Condemned

  Condemned

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  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

  Acknowledgements

  DI Charley Mann Crime Thrillers

  About the Author

  Also by R.C. Bridgestock

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  At this time, amid the current pandemic of Covid-19 the emergency services across the country are being pressed to their limit. Morale is tanking and the stresses of the job are ever increasing…

  We would like to dedicate this book to the countless doctors, nurses and healthcare workers treating coronavirus patients, for their selfless commitment and diligence as they undertake vitally important roles to protect and improve the health of people in these testing times, and to all these who have lost their lives fighting the virus.

  &

  To our police family who put themselves in harm’s way every day in the pursuit of justice and to make the world a safer place, by bringing to justice those individuals who seek to inflict pain, injury and suffering. For this they are rarely shown gratitude - in fact they are frequently ridiculed for their virtuous acts. Your commitment is laudable and necessary work.

  ‘Blessed are the peacekeepers, for they shall be called the children of God.’ Matthew 5.9

  Chapter 1

  Cold air, peppered with icy rain, smacked Charley’s face the minute she opened her front door, temporarily blinding her. Immediately she put her chin to her chest and pulled her hood over her head. She turned her back on the snowstorm and stepped down onto the gritted pathway as she put the key in the door, and locked it. On doing so, she stole a glance up at her bedroom window, and a shiver came from deep within. The yearning for the warm bed she’d abandoned was overwhelming, but duvet days were seldom come by for a Senior Investigating Officer in charge of serious crime. Aristotle’s words hovered on her quivering lips; ‘To appreciate a snowflake, you have to stand out in the snow.’ Yorkshire weather was rarely predictable.

  Ghostly, freezing fog hovered above the thin layer of snow, every inch of the path ahead covered with the white powder. Teeth chattering, Charley cautiously put one foot in front of the other, fearing with every step that she might slip on the ice lurking beneath. With shaking hands, she rummaged in her coat pocket for the car keys. Relieved to be out of the worst of it, once safe inside the vehicle she sat patiently waiting for the windows to defrost, letting the engine idle for a few moments. There was no rush about her. The dead body was going nowhere until the SIO arrived, suspicious circumstances or not.

  Tuning in to the local radio station, Charley listened with interest to the forecast as she considered her route out of the village of Marsden, coming quickly to the conclusion that it would be best to avoid her preferred route to the Calder Valley over the Packhorse bridge, via the scenic valleys, rugged peaks and crags, and head for the more reliable A62.

  As if in response to her thinking, the radio presenter announced, ‘Take care if you’re driving on the A62 between Marsden and Diggle, it’s allegedly the fourth most dangerous road in Britain.’ Charley raised an eyebrow. How come she had lived in Huddersfield all her life, yet she didn’t know that? The following news distressed her: a report of the fire brigade attending a house fire at the local property known as Crownest.

  Rubbing her palms over her face, she groaned. There had long been accounts of strange events reportedly taking place, and numerous mysteries associated with the family who owned the property. Charley wondered if these would now cease? The last she’d heard was that the house had been put up for sale, and that plans for its demolition were imminent, and for some reason that news had made her extremely sad.

  When the windscreen cleared, she saw that her neighbours’ curtains remained firmly closed, shutting out the outside world. ‘You must be wrong in t’head to have sought the position of a regional Head of Crime in the fourth largest police force in the land. Especially in winter.’ she said to her reflection in the rearview mirror.

  As she spoke her breath formed plumes of vapour, and as it rose, she saw what looked like the blurred image of two black eyes looking back at her. Adjusting the direction of the car’s airflow vents made them vanish. She chuckled, she was definitely ‘wrong in t’head’.

  * * *

  On the approach to Marsden Moor Charley was delighted to see the ghostly outline of the orange flashing lights on a gritter wagon on the road ahead. Once the road surface was treated, it was left to the traffic to do the rest; to wear ruts into the ploughed snow that would turn to slush and eventually clear. She knew that following the gritter slowly was her best chance of making progress to the scene of the body that Control at Headquarters had requested she attend. The crime’s location wasn’t her normal patch. Although, she conceded, if the formidable, legendary Detective Inspector Jack Dylan doubted his ability to get there, God only knew what made them think she could! Harrowfield was his domain, and he was closer than she was to the cadaver. She weighed up the HQ controller’s thought pattern – maybe given the conditions, it was likely wise having two officers attempting to get to the scene, to determine if it was foul play or not?

  Born and bred on the Marsden moors, she was aware more than most, that the four seasons brought dramatic changes to the land across which she travelled, but thanks to her folk whose ancestors were all farmers, she knew the moors like the back of her hand. Today the going was slow. The patchy low cloud made sure of that. In fact, so dense was the fog, that at times Charley felt as if she was in a spaceship on its way to an unknown universe. The prevailing fog meant that the journey offered up surprising corners and sweeping curves, but when the veil was lifted, Charley relaxed a little, as she could see long stretches of road, way ahead of her. She turned up the radio and hummed along to the music. When she knew the words she sang, and when she didn’t, she made them up.

  Suddenly blue flashing lights on the receding horizon in her rearview mirror, grabbed her attention. Charley put her foot slowly on her brake and steered the car as far into the side of the road as she dared, without fear of getting stuck in a snow drift. She let the fire engine pass. Radio now off, she looked at her watch. Becoming increasingly warm, she turned down the heater. The windscreen began to mist over, just slightly, but it was enough to make her wind down her window only to be confronted with a confusion of cawing. She looked up. A murder of crows circled their roost in a well-protected copse of trees, which hugged the rocky base of Millstone Edge. ‘It’s an omen…’ she could hear granny’s caution. She remembered how her younger self, puzzled by her granny’s discomfo
rt, had questioned the remark. Charley was an inquisitive child. ‘It’s the harbinger that guides souls from the realm of the living into the afterlife, lass.’

  ‘What a load of old codswallop,’ Charley could hear her mother Ada retort, quite clearly. Turning to Charley, Ada’s voice had softened to a whisper in her ear. ‘Your granny is ruled by the moon. Another day she’ll tell you a crow is a sign of a spiritual blessing. Whatever suits. Isn’t that right, Mother?’ Charley’s mother had no time for the old lady’s fables, but Charley loved spending time with her granny. Unkindly regarded as ‘loopy’ by some, Granny was hugely entertaining. Never short of telling a good story, Granny had been the youngster’s favourite playmate.

  When the fire crew had passed, Charley nudged the accelerator with her foot, and very slowly the car crept forward on the packed ice. Looking ahead at the darkening sky, she found herself transfixed by the number of large birds diving, lunging and cawing in singles, and in pairs, as they flew around above her vehicle in a circle, before they began to break apart. The car then plunged into another wall of dense fog, and the birds were lost to her. Concentrating hard in order to see ahead, Charley carefully navigated her way around a hairpin bend, and then another, until all of a sudden, the fog snapped away again and she was upon Eastergate, as if the car had found its way all by itself.

  Below her, the hill peaks reared up into the low clouds, and in front she saw the shadow of an impressive detached, period property smouldering in the distance; Crownest. Locally, the house was of huge interest, rumoured as it was to be haunted, with its extensive grounds used by witches in days gone by, for dark, satanic rituals. Or, at least that’s what Granny said. What couldn’t be mistaken was the hive of activity that now surrounded the property, just as Charley envisaged after hearing the earlier radio announcement concerning the fire.

  At that moment her phone rang. It made her jump, such was her focus on the house. She steered the car off the road, and into the gateway to Crownest; the only place that was free from snow.

  Detective Constable Annie Glover didn’t give her boss time to speak. ‘Have you been stood down?’

  ‘No, why?’ Charley was slightly confused.

  ‘I’ve just been reading the Chief’s log. Dylan’s just pronounced the body as not suspicious, so I guess you will be stood down soon.’

  ‘Good,’ Charley said, her eyes seeking out the extent of the fire damage at the house. Then it came to her. ‘Wait on, what are you doing at work?’

  Annie grimaced. ‘Err… I’ve been called in.’

  Charley frowned. ‘What for?’

  ‘Ricky-Lee asked me to cover for him, apparently the Force’s rugby team has had several cry off, and it’s an important match.’

  ‘I bet.’ Charley mumbled under her breath. ‘Where’s the nearest race meeting?’

  The line went deathly quiet. ‘Wetherby, I guess. He’s circled the runners and riders in the paper on his desk.’

  * * *

  Realising she’d potentially dropped Detective Constable Ricky-Lee Lewis in it, Annie quickly ended the call, but she needn’t have worried, as Charley’s attention had been drawn to the name on the demolition company’s vans parked in the driveway. NEVERMORE adorned the vehicles’ rear and side which were tucked in tightly against the dry-stone wall boundary of the property, which had long since seen a reduction in height since it was built.

  A lanky young lad with a hard hat, and an oversized, threadbare donkey jacket that had seen better days, came alongside the fire engines towards Charley’s car. He saw her looking at the faded, battered ‘For Sale’ sign hanging on the gateway.

  ‘Howya! You’re a bit late if you were thinking of buying it.’

  Charley smiled. ‘Oh, no, I’m not in the market for buying a house, especially one with such a ghastly history – or thrilling – depending on your position on the macabre.’

  ‘Well, while you’re here, crack on and help yourself to some of that lovely dry-stone walling,’ he smiled with twinkling Irish eyes. ‘It makes a nice rockery, so me oul’ fella says, and he should know; he’s a real cute hoor!’ When he saw Charley’s questioning look, he continued in a whisper, ‘Don’t worry, no one’s going to notice a few stones missing now, are they, the wall’s banjaxed, and I’m not about to tell.’ With his mind very obviously on more important things the young man looked this way and that, as if anticipating someone’s imminent arrival.

  Charley nodded her head, and made no attempt to move. ‘Indeed. I bet that’s what they all say – those that have taken just a few stones, that is.’

  He watched Charley’s eyes continue to study the building and called out to her, ‘the stories about this place, they’ll no doubt go on.’

  She was surprised by his interest. ‘I guess so,’ said Charley, knowing that soon the formidable property which had been part of the scenery of her childhood would be reduced to a pile of rubble, making it impossible to find the facts to disprove the legends associated with it. From here on, the only proof of the house’s existence and occupation by the Alderman family would be the tales passed down by word of mouth.

  Shoulders hunched, and with his hands deep in his jacket pockets the young man hopped from foot to foot. His face pinched and grey, his lips held a blue cast. ‘I wish they’d hurry up,’ he said, his voice quivering. The noise his metal toe-caps made on the tarmac made her look down at his work boots – very obviously secondhand, or borrowed.

  ‘Who?’ Charley furrowed her brow. Her phone rang. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. She took the call but her eyes remained on the young man who now stood under the entrance to St Anne’s Church across the road from Crownest, which provided him a little shelter from the icy wind.

  ‘Ma’am, since you’re already out and about, Control are asking CID to attend at a property called Crownest. The Fire Brigade in attendance suggest circumstances could be suspicious. I wonder if you’d mind calling on your way back?’ Charley’s eyes raised to meet the workman’s watching her from over the road.

  ‘Tell Control I’m already at the scene, although I’m not sure what I can do, the fire is still going, but I’ll liaise.’

  Much to the young man’s surprise, Charley turned off her car engine and got out of the car. He eyed her quizzically.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Finn, why?’ Without waiting for an answer, he carried on impatiently. ‘Where are t’Old Bill when you need ’em? I’ll tell you where they are, they’re all over mi’ oul’ fella like flies on cow shit. Once a wrong ’un always a wrong ’un in the Old Bill’s eyes.’ Finn looked back at the house with concern in his eyes. ‘He swears he’s done nowt wrong this time. Holy Joe!’

  Charley frowned. ‘Holy Joe?’

  ‘The gaffer, he’s doing his nut. Truth is, if the plod don’t come soon, he’ll have no choice but to send us off site, and that can’t ’appen. I need the money to give to mi Ma for the young ’un’s Christmas party.’

  ‘Why’s that then?’

  Finn’s face fell. ‘The old fella, he’s been sent down this morning by the Magistrates which is why I’m ’ere instead of at college.’

  Charley’s look was a wry one. ‘Come on. I guess, right now I’m the answer to your prayers.’

  The young man looked at her once, then twice. The silence of the early morning was only broken by the scrape of a snowplough on the road coming towards them. He closed his eyes momentarily. His pale face became suddenly flushed as her revelation hit him.

  Finn lowered his head. ‘What an eejit! I’m sorry, Missus. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.’

  A smile escaped Charley’s lips. ‘Better show me the way if we’re gonna try keep this site open, eh?’

  * * *

  She followed Finn. The high security fencing erected around the building’s perimeter displayed danger signs as she approached. For her safety, she was taken down the side of the left wing of the building which was mostly a shell, blackened and still smoking. Moving slowly and carefu
lly over debris, Charley took a moment to glance up at the beautiful, high, ornate, carved stone arches that without a roof, reached up towards the sky. Charley’s heart felt heavy, distraught for the sorry state of the property which was rich in history, and once so grand.

  The pair picked their way through rubble, which combined with the water from the fire hoses was now a sloppy, wet mess. They managed to avoid the worst of the mud and the deepest puddles, but had to keep an eye out to negotiate where there was fallen debris. As she moved slowly over the site to the front of the house, Charley got a glimpse of a number of yellow hard-hatted heads, huddled together in conversation at the far side of the overgrown bowling green, beyond which was an extensive garden that wrapped itself around the house. The glistening white branches of the leafless trees in the wood beyond looked as if they were frozen in time, and space.

  Finn guided her carefully past two site containers. A bulldozer stood next to a cherry-picker.

  The idle demolition workers were facing away from Charley, but could be heard joking with the fire crew for putting out the house fire that had been keeping them warm. As the fire crew continued to clean up, the banter made it obvious, quite quickly, that the fire was nothing but a hindrance to the demolition team, as they couldn’t get on with their work. No wonder Finn’s boss was ‘doing his nut’ if he was paying them just to stand around. Charley could see that left to the elements, Crownest had taken a battering from the inclement weather. Ferocious gale force winds, torrential rain and snow had savaged it on all sides for over a hundred years, but yet it had survived – until the unexplained fires had started. Not the first a few weeks ago, but the second had finally destroyed it beyond repair, and now another today, even though this time the house was already in the hands of the demolition services.

  Finn touched her arm gently. ‘You wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ll go find Mr Greenwood.’

  * * *

  Charley stood with her back to the men, who were beginning to show interest in her. She studied the house frontage which appeared on the face of it barely touched by the fires. That is until her eyes reached up as far as the roof. The skeletal roof was silhouetted against the now darkening grey skies. If God were looking down on her, he would send rain instead of more snow. She shivered as large snowflakes began to fall.