Borrowed Time Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Also by David Mark

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part One

  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

  Part Two

  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

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Part Three

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Part Four

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Also by David Mark

  Novels

  THE ZEALOT’S BONES (as D.M. Mark)

  THE MAUSOLEUM *

  A RUSH OF BLOOD *

  The DS Aector McAvoy series

  DARK WINTER

  ORIGINAL SKIN

  SORROW BOUND

  TAKING PITY

  A BAD DEATH (eBook only)

  DEAD PRETTY

  CRUEL MERCY

  SCORCHED EARTH

  COLD BONES

  * available from Severn House

  BORROWED TIME

  David Mark

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2020

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2020 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2020 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2020 by David Mark.

  The right of David Mark to be identified

  as the author of this work has been asserted

  in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8995-9 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-696-8 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0421-9 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described

  for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are

  fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  For Marcel – un homme bon, beacoup manque

  ‘You must be proud, bold, pleasant, resolute,

  And now and then stab, when occasion serves.’

  Christopher Marlowe

  PROLOGUE

  Dedham Vale, Essex

  October 9th, 2007, 3.48 p.m.

  It is a cold, grey, excessively English day.

  A uniformed constable in a bright yellow coat stands shivering at the side of this quiet country road, holding a clipboard to his chest as if it were a hot-water bottle. He has his back to the great tangle of damp woodland that clusters in behind him; an impenetrable mass of rotten trunks and twisted branches; splintered timbers pushed deep into wet, fetid earth. This is a place of muted browns and sepia: a pattern in bloodied fox fur and damp soil. There is no greenery here. Whatever feeds the tree roots does not provide the nutrients for colour. In his rain-soaked blues and fluorescent coat, the officer is a bruise on rotten flesh.

  This part of England is known as Constable country, in tribute to the great painter. PC Goodwin has yet to get the joke.

  ‘Better here, Goody,’ he mumbles to himself. ‘Better here than there.’

  He doubts any of his colleagues would disagree. Better anywhere than 300 yards into the damp murk of the forest. Better guarding the perimeter than standing by the water’s edge, looking at the thing beneath the tarpaulin; the assemblage of white bone and rotten meat; the wire and tendons and steel. The surroundings have unnerved him. He jumps at every sudden sound. The slam of a distant van door nearly folded him into a ball. He keeps expecting to see something cloven-hoofed and terrible stalk purposefully towards him through the trees.

  Above, a bird takes off in a flurry of damp, frantic feathers. Goodwin’s head disappears into his collar and his hands become fists in his pockets.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ he mutters, as he reappears, slowly, like a rising sun. Then, for emphasis: ‘Concentrate, you prick!’

  He checks his watch. Grimaces, sucking spit through his teeth. Huddles inside his waterproof and wonders how quickly the warm relief of pissing himself would be replaced by the ghastliness of standing in sticky wet trousers. Wishes he’d done what the old traffic cops used to do on cold days and worn a pair of tights beneath his uniform. Wishes he had a hot Pukka pie in each pocket: two meaty hot-water bottles, like his dad used to carry on bitter match days. Coffee with a brandy in it would be nice too. And a hat. He’d kill for a proper hat …

  He turns at the sound of footsteps; expensive leather shushing through the fallen leaves. Goodwin stands a little straighter. It’s Bosworth. Detective chief inspector with the Serious and Organised Crime Agency. She ticks both boxes of the job description. She’s shed her white forensics suit and now looks inappropriately chic in her vintage duffel coat, flannel trousers and sturdy boots. The fringe of her short hair peeks out damply from beneath a boilerman’s cap. If the weather were kinder, Goodwin would probably be able to find the energy to dislike her for being attractive, ambitious and capable, but he’s too cold to find the enthusiasm. She hands him a takeaway cup. Hot chocol
ate, with a shot of something sickly. He wonders where she found it – whether her team is so elite that it has the funding for its own on-call barista.

  ‘Seriously?’ He’s surprised. Embarrassed, even. He feels like a little-known neighbour has sent him a Christmas card. ‘Thanks, ma’am.’

  Bosworth gives a tight smile. ‘I don’t like ma’am. Guv makes me feel like a football manager. I’ll accept Cass.’

  ‘Yeah? Brave new world, isn’t it?’ He thinks of something to say to demonstrate his capabilities; to reassure her she was right to pick him from the team of on-call constables and send him to guard this particular patch of muddy road. ‘Was there a mix-up with the Home Office?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Wanted a barrister and they sent you a barista …’

  ‘That’s funny. I’ll remember that one.’

  ‘You’re not laughing.’

  ‘No.’

  Her eyes move over him like a metal detector. He sips his drink. Spills some, and decides not to notice.

  ‘You look like you’re about to die,’ she decides, without much obvious sympathy. ‘If I was a doctor and you asked me how long you had to live, I would start counting backwards from five.’

  He considers her. Enjoys the view. She’s small, but he fancies he’ll remember her as taller.

  ‘I’ll survive,’ he says, smiling. ‘I’m tougher than I look.’

  ‘Me too,’ she replies. ‘How much longer are you manning the perimeter?’

  ‘Until somebody gets sent to replace me. Or I die.’

  Bosworth turns away, staring off down the curve in the road. She pulls a phone from a pocket and taps out a message that likely won’t send until she’s in a better signal zone. It’s likely a cry for help. Bosworth’s got a lot to process and Goodwin can’t blame her for needing a few moments away from the sheer raw horror of the crime scene. Goodwin knows what’s in the woods. Knows what’s beneath the white, rectangular tent, oozing into the earth, trickling back down to the water: a syrupy mass of organic matter – meat slipping from bone like rotten fruit.

  ‘Any ID yet?’ he asks, teeth clicking like castanets.

  ‘They’ve found the hand,’ she says, quietly.

  ‘Left or right?’ he asks, making conversation.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Right for spite,’ he says, and winces. He eyes the DCI carefully, just in case she’s looking at him like he’s a twat. He’s relieved to see her staring off into the distance again, all thoughtful and grey.

  They stand in silence for a time. Goodwin looks up at the crumpled clouds, coiled like damp rope. Thinks of ash and salt and gunpowder. Watches the frost sparkle in the silvery-blue air: wisps of vapour rising from the ground.

  ‘Gangland, you think?’ he asks, at last.

  ‘That’s why we’re here,’ says Bosworth, taking off the hat and rubbing at her short, dark hair. ‘We didn’t just look at the weather and decide it would be a nice spot for a picnic.’

  Goodwin finishes his hot chocolate. Hopes the cup will keep its warmth. Wonders whether it would be a sackable offence to grab the hat from her hands and ram it down over his ice-cold ears.

  ‘Bleak spot,’ says Bosworth, waving vaguely. ‘Might not have bothered if I’d known it would be like this.’

  ‘We’ll be bringing back memories for the locals, I reckon,’ says Goodwin. ‘There’ll be a granny or two wetting their pants with excitement that we’ve just found Jack the Hat.’

  She shrugs, meaningfully. ‘Anybody old enough to remember those days is probably half a day away from Alzheimer’s already. And selective amnesia has always been a problem in this part of the world.’ She blows out a breath, tired and cold. ‘This is where they buy their pubs, isn’t it? Where they join their golf clubs and set up their taxi firms and try to pretend they’re normal people instead of killers and thieves. Where the old gangsters go now that Margate’s full and Spain doesn’t cooperate the way it used to. Throw a rock in the air and you’ll hit somebody guilty – that’s what my boss says.’

  Goodwin decides not to reply. Bosworth is a shooting star; a fast-tracked graduate destined for a career filled with headlines. Her unit deals with gangland crime. People trafficking. Drug smuggling. Some days, she gets to run the rule over the local CID when a body turns up that might have links to active cases. Dedham Vale is known by the locals as Dead Man’s Vale, in tribute to the bodies rumoured to have been planted here by warring crime families in the 1960s and 70s. Bosworth’s unit was notified not long after the initial 999 call. It had been made by a local man; an endurance athlete with an inexplicable desire to accustom his body to immersion in bitterly cold water. The experience had also proved useful from a cardio perspective, having very nearly stopped his heart. Naked, shivering, he had been front-crawling through the tangle of pondweed, brushing his knees on moss-slimed rocks, when his fingertips had touched something waxy, cold and dead.

  ‘Your sergeant says you’re local yourself,’ says Bosworth, looking up at him. ‘Essex born and bred.’

  Goodwin takes a moment before he nods, wondering what else she might have heard. Decides to play it straight. ‘Mum’s house is about ten minutes away. I should have called in for a second pair of socks.’

  ‘So you’ll know the story, yeah? These woods?’

  He wonders what she’s heard. Keeps his face straight lest a smile betray him. He suddenly wonders whether she’s sought him out because of something she knows, or whether he’s being overly suspicious. He’s been accused of paranoia before, and reckons far worse is muttered behind his back.

  ‘They say this is where the Richardsons used to dispose of rivals,’ he says, in the tone of somebody who isn’t sure whether to believe the rumours. ‘No proof of it, not as far as I’m aware. It’s not somewhere you play after dark. There were always stories about the ghosts of gangsters slithering in the trees. You know when you hear the leaves rustle? My grandad used to joke that it was all the old faces warning each other that snitches get stitches.’

  She doesn’t smile. Just nods. Sucks at her cheek and listens to the flapping of the tape.

  ‘It’s not that old, is it?’ asks Goodwin. ‘The body. I thought he was still pretty fresh. I heard the forensics lot talking. Said it would be hard to tell but it didn’t seem like somebody from the old days.’

  ‘Recent. Weeks, not months.’

  ‘That normal, is it? To be in that state?’

  Bosworth nods. ‘Try leaving a chicken breast in a pan of cold water. See what it looks like after a week.’

  ‘And the barbed wire? The nails?’

  ‘A lot of it was done before he went in the water,’ says Bosworth, leaning back against a tree. ‘No ID but we’re getting there. There’s some markings on the hand that are looking promising. Not many other distinguishing features. The axe saw to that.’

  ‘Christ, was it an axe?’

  She stares past him, talking to herself. He’s good at this. Has perfected the subtle art of getting people to talk without realizing how hard he is listening.

  ‘Ligature marks. Back of his head caved in. Went at him with something sharp. Would still be down there if our swimmer hadn’t got lucky.’ She shakes her head, disturbed at the very notion. ‘You ever tried this wild swimming lark? Can’t say it appeals. Least of all here. Water’s black as ink.’

  ‘How is he?’ asks Goodwin. ‘The swimmer, I mean.’

  ‘Still shivering. I reckon he’ll be having nightmares for a while.’

  Goodwin stays quiet. Imagines the sensation of clammy dead skin touching his own bare flesh. He gives another stab at being helpful. Entertains a fantasy of impressing her and somehow inveigling himself onto her team. The Serious and Organised Crime Agency could use a man like him. He has contacts. Friends in low places. He could do more than guard a perimeter and sign names on a soggy clipboard. Besides, knowledge is valuable, and he has always wanted to be a man of means.

  ‘Local lad himself, is he?’ asks Go
odwin, and a fleck of spitty rain spurts from his lower lip. ‘I mean, it’s an odd spot, like you say. I can ask around, if it helps. I’m on-call for as long as you need me and I’d be glad to stay involved.’

  Bosworth is playing with her phone, barely paying attention. She thumbs out a quick text and gives him a flash of smile. ‘Help, you say? See if your old mum knows anybody likely to spend their evenings swimming through filth in the middle of a forest, you mean?’

  ‘I’ve got contacts …’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ she says, cutting him off before he can make a further prick of himself. ‘I should head back in. Rain’s forecast later and our forensics lot want to get him out of here before it starts.’

  ‘Let me know if you need anything …’

  ‘You’re doing a great job,’ says Bosworth, indicating the absence of gawkers, tabloid journalists or grieving relatives at this section of the perimeter.

  ‘I’m here if you want to offload anymore,’ says Goodwin, an urgency creeping into his voice. ‘Seriously, what’s the surname? I might know the family …’

  Bosworth looks up at him, disappointed. Manages a tight smile and turns her back. He watches her walk away, cursing himself. He’d been doing so well.

  When he’s sure she’s gone, he pulls the mobile phone from the pocket of his big coat. There’s only one number stored in its memory and he knows that after he’s made the call, he will have to dispose of the device. Another will arrive within days – another number programmed into the memory. He feels his heart rate speed up as the call connects. Hears a change in the quality of the silence.