The Corfe Castle Murders (Dorset Crime Book 1) Read online

  The Corfe Castle Murders

  Dorset Crime Book 1

  Rachel McLean

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Read a free novella, Deadly Origins

  Read the Dorset Crime Series

  Also by Rachel McLean: The DI Zoe Finch Series

  Chapter One

  Laila stopped halfway up the stairs, her senses pricking.

  There was someone in her room.

  She could hear drawers being pulled out, doors being opened. Footsteps; no matter how hard the intruder tried to be stealthy, this was an old, creaky house.

  Was Archie back?

  No. Archie wasn’t coming back till Monday. He had a meeting in London, something to do with securing extra funding for the dig. Now they’d uncovered evidence of 12th century occupation, they were all hopeful.

  Holding her breath, she took one step up, as carefully as she could. She could see into the room she shared with Archie, over the top step.

  It would be Crystal. The woman liked to poke her nose into other people’s business. As the dig leader, she seemed to think she had the right. But their bedrooms had locks, and were supposed to be private.

  She’d become complacent. She should remember to lock her door every morning.

  The intruder came into view, facing away from Laila. She gritted her teeth.

  Patrick.

  What was that old perv doing in her room? Why was he going through her and Archie’s stuff?

  Patrick gave her the creeps. Since he’d tried it on with her the day after she arrived, she’d steered clear of him. She didn’t want a confrontation.

  She slid back down the stairs and opened the front door. She slammed it shut again. Humming loudly despite her unease, she stomped up the stairs.

  When she arrived at the top, Patrick was standing on the landing. He stared at her, hands on hips.

  “You should tidy your room.” He gestured back through the open door. “Look at it, bloody disgrace.”

  She met his eye, her stomach fluttering. Patrick was more than twice her age, the most experienced member of the group. He made her nervous.

  “Have you been in my room?”

  He blew a greasy grey hair out of his eyes. “What d’you take me for? You might want to close the door in future, though.”

  “Lock it, more like.”

  She squeezed past him and closed her and Archie’s door. Patrick watched her from the open doorway of his own room. Behind him, all was tidy. So immaculate that you could imagine no one lived in there.

  “That’s better,” he grunted.

  She eyed him. “I’m going back out.”

  “Already?”

  “It’s a free country.”

  She barrelled down the stairs, her stomach churning. She’d been looking forward to a quiet few hours reading her book. Maybe on her bed, maybe in the cosy sitting room downstairs. But she didn’t want to be alone in the cottage with Patrick. Archie was away for his meeting and there was no sign of Crystal.

  “See you later,” Patrick called down the stairs. Laila shuddered and closed the front door behind her. It led directly onto a narrow strip of pavement alongside an equally narrow road that cars struggled to get down. The village of Corfe Castle hadn’t been designed for modern living.

  At least the sun was out. She’d wander up to the dig site, and then she might sit outside the Greyhound with a pint. They had benches out the front, filling another narrow pavement, and she liked to watch the world go by.

  She hurried along West Street, glancing behind her from time to time to check Patrick hadn’t followed. Don’t be paranoid. Even he wasn’t that much of a creep.

  She turned the corner by the entrance to the car park then took the footpath across the fields to reach the dig site. It was quiet on a Sunday, the normal hubbub of tools and voices missing.

  She could hear the trill of birdsong from the trees up ahead, cars passing beyond them.

  They’d dug three trenches so far, one in the centre of the site where they believed the bailey of King Stephen’s siege castle had lain. A second had been dug nearer the village, where the geophysics suggested the outer wall might have been. And a smaller test trench, near the mound where Laila stood. The two more established trenches had tents over them to protect them from the weather. It might be June in southern England, but you could always guarantee rain.

  She pushed aside the flaps of the tent closest to her, the one over the wall. She’d been working here the day before and had found coins, worn down and mud-encrusted, but hopefully from the 12th century.

  She wandered out over the mounds that covered suspected fortifications, heading for the second tent. Two crows rose into the sky as she approached, disturbed by her footsteps. A short distance away, a group of wood pigeons pecked at the ground.

  She grabbed the flap of the tent. This was where they were hoping to find the remains of a medieval building. Crystal and Patrick worked in here most days, along with a rotating crew of students from Bournemouth University

  Startled by a bird flying out of the tent, Laila looked away. She batted at it as it brushed past her, but it was gone.

  What had it found? They were careful to clear the dig site at the end of each day, cataloguing their finds and hauling them back to the cottage. They were stored in an outhouse until they could be transferred to the university. It had been drilled into them all that there was a risk not only of animal damage, but human too.

  The tent was warm in the afternoon heat, muggy. There was a thick smell that made Laila’s nose twitch. Someone had left a tarpaulin in the middle of the space and flie
s buzzed around it.

  Laila bent down, puzzled. She grabbed the edge of the tarp. Had someone come in here earlier and left it behind?

  She lifted the tarpaulin. A cloud of flies rose up at her. She dropped the fabric, waving her hands and spitting away the flies that tried to enter her mouth.

  There was something under there. Her stomach lurched: this felt wrong. Crystal never left anything behind, and what was that smell?

  Laila lifted one hand to cover her nose and grabbed the tarpaulin with the other. She pulled it up, wishing she hadn’t come here.

  Her mouth fell open. She was oblivious to the flies now, her body numb. She dropped the tarp.

  No. She was imagining things.

  Gingerly, resisting the urge to close her eyes, she lifted the fabric again.

  And screamed.

  Chapter Two

  Detective Chief Inspector Lesley Clarke sat at the wrought iron table, sizing up the cream tea in front of her. She looked across the idyllic garden towards one of the most iconic views England had to offer.

  She drew a deep breath, forced herself to sit upright, and wondered what the hell she’d done to deserve this.

  She picked up her knife. Might as well make the best of it.

  Jam first, or cream? She had a feeling the elderly couple who kept peering at her from the next table along would tut audibly if she got it wrong.

  “We’re in Dorset, mum. Jam first.”

  Lesley turned to see her daughter Sharon standing over her. She’d buggered off to the loo – the lavatory, as the tea room insisted on calling it – and to have an argument with the old bat who ran the place.

  “I told you not to bother,” Lesley said. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the June sunshine. “You never win with women like that.”

  “That’s not like you, Mum.” Sharon sat down and surveyed her own plate of sandwiches. “What would your bosses at West Midlands Police say if they knew the woman behind the counter of a rural tea room had got the better of you?”

  “She didn’t get the better of me.” Lesley put down her knife and picked up the first jam-and-cream-laden scone. She grimaced. “She probably did me a favour.”

  Sharon laughed through a mouthful of granary bread. “You wanted a beer, Mum. Not exactly a crime.”

  Lesley swallowed the first bite and leaned in. “Ah, but it is, sweetheart. Drinking a cold pint on a hot day in a National Trust tea room is clearly a crime most heinous in nature. I should turn myself in.”

  “Not if you’ve ordered a knife and fork meal,” said Sharon.

  Lesley scooped crumbs from her trousers. Sharon had bought them for her. Sensible ones, rain repellent. Designed to be worn on long country walks. Lesley hated them already.

  “She’s still sticking to that line?” she asked her daughter.

  A nod. “Firm as a rock.”

  “I told you she’d ignore you, love. You’re not even old enough to buy beer.”

  “Old enough to stand up for my invalid mum.”

  “Oi.” Lesley reached across the table and swiped at Sharon with her knife. “Less of that.”

  The elderly couple at the next table muttered to each other. Lesley turned to them with a bright, sarcastic smile. They lowered their heads and turned away.

  “Stop it, Mum.”

  Lesley spread jam on the second scone. A pot of tea stood next to her plate. Bleurgh, tea. She’d drunk enough of that over the last few months to fill Boston harbour. If she found a way to eat scones with a fork, would they let her have that pint?

  “Stop what?” She popped more scone into her mouth and treated Sharon to a look of wide-eyed innocence.

  “Winding up the locals. What if they’re the victims of a crime you have to investigate?”

  “They’re not locals.”

  “Why not?” Sharon glanced at the couple. They’d shifted their twiddly wrought iron chairs so their backs were to her and Lesley.

  “Guide book. Nasty his-and-hers turquoise cagoules. That ooh look isn’t everything pretty air.”

  “Shush.”

  Lesley laughed. “I know you don’t like me being rude. Your dad hates it.”

  “Maybe that should tell you something.”

  “Maybe it should.” Lesley leaned back, angled herself to look at the view of Corfe Castle, and turned back again. “But when you get to my age, sweetheart, it’s bloody hard to change your ways.”

  “You’re not that old.”

  “Forty-six is old enough. You’ll understand one day.”

  The elderly couple in the cagoules stood up from their table. The woman gave Lesley a look of disdain as they walked away. Lesley watched them leave, shaking her head.

  “All that because I said bloody.”

  “And the rest of it.” Sharon was gathering plates and cups onto their tray, to make it easier for the kid who was cleaning up. He didn’t look old enough to be lawfully employed.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Lesley said.

  “Habit.”

  “You always were a considerate child.”

  Sharon gave her a look. Lesley knew they were both thinking the same thing: someone in the family had to be. What with Lesley’s infamous abruptness, and Terry’s habit of being so distracted he was incapable of noticing when someone might need his help, perhaps Sharon had spent her childhood compensating.

  Lesley stood up. “Come on, then. You’ve got to pack. Train to Birmingham’s in just over an hour.”

  Sharon’s face clouded. “I’ll miss you, Mum.”

  Lesley gave her a smile that hid her own emotions. “I’ll be home for a visit next weekend. You’ll be busy with school, you won’t even notice I’m gone.”

  “Still. I wish they hadn’t sent you down here.”

  Lesley put a hand on her daughter’s arm. “It’ll only be six months. Time for you to get settled in at your new school in September. I’ll come back when I can, and you and Dad can come down here in the holidays.”

  “He says he’s too busy with work.”

  What could Terry have that would keep him so busy? He was a lecturer in Anthropology at Birmingham University. Hardly high-pressure.

  “He’ll change his tune when he sees the house they’ve rented for me.”

  Sharon laughed. “It’s tiny.”

  Lesley steered her towards the gate that led from the garden of the tea room to the lane leading up to the castle. “Quaint, I think they call it in these parts. Cosy.” She smiled and opened the gate.

  Sharon shook her head. She was sixteen, old enough to leave home in theory. And she had a glittering future ahead of her at a specialist arts school in Birmingham.

  “What was that?” Lesley turned back to the garden.

  “What was what?” asked Sharon.

  Lesley hurried between the tables to a fence that looked out over the fields beneath the castle. She gripped the wood. “I heard...”

  From somewhere out there, a scream sounded.

  “I heard it that time,” Sharon said.

  Lesley turned to her daughter. She knew her eyes would be sparkling. “Someone’s in trouble.”

  “You haven’t even started your new job yet. Let the local police—”

  Lesley gripped Sharon by the shoulders. “I don’t do this just because it’s my job. And besides, local police are probably miles away. Or enjoying a cream tea somewhere.”

  Sharon raised an eyebrow. Lesley peered down at the fields below the castle. She could see what looked like a mound of earthworks, two tents standing on it. They reminded her of forensic tents.

  A young woman ran out of one of the tents. Lesley pointed her out.

  “That’s her.” She grabbed Sharon’s hand. “Come on, your train’ll have to wait.”

  Chapter Three

  Laila stood in the middle of the Rings, looking frantically around. Her scream had frightened away those birds. They’d flapped off noisily, making her scream a second time.

  Her mind ran over what
she’d seen. The main tent covered a broad trench, in the middle of which lay a depression. Laila hadn’t seen it herself, she’d been kept to the smaller trench behind which she now stood. But Crystal had described it to her: human remains. Fragments of bone, centuries old, if not a millennium. Teeth preserved by the damp soil. Sections of a gold necklace, gaps where precious stones would once have been inlaid.

  But that wasn’t what Laila had seen. She brought her hands up to her face and let out a long moan. She shook all over, her limbs trembling.

  She sank to the ground. She was hyperventilating. Where was her inhaler? She’d barely used it since arriving in Dorset, the fresh air had been good for her. It was in her bedroom somewhere.

  Her and Archie’s bedroom. The bedroom that Patrick had been searching through.

  She heard voices and looked up. Two women emerged from the trees between the site and the village. The taller one was in her late forties, with short blonde hair. She wore a faded denim jacket over a pair of walking trousers. The other woman was young, younger than Laila. She had long dark hair that kept catching in the breeze and she wore suede boots that were unsuited to the rough grass. Despite everything, Laila couldn’t help thinking that her boots would be ruined.