Dead and Gone: A gripping serial killer thriller (DI Danny Flint Book 2) by Trevor Negus

Author:Trevor Negus [Negus, Trevor]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Inkubator Books
Published: 2021-05-15T16:00:00+00:00

30

9.00pm, 29 March 1986

Teversal Manor, Cotgrave, Nottinghamshire

Paul Fencham rang the ornate doorbell again.

This time, a light came on in the hallway of the grand house. He had parked his small Datsun car on the road outside the house, then walked up the gravel driveway. He’d been amazed at the size of the palatial residence. Since leaving the army, Geoff Naylor had really done well for himself.

Fencham had been stunned when, out of the blue, he had received the telephone call from Naylor. Of course, he had already heard about the murder of Geoff Naylor’s son, Cavalie, from the news desk. As a crime reporter for the Nottingham Evening Standard, it was his job to know about any major enquiries being undertaken by the police.

The telephone call had still surprised him, though. He didn’t understand why Naylor, the successful businessman, had called him to say he had information for a story.

He hadn’t seen Geoff since they were both demobbed from the army back in the fifties. Both men had served in the same regiment during the Korean War. They had been close during their time in the service, but, as is normal for people, they had drifted apart when they returned to civilian life. He hadn’t seen Geoff Naylor at any of the Korea Veterans reunions he’d attended over the ensuing years.

He’d been shocked that Naylor even knew he was a reporter.

Paul Fencham was a realist who understood that, at his time of life, he was never going to get that lucky break. He knew that the one big story that would set him up, enabling him to become a top reporter for a national Fleet Street paper, was never going to happen.

He was now the wrong side of fifty and had started drinking heavily after his divorce five years ago. He was a short, squat man at least three stone overweight. He couldn’t afford to buy a suit, so he wore a tatty tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, a grimy blue shirt, a garish mustard-coloured tie and scruffy, stain-ridden black trousers. His brown brogues were scuffed and devoid of any polish. He had a permanent five o’clock shadow, and his once-blonde hair was now grey and receding rapidly.

All in all, Paul Fencham was a mess, and more tellingly, he knew he was a mess.

He could now hear footsteps from inside the house, approaching the double front doors.

A lock was turned from within, and the right-side door opened. Geoff Naylor stood there with a cut-glass tumbler, full of whisky, in his hand. Involuntarily, Fencham licked his lips at the sight of the amber-coloured liquor.

‘Well, don’t just stand there, Fenchers, come inside,’ said a clearly tipsy Naylor.

Fencham stepped inside the grandiose hallway. Naylor closed the door and said in a slurred voice, ‘This way, old friend; follow me.’

Fencham followed him along the hallway and into a huge lounge.

‘Grab a seat, Fenchers. Can I get you a drink?’

It was the second time Naylor had referred to him by his old army nickname.

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