DARK HOUSES a gripping detective thriller full of suspense Read Free Page A

“I need to see her mother.”
    “What’s the stupid cow done now?” Finally a dishevelled youth came to the door.
    “Is Mavis Weston in?”
    “No, she ain’t come home in a while. I ain’t got a clue where she’s gone.”
    Now Quickenden had a problem. He needed a close relative to identify Jessie. Would this one do? “Can’t you ring her? It is important.”
    “She don’t answer.”
    “Who are you?”
    “Jonathan Weston, Jessie’s brother.”
    “How old are you, son?”
    The young man was tall, slight and scruffily dressed. He looked about sixteen.
    “Nineteen. Why? What d’you think I’ve done?”
    “Nothing, Jonathan. This is about Jessie. Look, there’s no easy way to say this . . .” Quickenden could tell the lad was losing interest. He kept looking back towards the TV and the football match he’d been watching. “I’m afraid Jessie’s dead. She’s been killed.”
    Someone scored a goal. The lad grunted. “You’re kidding me. You don’t expect me to believe that.”
    “It’s the truth.”
    “What happened?”
    He didn’t seem much surprised.
    “It’s a murder enquiry, so I can’t say much.”
    “Murder? Our Jessie? Got that one wrong, mate. Jessie will be working about now, down at the Crown.”
    “No, Jonathan, she isn’t. In fact, that’s why I’m here . . . I want you to come with me and identify her body.”
    “Why bother? You seem to know who you’ve got.”
    “It has to be done formally by a relative, someone who knew her well. Why not get your coat and come with me. I’ve got a car down there and an officer will bring you right back.”
    “You’re not having me on, are you?”
    “No. I wish I was. Your sister has been killed. It’s no joke, and we are searching for her murderer.”
    Jonathan Weston grabbed a coat off a hook behind the door and stepped out onto the deck. He looked at Quickenden. “Won’t throw up, will I? Never seen a dead body before.”
    * * *
    The post-mortem room had never held any fears for Greco. He liked the clinical cleanliness of the gleaming stainless steel and the white floors. They were somehow comforting. He stood on a raised platform only five feet from where Natasha Barrington would perform her art.
    Jessie Weston’s body was laid out on a table, covered in a white sheet. He shuddered. She was so young, too young to have had her life so brutally snatched from her. A long list of questions swirled in Greco’s mind and he tried to order them. First, he had to determine the motive.
    Natasha Barrington smiled and waved at him as she and her assistants entered the room.
    “Alone, I see,” she said. “Your sergeant got cold feet again?”
    Greco didn’t reply. Quickenden had gained a reputation. He had been warned about his conduct during the last big case they’d worked on. Greco didn’t want to be on his back again.
    “She’d been dead about ten hours when she was found. So I’d put time of death at one this morning.” Natasha removed the sheet and reached for a microphone.
    Greco wondered where had she been until that time on a week night.
    “We have the body of a female, one Jessie Weston. Her brother gave her age as twenty-six. She’s of slim build and otherwise healthy.” She leaned over to examine the body more closely. “There are a number of injuries on the upper torso and the face.” She stood to one side, making way for the photographer. “Most of these are burns. To the face, chest and arms. The right nipple has been completely burned away.”
    Greco felt sick.
    “There are what appear to be knife cuts to the body, on both thighs and the belly. She has several much deeper lacerations to the face and scalp. The scalp wounds will have bled profusely. They are deep and long.”
    She parted Jessie’s hair carefully, to look more closely. The camera flashed.
    “A piece of scalp is missing with hair attached, about two inches in diameter. The shape is precise. The cut was made very neatly, possibly with a