Blood Loss Read online

  Blood Loss

  Kerena Swan

  This edition produced in Great Britain in 2021

  by Hobeck Books Limited, Unit 14, Sugnall Business Centre, Sugnall, Stafford, Staffordshire, ST21 6NF

  www.hobeck.net

  Copyright © Kerena Swan 2021

  This book is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in this novel are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Kerena Swan has asserted her right under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the copyright holder.

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

  ISBN 978-1-913-793-25-8 (pbk)

  ISBN 978-1-913-793-24-1 (ebook)

  Cover design by Jayne Mapp Design

  Printed and bound in Great Britain

  Created with Vellum

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  This novel is dedicated to my Mother-in-Law, Angela Swan, who sadly lost her battle with cancer in November 2020. It all happened so fast and we still can’t believe you’re not with us anymore. As well as being a beloved family member, you supported and believed in me and I will always be grateful to you for your enthusiasm and promotion of my writing.

  Nanny Ange, this one’s for you x

  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

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Kerena Swan

  Hobeck Books – the home of great stories

  Here She Lies

  Chapter 1

  February | Sarah

  Twigs and dry leaves scrape and rattle against the wing mirror as I take the corner as fast as I dare. I don’t remember the roads being this narrow when I drove here a week ago, but back then I was excited and happy. Flight was the last thing on my mind. Now the tall hedgerows closing in on either side of the car are making me claustrophobic and I have to swallow down panic at the thought of meeting a car coming the other way. One of us will have to reverse to a passing bay and the driver will see my number plate. My face. The blood…

  Shit! I didn’t pass that croft on the way here. I’d have remembered the stone squirrels adorning the gate posts. I’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere. Another one. These roads all look the same. Trees, grass, hedges and hills. My heart races with panic. Breathe. Breathe.

  I turn the car around in the gateway to a field and slowly, frustratingly, make my way back to the crossroads, finally spotting a road sign half-hidden in the hedgerow. I snatch up the map and peer at it again, the paper trembling in my hand, then throw it back onto the passenger seat and turn left. My heart is still racing. Calm down or you’ll go wrong again. I squeeze the steering wheel to stop my hands shaking and lean forward to give myself the clearest view of the road.

  Last week I was looking forward to a holiday. Last week I had a future. Tears well and spill over and I brush them roughly away, wincing as my fingertips touch the bruises on my face. Then I grasp the steering wheel once more and check the mirrors for the hundredth time. No one behind me. No flashing blue lights, no cars, not even a motorbike. Thank God.

  The adrenaline begins to drain from my system to be replaced by overwhelming weakness. I want to stop the car, lean my head back and shut my eyes but I have to keep going. I have to get away from here before I’m noticed. On impulse I decide I won’t join the motorway at the nearest junction as there might be cameras that will link me to the area. I’ll drive along country roads until I see a sign to the next entrance.

  When I eventually reach the motorway I let out a long, slow breath and the tightness in my muscles eases a little as the miles pass. Maybe they won’t find me now. Should I have run though? There’s still time to go to the police. I can tell them it was self-defence – explain that I panicked and ran away. They’d understand… Maybe.

  Maybe not.

  For a moment I recall the warmth of the blood on my cheek and the expression on his face. A wave of nausea threatens to engulf me so I open the window and let the freezing air gnaw at my skin. I welcome the discomfort. It grounds me in the here and now.

  Two hours and a hundred or so miles later I pass a blue sign indicating services ahead and glance down at the petrol gauge. My heart jolts as I see I have just a quarter of a tank left. Possibly not enough to get me home to Manchester. I need to buy petrol soon but I’m wary of going into a service station. They’ll have cameras and the police will be bound to look at services along the motorway routes. I glance up at a row of yellow cameras on the gantries above the motorway. Are they automatic numberplate recognition cameras or are they just recording speed? Please, please let no one have spotted me and given my registration to the police.

  If only my little car had Satnav. I could jump off the motorway and find a petrol station then get back on further south. But my map is out of date and I can’t risk getting lost. The sky is grey and heavily pregnant with snow. I need to keep moving and get home before the weather worsens. I don’t want to get stuck on the motorway and I don’t have spare money for a hotel or even a cheap bed and breakfast.

  The services slip road approaches
and my fingers twitch towards the indicator. Should I chance it? I need the toilet. Rather desperately, now I’ve thought about it. Tension has dried my mouth so I need a drink too. I think longingly of a cold, sparkling coke. Despite the tantalising image I drive past the entrance, my stomach churning and knotted with tension under my thick coat. I can’t get too near other people.

  So much blood.

  Before I drove away from the cabin I cleaned my face and hands as best as I could with wet-wipes from the glove box and shoved the stained wipes into an old carrier bag. but I couldn’t get the blood off my blue jeans and navy sweatshirt, and I didn’t dare hang around long enough to change my clothes. I just grabbed my few belongings and ran to the car. I’m sure I smell of blood.

  What I need is a pay-at-the-pump petrol station. Maybe one attached to a supermarket with a toilet near the entrance so I can slip in unnoticed. I scan the countryside from left to right hoping to see a building complex with a blue and red Tesco sign but there’s nothing except miles of brown fields and skeletal trees. I realise it’s a terrible idea anyway. I need to pay with cash or my card will be traced and I can’t use cash at the pump. I check my cheap pay-as-you-go phone again to make sure it’s switched off. I’ve watched plenty of police dramas and I know how they track people via their phone signals.

  The traffic increases the further south I get, but I ease into the slow lane and stay behind a lorry while I examine my face in the rear-view mirror. There are still traces of blood around my reddened nose and dark circles are forming under my eyes. By tomorrow I’ll have a pair of comedy shiners. Not that there’s anything comedic about this situation. There are also crusts of blood in my hair, dark red patches, visible against the fairness.

  If I find a quiet place to stop I can get my make-up out of my bag and try to hide the injuries with some heavy-duty concealer. I’m usually good at covering marks left by fists but this one may not be so easy to hide.

  Without warning my eyes fill with tears again. They’re tears of anger as well as fear now. Disappointment is in there too. Crushing disappointment. Because none of this is my fault. None of it.

  The road blurs and I blink rapidly. It’s dangerous to cry while driving, especially on a motorway. I turn the radio up, hoping some music will calm me down but Bryan Adams starts singing, Cuts like a knife, and I snap the radio off abruptly. How could it all have gone so badly wrong? Why is my life so shit?

  Manchester is only five miles away now and I think I have enough petrol to make it, after all. I could return to my rented room and pick up my old life as though nothing has happened. I didn’t tell anyone I was going to Scotland because who would I tell? People at work can be bitchy so I prefer to keep to myself. I reach the junction but instead of turning off I put my foot down and pass it by, the road ahead of me suddenly holding greater appeal.

  A fresh start. That’s what I need. A new life as far away as I can manage. There’s nothing to keep me in Manchester. I’ll go back to Mum’s in Milton Keynes and get a temporary job so I can save up for a place of my own somewhere different. London, perhaps, or maybe Bristol. Supermarket or shop work is usually easy to find. I might need to work long hours and live in one room, but I’m used to that.

  A sign on the verge informs me it’s another 200 miles to London which means Milton Keynes must be about 150 miles away. I badly need petrol now. I’ll take the next exit off the M6 and drive around looking for a garage while there’s still some light then try to find my way back onto the motorway. But it’s another ten miles to the next junction and the red light has been on a while. Fuck. I should have got off sooner.

  Chapter 2

  February | DI Paton

  Detective Inspector Dave Paton disconnected the call to his mobile and looked at his son who was pulling on his coat. This wouldn’t go down well.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tommy, we can’t go bowling today after all. Something has come up at work. I promise we’ll go next Saturday instead.’

  Paton couldn’t deny the shiver he’d felt across his skin when the Chief Inspector said a murder victim had been discovered, and he couldn’t quite decide if it had been alarm or excitement. He longed for a case to challenge him and help him get promotion. Something that would prove he was capable of being the senior investigating officer. After all, he was forty-eight now and if he didn’t achieve this soon it would be too late in his career. With the demands his family placed on him he’d never had the opportunity before. Would this be his chance?

  Tommy paused with one arm in a sleeve. His flat face, small features, and almond-shaped eyes, typical of a child with Down’s syndrome, gave nothing away but his voice was aggrieved. He was nearly as tall as his father and he looked him straight in the eye. ‘You promised, Dad.’

  Paton grabbed his car keys. ‘I know, son, but this is important. I’ll take you to Auntie Ursula’s instead and Mum will pick you up when she finishes work.’ Tommy might be fifteen but he couldn’t be left alone.

  To Paton’s relief, Tommy nodded. He was a nice-natured boy and he understood his dad had important work to do.

  The cold air pinched Paton’s cheeks as they rushed to the car outside. Perthshire in Scotland always seemed much colder compared to Weymouth in the south of England where he grew up. ‘Get in the back please, Tommy. We need to collect Cheryl.’ Ten minutes later Paton pulled up at the kerb and Detective Constable Cheryl Campbell scrambled in.

  ‘Hi, boss. Any more info?’ She clipped her seat belt on quickly as he accelerated away. He did have more information, but he couldn’t tell her yet.

  ‘Hello, DC Cheryl.’

  She swivelled in her seat to look behind her.

  ‘Tommy! I didn’t realise you were with us.’ She smiled at the boy then glanced across at Paton with her eyebrows raised.

  Tommy leaned forward and patted her shoulder. ‘I’m coming to work with you.’

  His round face was creased into a wide smile and his thick tongue muffled his speech.

  ‘Sorry. Not today, Plodders.’ Paton flashed Tommy a quick smile, using the nickname he’d earned as a small boy when he’d insisted on being called PC Plod. ‘I’m dropping you at Auntie Ursula’s like we agreed. We’ll do some investigating another day. Perhaps we can track down the thief who’s been raiding the biscuit jar.’

  ‘Oh, Dad, I know it was you.’ Tommy laughed and sat back in his seat. ‘He ate all the Fox’s Crunch Creams again,’ Tommy told Cheryl. ‘Mum will be cross.’

  ‘How is your mum?’

  Paton glanced sideways at Cheryl. She knew about Wendy’s bouts of depression which confined her to bed for a week or two and sometimes longer. In fact, his whole team knew but he wasn’t keen on discussing it in front of Tommy, or at all for that matter. Paton’s private life was just that. Private. He couldn’t have people feeling sorry for him and thinking he couldn’t do his job properly. They got by… just, although it was difficult at times.

  ‘Mum’s upset. She found three grey hairs the other day,’ Tommy said with a small shake of his head.

  Cheryl grinned.

  ‘I wish I could come to work there again. Where are you and Cheryl going, Dad?’

  Paton looked at his son in the rear-view mirror and felt a rush of affection. Tommy had his heart set on being a detective like his father and Grandfather and had recently been given the opportunity of two weeks’ work experience in the police station staff canteen. He was devastated when it finished. He’d even helped solve a problem case for Paton, albeit unwittingly.

  ‘Will you need your handcuffs? Is someone stealing again?’ Tommy pulled a plastic set of cuffs from his pocket. ‘You can borrow mine if you’ve forgotten yours.’ He dangled them between the front seats.

  ‘I won’t, but thanks for the offer.’ Paton stopped outside his sister’s house. ‘Come on, out you get. Maybe Mum will buy you fish and chips when she finishes work.’ Paton’s stomach growled at the thought of food and he sighed. ‘Tell her I’ll grab a sandwich somewhere.’


  A few flakes of snow landed like dandruff on Paton’s grey overcoat as he walked Tommy to the house before hurrying back to the car. He flicked the wipers on and leaned forward, peering through the fine snow to the road ahead.

  ‘Right, Cheryl. This is what we’ve got. At 3.20pm a family went into the local police station and said they’d discovered a body at the holiday cabin they’d rented. It was the sixteen year old son who found the victim – stabbed apparently. The father confirmed it. The wife and daughter didn’t see anything. Full statements and DNA samples are being taken and their clothing kept for testing. They had other stuff with them to change into, luckily. I wouldn’t have fancied our chances of finding a clothes shop to fit them all out around here.’

  ‘Poor kid. In fact, poor family. This will be one holiday they’ll never forget. Do we know who the cabin belongs to?’ Cheryl asked. ‘They might know the victim.’