Julia Thomas - Penhale wood : a mystery

Copyright Information

Penhale Wood 2017 by Julia Thomas.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First e-book edition 2017

E-book ISBN: 9780738752846

Book format by Bob Gaul

Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Thomas, Julia, author.

Title: Penhale wood / Julia Thomas.

Description: First edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota: Midnight Ink, [2017]

Identifiers: LCCN 2017006569 (print) | LCCN 2017010850 (ebook) | ISBN

9780738752501 (alk. paper) | ISBN 9780738752846

Subjects: LCSH: MurderInvestigationFiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3620.H6286 P46 2017 (print) | LCC PS3620.H6286 (ebook)

| DDC 813/.6dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017006569

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To Caitlin and Heather, with love

One

Detective Chief Inspector Robert McIntyre stared out the foggy window as his train pulled into Paddington Station, trying to ignore the bustle of passengers around him. It was a few days before Christmas, and he was looking forward to seeing his brother, although anything would have been a break after the brutal murder case hed been working on for the past nine weeks. An attractive, thirty-eight-year-old mother of two who ran a local estate agents had been found stabbed to death in her car in mid-October. The womans ex-husband, who admitted to a bitter custody dispute involving their two children, had been the prime suspect due to lack of an alibi on the night in question. Nothing was found, however, and the case stalled for lack of evidence.

Just a week earlier, however, McIntyre had gotten a break when an anonymous tip led him to a construction worker in Falmouth who had bragged to a mate that hed killed her because she hadnt responded to his advances. The man had followed her for some weeks trying to ask her out, and murdered her when shed threatened to call the police. The case finally ended with the mans confession and an arrest, causing the entire Truro Police force to heave a collective sigh of relief. Murder in small communities could be devastating, particularly those that went unsolved, and McIntyre had seen his share of those. But for now, he could relax and think about the holiday and put it all behind him.

It had been a long, tiring journey. He sat up and rubbed his neck, which was stiff and sore from spending five hours in the same position. Hed been trying to concentrate on a bookAlisons bookthough hed been unable to get past the first chapter. Theyd been living together for ten years when she left, right after completing her novel. In spite of the reviews, he found it inaccessible. Shed had a side to her that was cold and even calculating, he supposed, in order to walk out on him without a word.

Hours earlier, hed stumbled onto her novel at a bookshop and purchased it on impulse, though most of the trip had been spent staring at her photograph on the inside back cover. In it, she wore an Aran Isles sweater, her blonde hair falling below her shoulders. The photo had been taken in Robin Hoods Bay two summers ago, outside her favorite hotel. He knew because hed taken it himself. It had been a perfect week, walking along the sea and talking in pubs. Hed bought her a heather-colored shawl and she hadnt taken it off the entire time. Even afterwards, shed worn it often, and when it wasnt being worn, she draped it over an armchair in their bedroom.

He should have known the relationship was over when she put it away. Two months after she moved out, he discovered the shawl in a bottom drawer. For a while, he draped it over the chair again, but it didnt feel right. He folded it again and put it away, hoping one day she would reappear and claim it.

This was the first time in a decade hed spent a Christmas without her, and he missed her. He missed being part of a couple, as well. They had always looked forward to a week in London at the holidays, taking in a play and ice skating at Somerset House. He was focused on his work the rest of the year, and left her alone too much. Every few days, he unloaded his troubles with peers over a pint, and she amused herself decorating his house and setting up a study in which she could write. She soon joined a poetry club and was gone two nights a week, reading her verses aloud to small crowds. Before long, she took to inviting fledgling poets to their house for long nights of drinking wine and discussing Eliot and Yeats. He grew tired of the constant influx of visitors, not to mention the dent in his wine bill.

Eventually, Alison decided to write a novel. Hed encouraged her in the beginning, but after a few months, he began to have his doubts. It was a long and arduous process, and she withdrew from him more each passing day. One evening, when hed come home after work, she was gone. He never knew what had gone wrong, and she didnt return his calls. A friend at the station located her a couple of weeks later at a rented house in Lincolnshire, but he didnt try to contact her. There was simply no point.

The train shuddered to a stop. McIntyre stood, anxious to stretch his limbs. He put the book on the seat and proceeded to tug on his coat. People jostled him as they moved forward to collect their belongings.

Excuse me, a young woman said behind him, tapping him on the shoulder. Her cheeks were scarlet, as if shed been standing outside in the cold rather than suffering piped-in heat in a stuffy railway car.

He glanced back, certain that he had not cut in front of her. Yes?

Is that yours? She gestured toward his vacant seat, at Alisons book.

McIntyre hesitated for a moment. No. No, it isnt.

But its the Alison Kendall book.

Someone must have left it, he said, shrugging.