calming, as if a giant had stacked a pile of large smooth stones on top of a grassy platform. At its base, and in shadow from the bright moonlight, was another tent belonging to Jean’s daughter, Becky, and her partner Joel. The canvas was dark, and it looked like they were already asleep.
God, this place is beautiful, she thought. When she finished her cigarette, she stubbed it out carefully with the bottom of her shoe and slipped the blackened butt into the packet. She was about to back into the tent when she heard a faint voice calling her name.
‘Jean!’
She saw a dishevelled figure appear behind the Tor and stagger into a patch of moonlight on the grassy platform.
‘Jeeean!’
It was Declan, her sometime partner of many years. Jean cursed under her breath and, checked that the tent was zipped up. Seized with urgency, she hurried off across the long grass, terrified that Declan would wake the family up and cause a scene.
She ran up the grassy bank to the platform to try and stop him from coming down, and she was out of breath when she reached him. Declan was dressed in the same ripped jeans and striped T-shirt he’d been wearing when he’d turned up by the river that afternoon.
‘What the hell are you doing? I told you this afternoon you’re not welcome here!’ she hissed.
He smiled, and a flash of his yellow teeth appeared through his thick beard. She had a cold feeling of dread when she saw he was carrying a bottle of whisky, with only a few inches of amber fluid left inside. He swayed on his feet, holding the bottle up to her mouth to try and make her drink.
‘Don’t!’ she said, slapping it away. ‘Charlie’s asleep, and so are Becky and Joel.’
‘I know,’ he said, reaching out to grab her breasts. He staggered forward, pushing her back into the shadows against the high stones of the Tor. She could smell his sour, nasty breath as he pressed against her. She managed to push him off and wrestle herself free, coming to stand back out in the moonlight. He looked surprised. ‘You really aren’t any fun anymore, now you’re sober…’ He lifted the bottle to her mouth, but she swiped his hand away. She didn’t feel fear. She wasn’t scared of him anymore. Jean felt a fierce need to protect Charlie from him. She grabbed the bottle and twisted it out of his hand, ignoring his protests.
‘Where’s your car?’ she asked. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he pointed vaguely to the other side of the grass platform, pursing his lips. Jean grabbed him by the collar and marched him around the Tor.
‘Easy, easy!’ he shouted. A small scrubland car park on the other side of the Tor led away to a gravel road. Jean saw his clapped-out blue Renault parked in the middle. He’d left the driver’s door open.
‘Can I come and see you tomorrow?’ asked Declan as she dragged him down the shallower grass slope to his car.
‘No. I’ve told you. That’s it. We’re finished.’
A few feet from his car he stumbled on the uneven rocky surface and fell flat on his face. He let out a groan. Jean stood back and watched impassively as he got up. He teetered on his feet, fixed her with a mean, glassy stare and came close to her again.
‘I heard your bitch daughter, in her tent, screwing,’ he said, his face twisting into a snarl. ‘She sounded like she was enjoying it, more than you do, I’m sure.’
Jean slapped him around the face, and he struck back with a backhanded smack. She tottered and tripped over, landing on hard rock. She watched as Declan staggered, unperturbed. The side of her face stung, and she put her hand to her lip. There was no blood, but her ears were ringing. It wasn’t the worst thing he had done to her.
Jean felt rage. Pure rage. She got up, grabbed what was left of the hair on the back of his head, and pushed him through the open door into his car.
‘Where are your keys?’
‘I’m not leaving,’ he said, folding his arms.
‘You are. You’re leaving now. It’s the middle of the night.’
‘Have you got any drink?’
‘No.’
‘You’re an ugly bitch,’ he said.
‘And you are a flaccid waste of space.’ She meant this to hurt him, but he smiled and started laughing, his yellowing teeth showing through his beard again.
‘What time is it?’
‘The pub up the road has a lock-in, one of the locals told me. You could be in time if you hurry,’ she said, feeling a flash of inspiration. She couldn’t believe he bought this, but Declan was a raging alcoholic. He closed the door, and she watched as his zeal for booze took over. He switched on the lights, and as the car lurched into a turn, the long grass was briefly illuminated. She thought she saw something move in the shadows, and then it was gone.
‘Please, God, let him die in a ditch. Don’t let him hurt anyone but himself,’ she said. Jean watched as the headlights moved down the road and then vanished. Relief flooded over her, and her shoulders sagged. She put her hand up to the side of her aching head. The roar of the river seemed louder in the dark.
Charlie, she thought. Jean hurried back around the Tor and down the other side of the slope. How long had he been left alone? It was only a few minutes. All was silent in the field. An owl hooted, the branches of the enormous tree creaked in the soft breeze, and the two tents were still.
As she drew close to their tent, the nightlight flicked on inside. Relief washed over her as she rounded it and her daughter Becky poked her head out. She was wearing her pyjamas, and her face was clean of make-up. Her brow was creased with concern.
‘Mum. Is Charlie with you?’ she said.
‘He’s not in the tent?’ said Jean, feeling panic return.
‘No.’
Jean pushed past her and looked inside. Both sleeping bags were empty, and she felt her stomach drop.
‘He must be with Joel,’ she said, coming back and seeing Becky’s worried face.
‘No, Mum, he’s not. I thought I heard him outside our tent. That’s why I came out to look for him. Why aren’t you with him?’
‘I went for a cigarette. Just for a minute,’ said Jean. The lie dropping out of her mouth without any preparation needed.
‘What if he went down to the river? I don’t know if it’s rained, can you hear how loud the water is?’ said Becky. Her voice had a tinge of hysteria.
‘Let’s look. Charlie can’t have wandered far,’ said Jean, trying to keep calm. The fact that Becky was more scared than angry frightened her.
Becky woke Joel, and they all found torches and started to search, taking in the river, the rocks on the Tor, and the surrounding fields. The arcs of the light from their torches swept across the dark landscape, searching. The river was higher than it had been the day before, and as Jean shone her torch over the dark raging torrent, and called out Charlie’s name, her voice seemed to get swallowed up by the darkness. She felt sick as the minutes passed, turning to an hour, then two. Charlie was nowhere to be found. Around 4am, the sky started to turn light, and this was when they called the police.
As the sun rose over the moors, a police car arrived, then two more.
The search began in earnest, but they never found Charlie.
1
ELEVEN YEARS LATER
Thursday 7th June 2018
* * *
The morning started out as regular as any other. Private detective Kate Marshall woke at six, just before her alarm, and automatically reached for her swimming costume, which was hanging on the chair beside her bed.
Kate swam in the sea every day of the year, come rain or shine, but it was these sleepy summer mornings, when the breeze was light, and the silvery fingers of dawn were just breaking above the horizon, that she loved the most. Her house was perched on top of a cliff in Thurlow Bay, on the south coast of England. It was a quiet spot, five miles outside the University town of Ashdean. After a quick slug of water from the tap in the kitchen, Kate opened the back door, which led out to a small terrace and a sandy path and blearily picked her way down to the beach.
The sand was soft, and she felt the prickle of the marram grass underfoot as it levelled out at the bottom of the cliff, and she walked through the dunes. The grass was tall, covering the high mounds and sheltering her from the breeze coming off the water.
As she emerged onto the beach, the first rays of the sun peeked over the horizon, hitting a large pool of seawater on the beach with a sparkle. To her left, she could see all along the craggy Jurassic coastline to Ashdean, which sat in a small horseshoe-shaped bay. To her right were the cliffs, dotted with an occasional house, and a black outcrop of rock jutting out into the sea formed a barrier to the west. Kate thought a couple of the surfers staying at the caravan park opposite her house might already be in the water, but no, she had the beach to herself.
The wet sand was solid and cool under her feet. She dropped the towel a few metres from where the swells broke and stepped into the surf. The waves rolling in were knee-height, and she felt the zing of the water on her skin.
The sand dropped away as she walked through the breakers, and taking a deep breath, she dove in. Kate first noticed something was wrong when she came up for air, and she felt a current pulling at her waist, like invisible yet solid fingers.
And then it all happened so fast; she glanced back at the shore at the vast shimmering pool of seawater, saw the deep channel of white water rushing back from the large pool into the sea, and there was a violent pull on her legs. Kate was dragged under, her legs spinning around her head, and she realised too late that she’d swum into a deadly riptide.
All her years of sea swimming fell away, and she was caught in a blind panic of survival. The speed and power of the riptide were sudden and terrifying. Kate was dragged away from the shore, tumbling over and over. She saw flashes of the sky, the empty beach and a glimpse of her house on the cliffs, now far away, and then she was yanked violently back down. She coughed and gagged, and her throat filled with seawater.
On the other side of town, Tristan Harper, Kate’s partner in the detective agency, shifted in the driver’s seat of his Mini Cooper. His back hurt, and his butt was going numb. He checked his watch and saw it was coming up to 6.10am.
‘Come on, please. Go to work,’ said Tristan, keeping his eyes on the yellow front door of a terraced house further up on Walker Avenue. It was a neat road of terraced houses in the ‘posh’ part of Ashdean. The house belonged to an architect called Terrance Trent. He was in his early fifties, and his wife had hired Kate and Tristan to prove he was having an affair.
He heard a door slam to his left and turned to see an older lady emerging from the gate of the house he was parked outside. She wore a faded pink tracksuit, and her short jet-black hair was set in a very tight perm.
She came to his window, knocked on the glass, and then stood back with her arms folded.
Tristan looked back at the yellow front door. Terrance Trent was due to leave for work at any minute. He wound down his window.
