Winterman: a tense serial killer thriller by Alex Walters

Author:Alex Walters [Walters, Alex]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloodhound Books
Published: 2019-02-25T16:00:00+00:00

Twenty minutes later, they were on the road. Following Pyke's instructions, they headed west from the village, the tall spire of the church disappearing behind them.

'Can't be much further,' Winterman said. 'Keep your speed down. I don't have your faith in those rusty chains.'

'So who is this? The deceased. Some mate of Pyke's?'

'Your sensitivity does you proud. I don't know. Pyke didn't say much. Must have been a shock.'

'Especially if he was the one doing the murdering.'

Winterman turned to look at Hoxton. The older man was hunched over the steering wheel, his attention apparently fixed firmly on the road. 'Let's keep an open mind, shall we? At least till we've seen what's what.'

'Never opener.'

'Reckon this must be the turning.' Winterman gestured towards a narrower lane leading off to the right. 'There.'

The cottage was only a few hundred yards from the main road, tucked under the shade of a large oak tree. It was an elegant looking place. The building itself looked old – possibly a couple of centuries at least – but it had been renovated in the recent past. Pyke's motorbike, still with its shredded tyres, was parked by the front door.

Hoxton pulled to a halt outside the front door. It opened immediately, and Pyke stood framed inside. His pale shirt looked far too thin for the icy weather, but he seemed untroubled by the cold.

'Thank Christ you're here. I've been going crazy in there.'

Winterman glanced momentarily at Hoxton. 'Don't worry, man. We're here now. Let's see what's happened.'

He followed Pyke into the cottage, noticing that, despite the open front door, the temperature inside was warmer than anywhere else he had been recently. The elegance of the interior matched the external appearance of the cottage. Someone had spent money on the place. The paintings and ornaments that lined the walls and shelves were, to Winterman's untutored eye, equally costly.

He followed Pyke into the kitchen. More expensively understated décor, though the temperature was a few degrees lower.

The reason for that became evident immediately. The rear door into the garden was ajar. As Pyke pulled it open, the chill air swept into the room. Pyke gestured outside, but his own eyes were fixed elsewhere.

There was no mistaking the parallel with Fisher's corpse. This body too lay prone in the middle of what, beneath the snow, was presumably the cottage's rear lawn. The murder weapon appeared to be a knife or dagger, the blade of which was protruding an inch or two from the victim's back. A pool of blood had seeped out into the snow from under the torso.

'I'm sorry,' Winterman said. 'He was a friend?'

Pyke hesitated, as though questioning the terminology. 'Yes. A friend.'

'Who is he?'

'Was,' Pyke corrected gently. 'Howard Merriman. That was his real name.'

'Real name?'

'His stage name was Howard Martin. He was an actor.'

The name rang a vague bell, though Winterman couldn't immediately place it. Possibly he had heard it on the wireless or in some stage production.

'This was his house?' Winterman made no effort to soften the tense this time.

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