Kiss of Death Read online

  Kiss of Death

  Adam Croft

  First published in Great Britain in 2022.

  This edition published in 2022 by Black Cannon Publishing.

  ISBN: 978-1-912599-76-9

  * * *

  Copyright © Adam Croft 2022

  The right of Adam Croft to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.

  Contents

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  More books by Adam Croft

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  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

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  Acknowledgements

  A special thank you to my patrons

  Simon Cole QPM

  Have you listened to the Rutland audiobooks?

  Adam Croft

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  Adam Croft

  * * *

  For more information, visit my website: adamcroft.net

  More books by Adam Croft

  RUTLAND CRIME SERIES

  What Lies Beneath

  On Borrowed Time

  In Cold Blood

  Kiss of Death

  KNIGHT & CULVERHOUSE CRIME THRILLERS

  Too Close for Comfort

  Guilty as Sin

  Jack Be Nimble

  Rough Justice

  In Too Deep

  In The Name of the Father

  With A Vengeance

  Dead & Buried

  In Plain Sight

  Snakes & Ladders

  PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLERS

  Her Last Tomorrow

  Only The Truth

  In Her Image

  Tell Me I’m Wrong

  The Perfect Lie

  Closer To You

  KEMPSTON HARDWICK MYSTERIES

  Exit Stage Left

  The Westerlea House Mystery

  Death Under the Sun

  The Thirteenth Room

  The Wrong Man

  All titles are available to order from all good book shops.

  Signed and personalised editions available at adamcroft.net.

  * * *

  Foreign language editions of some titles are available in French, German, Italian, Portuguese, Dutch and Korean. These are available online and in book shops in their native countries.

  EBOOK-ONLY SHORT STORIES

  Gone

  The Harder They Fall

  Love You To Death

  The Defender

  Thick as Thieves

  * * *

  To find out more, visit adamcroft.net.

  Have you listened to the Rutland audiobooks?

  The Rutland crime series is now available in audiobook format, narrated by Leicester-born Andy Nyman (Peaky Blinders, Unforgotten, Star Wars).

  * * *

  The series is available from all good audiobook retailers and libraries now, published by W.F. Howes on their QUEST and Clipper imprints.

  * * *

  W.F. Howes are one of the world’s largest audiobook publishers and have been based in Leicestershire since their inception.

  * * *

  For Ava.

  1

  Barbara Patchett winced as she swallowed a chunk of croissant, regretting not chewing it more thoroughly. She poured herself some more grapefruit juice and chugged half the glass, feeling the relief as the croissant dislodged itself from her gullet.

  ‘Brian, are you nearly ready?’ she rasped, before coughing to clear her throat.

  ‘Almost,’ her husband called from the living room. ‘Just trying to sort this last bit.’

  Barbara pushed her chair back and stood up from the kitchen table, before taking her plate over to the bin to dispose of the last piece of croissant. As nice as it had been, she’d rather gone off them for the moment.

  ‘I hope you’re talking about ironing your shirt, and not that jigsaw puzzle again,’ she called.

  ‘I’d have been done by now if they’d photographed the flipping thing when it was sunny. As it is, the whole bloody lot’s grey. Can’t see what’s a cloud and what’s a girder.’

  ‘I’ll give you bloody girders if you haven’t got that shirt ironed and ready in the next—’

  Barbara stopped mid-sentence as her eyes registered two new sights: Brian sauntering into the kitchen in his pyjamas clutching the lid from the jigsaw box, and his crumpled white shirt in a heap next to the toaster.

  ‘Oh, for the love of… Well you’ll have to wear it like that now, won’t you? You’ll just have to go to church looking like Meatloaf.’

  ‘I dunno. I reckon I’d come across more like one of those New Romantics,’ Brian replied with a grin.

  ‘Maybe if either of those words actually applied to you,’ Barbara muttered under her breath as she washed her hands in the sink before downing the rest of her juice.

  ‘Anyway, the creases will fall out after a few minutes. No-one’ll notice under my jacket.’

  ‘That’s not the point, is it?’ she replied, drying her hands on the tea towel a little more forcefully than usual. ‘You’re turning up to church in a shirt that looks like a crumpled sheet of paper someone’s taken out of the bin. If you’d just listened to what I’d said and ironed it instead of wasting time on that jigsaw puzzle—’

  ‘Well, you try telling the difference between two shades of grey at this time of the morning. I swear they do it on purpose. I’m telling you they do.’

  Barbara furrowed her brow. ‘What? Why? What are you talking about?’

  ‘They do it to make you buy more. It’s a co
n.’

  Barbara exhaled heavily. ‘Will you listen to yourself? It doesn’t even make sense. If they wanted you to buy more they’d make them easier to solve, so you get them done and want to buy another one. They wouldn’t deliberately make them as frustrating as possible, would they?’

  ‘Well I want to throw the bloody thing out the window. They’re certainly not getting any more of my business, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Exactly! That’s my point. If they wanted to— Oh, for crying out loud, why am I even wasting my breath? Come on. Get your Tony Hadley costume on and let’s get moving. We should’ve left five minutes ago.’

  * * *

  By the time they’d arrived at All Saints Church in Oakham, there was barely a parking space to be found. Eventually, Brian had parked in the Church Street car park, having found a free space hidden amongst the deluge of red Post Office vans. As far as Barbara was concerned, it was an ideal place to leave the car, directly opposite the church and free on a Sunday, but Brian seemed to have an unreasonable dislike for it. It was usually either the spaces or the lanes that were too narrow — sometimes both — but today he just huffed and puffed and muttered under his breath, leaving Barbara to wonder what the problem might be this time.

  Secretly, she wondered if he just didn’t like coming to church each Sunday. He’d never been a particularly religious man, and she’d long suspected he only came along because it gave him something to do and it didn’t cost anything.

  She took a long drag of fresh air as she stepped out of the car, trying to fight back the wave of nausea she’d felt over the past couple of minutes. She always felt unwell when she rushed food, and getting herself stressed and worked up was never a situation that ended well. The church had provided a place of refuge for her in so many ways.

  They made their way into All Saints and sat down on a pew.

  ‘You alright? You look pale,’ Brian said. ‘Hope it wasn’t my driving.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she replied, looking at his crumpled shirt, which threatened to envelop his grease-splashed maroon tie. ‘Just all a bit of a rush this morning.’

  ‘Maybe we should set the alarm for a bit earlier,’ he said, oblivious to his wife fighting back a scowl.

  ‘Yes. Maybe.’

  By the time the service began, the nausea still hadn’t passed. If anything it had probably got worse, but a growing sense of dizziness and general unease made it difficult to pay too much attention to how sick she was feeling. She was acutely aware of her own heartbeat — something she hadn’t often experienced — and wondered if it seemed faster than usual. It’s just indigestion, she told herself. Indigestion and stress.

  As the organ started to play and the congregation rose to their feet to sing, Barbara held onto the back of the pew in front of her, feeling desperately unsteady on her feet.

  ‘You sure you’re alright?’ Brian asked. ‘Do you want to go outside?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she replied, her voice hoarse and her mouth dry.

  She mouthed along to When I Survey the Wondrous Cross, as she did every week with every hymn. She’d always hated her singing voice, ever since her choirmaster at school had told her she sounded like a demented parrot. But she loved the hymns. Just being in the same room as people singing them made her feel ten feet tall. There was something so uplifting, so empowering about the music, the words, the atmosphere. There was nothing else like it on Earth.

  As the hymn ended, she sat back down and listened as the vicar spoke, but she found it increasingly difficult to focus on the words. She could hear them, and she knew them, but they just didn’t seem to make any sense when put together.

  She took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm her racing heartbeat and push back against the growing and unavoidable sense that her world was closing in on her. She looked around, taking in the details of the church. The organ. The masonry. The bright light — so bright — streaming in through the windows. She squinted, feeling the intense beams searing into her brain, adding to her increasing headache. The floor. She’d look at the floor.

  This was her calm place. This was safety. The church had given her so much solace. It had provided purpose and meaning. Especially after everything that had happened.

  The congregation rose to their feet again, and Barbara realised she’d barely heard any of the sermon. The sounds seemed duller, more distant. She could just about make out the hymn. It Is Well with My Soul. She stood, feeling even more unsteady than she had before, her legs like jelly beneath her.

  She went to take another deep breath, but found she struggled. Feeling the panic beginning to rise within her, she closed her eyes and tried to focus on the music, allowing herself to sing and steady her breathing.

  ‘Love, you’re not right,’ Brian said, taking hold of her arm. ‘Do you need to step outside?’

  She shook her head, continuing to sing with her eyes closed.

  ‘Love…’

  The intonation in her husband’s voice made her open her eyes and look at him. He was staring at her lower half. She looked down and saw the tell-tale dark patch growing on the front of her beige trousers.

  ‘Out. I need to get out,’ she said, her voice hoarse.

  Without waiting for her husband, she shuffled unsteadily along the pew and into the nave, before turning in the direction of the door. As she took her first couple of steps forward, she felt it happening. And she knew at the deepest level of her soul there was nothing she could do.

  As the congregation sang, Barbara closed her eyes and fell to the floor.

  2

  The morning sun warmed the back of Caroline’s neck as she clasped Mark’s hand, the shingle of Thorpeness Beach crunching underfoot as they walked. Her sons ran on ahead, making the most of trying to play football on the uneven surface, and loving every minute of it.

  ‘This is what you call a Sunday morning,’ Mark said, smiling. ‘I can’t believe how calm it is. I thought it’d be windy on the coast.’

  ‘It’s gorgeous,’ Caroline replied. ‘I bet this beach’ll be rammed within a couple of hours, though.’

  ‘I was thinking we could take the opportunity to head down to Aldeburgh. There’ll be more for the boys to do there. Especially if the beaches are going to be packed.’

  Caroline smiled at Mark. ‘Sounds lovely.’ For the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt truly relaxed. Moving from London to Rutland had been intended to give them all a clean break, and the irony wasn’t lost on her that it was only now, on a beach in Suffolk, that she felt that sense of inner peace.

  ‘You seem much happier,’ Mark said, as if reading her thoughts. It’d become clear to her over the past months that she was a far more open book than she’d realised. And where she’d felt the need to close off and keep things to herself, the impression she gave others had been far worse than the open and honest truth.

  ‘I am,’ she said. ‘It feels like we’ve come a long way recently.’

  ‘One hundred and twenty-eight miles. And I felt every single one of them.’

  ‘I did say I was happy to share the driving.’

  ‘And you also said I was a terrible backseat driver.’

  ‘That’s because you are,’ Caroline replied, laughing.

  ‘Then you’ll just have to deal with me moaning about the journey, won’t you? It’s been worth every second, though. Just look at the place. How can you not have your breath taken away by a view like that?’

  She’d noticed how much brighter Mark had seemed recently, too. There’d been some dark days after the death of his mother, but she sensed he’d been able to move on in the months that followed.

  She wondered if, up until then, he’d felt in limbo, caught between their new life in Rutland and the tie of his mother still being in London. Her own health issues and need to throw herself head-first into work hadn’t helped, either, but both of those worries had since disappeared into the background.

  Being clear of cancer had lifted a huge weight fr
om her shoulders, and the relative lack of drama at work meant she’d been able to focus more on family life. Although Rutland wasn’t historically famed as a centre for violent crimes, it’d experienced a run of major cases that had kept her and her small team working well beyond their means for far too long.

  The whole point in moving to Rutland had been for the family to have a fresh start, and for her to work for a police force that wasn’t constantly besieged by a deluge of major crimes and chronic underfunding. After years with the Met, she’d certainly seen the appeal of working for a small, rural force in an area with a low crime rate.

  Fortunately, it was looking like the run of major incidents they’d had to deal with had just been a flash in the pan. Like any police officer, Caroline would never dare use the word ‘quiet’ when talking about work, but there was no denying that recent months had been far more relaxed than the ones that came before.