Pauline Manders - Utterly Roasted

UTTERLY ROASTED

by

PAULINE MANDERS

Published in 2018 by Ottobeast Publishing

ottobeastpublishing@gmail.com

Copyright Pauline Manders 2018

All rights reserved.

Pauline Manders has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

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

Cover design Rebecca Moss Guyver.

ISBN 978-1-912861-01-9

Also by Pauline Manders

Utterly Explosive (2012)

Utterly Fuelled (2013)

Utterly Rafted (2013)

Utterly Reclaimed (2014)

Utterly Knotted (2015)

Utterly Crushed (2016)

Utterly Dusted (2017)

To Paul, Fiona, Alastair, Karen, Andrew, Katie and Mathew.

PAULINE MANDERS

Pauline Manders was born in London and trained as a doctor at University College Hospital, London. Having gained her surgical qualifications, she moved with her husband and young family to East Anglia, where she worked in the NHS as an ENT Consultant Surgeon for over 25 years. She used her maiden name throughout her medical career and retired from medicine in 2010.

Retirement has given her time to write crime fiction, become an active member of a local carpentry group, and share her husbands interest in classic cars. She lives deep in the Suffolk countryside.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My thanks to: Beth Wood for her positive advice, support and encouragement; Pat McHugh, my mentor and hardworking editor with a keen sense of humour, mastery of atmosphere and grasp of characters; Rebecca Moss Guyver for her boundless enthusiasm and inspired cover artwork and design; David Withnall for his proof reading skills; Emma Bennett for allowing me to spend a short time behind the scenes as a temporary waitress; Mark Brewster for patiently answering my fishing questions; Sue Southey for her cheerful reassurances and advice; the Write Now Bury writers group for their support; and my husband and family, on both sides of the English Channel & the Atlantic, for their love and support.

CHAPTER 1

C hrissie rested back into the Ford Mondeo passenger seat. The early morning daylight tinged hard grey as Clive drove smoothly along the single-lane road leading away from the Harwich Port Customs and Passport Control buildings.

And remember to drive on the left side of the road , she murmured moments later, as they passed road signs now also warning of two-way traffic. She glanced at Clive, his face less careworn, more deeply tanned than on their outward journey. Yes, she thought, the weeks holiday had been good for body and soul, but she couldnt help noticing how the tightness around his jaw and frown lines deepened with every mile they travelled onto the mainland and edged closer to Suffolk. 07:22 blinked from the dashboard display.

A sudden ringtone cut across the quiet engine hum, the strident sound distorted and amplified by the car speakers.

Yes? Clive sounded clipped, efficient, but his face spoke tension and irritation as he answered the call on the hands-free system.

Chrissie sighed and closed her eyes, her head easy against the headrest. Now what, she wondered. She knew she was bound to hear both sides of the conversation and her question would be answered, but Clives first call so soon? She hadnt expected it.

Sorry to call so early on your first day back, but....

Chrissie recognised the cheese-grater qualities of Detective Sergeant Stickleys tones.

Somethings come up?

Yes. Weve had a call. A womans body has been found in a car near Tattingstone, the voice seemed to drift, Are you driving at the moment?

Yes, weve just left the ferry, havent got home yet. Hell, Stickley, its not even eight oclock. You go to the scene. Report back to me.

I have, and I am. Thats why Im calling. Its, well this ones unusual.

Unusual? A body in a car? How?

The car is in a paint spraying booth.

So? Clive seemed to fire the word.

I dont know how much you know about spraying booths, but this one doesnt only pass clean air through it, Stickleys voice dropped, its also got another feature.

Come on, Stickley. Less of the drip feed. Just tell me.

It can heat the air as well, like an oven function to cure the paint.

An oven function? Clive murmured.

It was jammed on at 140 degrees Fahrenheit.

Oh my God , Chrissies inner voice screamed. Her head spun with Fahrenheit to Celsius conversions. By her reckoning 140 Fahrenheit must feel as if you were breathing air almost fifty per cent hotter than your own body. What would it do to you?

For a minute the soothing hum from the engine filled the Mondeo.

Have you called the SOC team? The Duty Pathologist? Clive finally asked, his words flat, emotionless.

Yes, theyll be here soon.

Do you have any idea if it was the heat that did for her, or could something else have killed her? Clives even tones dragged Chrissie back from her thoughts. Well be driving past the turning to Tattingstone shortly. Can you give me the exact location?

What? You cant drive straight to Tattingstone now, Chrissie blurted across Stickleys directions, her eyes now open, agitation rising. Clive, I need to get home first. Im due in the workshop this morning. Ive a business to run. There was no point in adding she didnt want to go anywhere near the shocking find.

He didnt seem to be listening. Impassive lines had set hard across his face. It told her the holiday was over. He was back in detective inspector mode. This was business as usual with his DS.

With each tree and hedgerow flashing past, she felt their break recede and her thoughts accelerate. Those lazy glasses of wine and tastings of Gouda, chocolate and darkly aromatic coffee seemed a lifetime ago; Amsterdam another planet. To her mind, the journey back from the ferry should have been part of the holiday, but Stickleys stark announcement had just changed all that. Shed imagined opening the front door of their cottage in Woolpit; a pile of post on the mat and her laptop sitting on the narrow kitchen table, its inbox full of unread emails. Only then had she planned to shed her holiday mantle.

Hell, it had taken her long enough to get into holiday mode, and now shed been catapulted back. What happened to the gentle re-entry? Another mile and she wouldnt be able to recall half the Dutch masterpieces shed seen or the names of the places shed visited.

Clive, how am I supposed to get to work? she said, exasperation sharpening her voice as he turned off the Harwich road and headed towards the smaller A137.

This wont take long, Chrissie. If I take a look at the scene now, before the SOC team are crawling all over it with their paraphernalia, Ill get a better feel for it. We dont have to stay long. I just want first impressions. The crime scene photos and forensics will give me the rest. So - just first impressions, then well drive home. OK?