Courting Death Read online

  COURTING DEATH

  Book 3

  British Crime with an

  American Twist series

  by Elleby Harper

  Copyright 2018 Elleby Harper

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  Disclaimer and Terms of Use

  This book is a work of fiction. All the characters, incidents and dialogue in it are fictitious and drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any trademarks, product names, or named features are only used for reference and are assumed to be property of their respective owners.

  For any inquiries regarding this book, please email

  [email protected]

  Also by Elleby Harper

  British crime with an American twist series

  Driven to Death

  Stolen Daughters

  Courting Death

  Death for Sale - Available July 2018

  Victorian Ghost Mystery series

  The Undertaker’s Daughter

  About this book

  Only your therapist knows your darkest secrets…

  Two murder victims. One confession. An open and shut case…or not?

  Hot shot lawyer Isla Standing believes the truth belongs in court, even if that means risking her own career.

  After overturning a police conviction and shattering a family man’s reputation, Harley Carroll’s case becomes an emotionally charged investigation full of unexpected twists for the Youth Crimes Team. DCI Bex Wynter must follow a long-dead trail of evidence, secrets and hidden agendas to solve this murder mystery.

  But truth comes with a price and who will pay?

  In a story that mixes legal suspense with realistic police drama, Courting Death is a character-driven crime mystery that will keep you glued till the end. Part of the British Crime with an American Twist series, packed with realism and filled with richly diverse characters.

  This is the third book to feature American Bex Wynter at the London Met with the Youth Crimes Team. While each book in the series can be read as a stand alone, the story will be enhanced if read in sequence. That way the development of relationships between the characters can be better understood and appreciated.

  Table of Contents

  Also by Elleby Harper

  About this book

  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

  You can make a big difference

  A Preview Excerpt from Driven to Death

  Want more from Elleby Harper?

  Connecting with Elleby Harper

  About Elleby Harper

  Chapter 1

  Halloween night, 13 months earlier

  My heart pounded so loudly I almost didn’t hear the shout from the other end of the house.

  “Harley! Har-ley! Don’t keep me waiting!” The voice floated across the hallway, laced with equal measures of threat and cajoling.

  This was my cue to action, but my arms hung leaden at my side and my feet were frozen to the tiles on the kitchen floor. The only part of me that felt capable of movement was my heart, pumping and bumping against my ribcage like a bird caught in a trap.

  I sucked in a calming breath and forced myself to visualize what I planned to do. My actions were like a map laid in front of me, or a set of instructions for assembling a flatpack of furniture. I had been over them so many times in my mind I hoped they would be second nature.

  “Harley! Don’t make me come and get you!”

  His calls were like nails driving through my skull.

  My hand clenched around the heft of the knife I had found exactly where I knew it was kept, in the wooden block on the kitchen bench. I had tested its point against my fingertip and thrummed its edge with my thumb. It was sharp. Sharp enough to separate the flesh from the bones of a monster.

  My fingers trembled until, clutching the knife tight like a security blanket, I edged out of the kitchen. One footstep after the other led me past the staircase and the front door. At the end of the narrow hallway was the door to his “office”. That was his joke, his nasty perverted joke. This was no office. I thought of it as the den of iniquity, only that phrase was too mild for the perversions that he carried out in that room.

  The door was ajar. Through the triangular wedge soft light spilled across the carpet that met the tiled hallway. The ludicrousness of it almost made me snigger out loud. Was he trying to create a romantic ambience as he lurked behind that door to rape and sodomize his way through the evening?

  “I swear if you make me come and get you, you’ll regret it!”

  The closeness of the words made me jump. I swallowed the lump that had built up in my throat and changed the knife momentarily to my other hand as I wiped my sweaty palm against the cloth of my pants. This close to achieving my plans I couldn’t let my resolve falter.

  He’s a child molester. He likes doing what he does too much to ever seek help to overcome his urges.

  I repeated the mantra silently in my mind, reminding myself that what I did tonight would protect any future victims and avenge all his past victims. Death wouldn’t undo all the harm he’d wreaked for years, but it would save other kids from being ravaged.

  He doesn’t consider what he does monstrous so he’s never going to stop.

  Unless I stop him.

  I tried to visualize what my eyes would meet behind the door: a middle-aged man reclining on his chaise longue, naked as he awaited his ritual Monday night perversions.

  “Harley, it’s time!” Impatience and menace vied for supremacy in the words.

  I sidled around the open door, the knife tucked out of sight beside my leg, veins pounding in my head at the sight of his pale limbs outstretched on the brown suede chaise. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his bobbing erection, sheathed in a condom. Keith Carroll, stalwart family man, doting father, helpful mentor. Not! What would his friends and neighbors think if they could see him now?

  “Don’t stand there like a stuffed dummy!” he snapped. One latex-gloved hand waved me impatiently forward. “And what’s with the mask and costume? Aren’t you too old to be dressing up for Halloween? Take it off! No, wait! Leave it on.” His lips split in a lascivious grin. “It might add a little spice for the night. Now, get over here.”

  Keith’s voice, thick with lust, struck my ears and triggered an avalanche of repugnant images like a swarm of bees invading my head. Visions of those latex-covered fingers crawling over soft young flesh brought my hatred boiling to the surface. Pent up rage built into such excruciating intensity it left my body trembling.

>   The monster’s mouth kept moving as I stepped forward, but I could no longer hear the words. I watched his loose lips shape into a smirk.

  I had thought long and hard about where my first cut would be to have maximum impact. Now I savored the moment as my arm lashed out, the knife slicing Keith’s forehead, before he even registered what was happening. Blood sluiced downwards into his eyes and his arms flailed upwards as he was blinded.

  Through my unleashed fury I heard him rain a stream of curses upon my head, while my arm hacked at his upper torso, stabbing again and again. Blood gushed from him, splattering me. He struggled to find a purchase to push off the chaise against me. I shoved him back, his body flopping like a fish on a hook.

  I was panting now from the exertion. It was hot and tough to breath behind the mask. I hadn’t realized murdering him would be so difficult. Nausea bubbled up my throat at the sight of the raw, bloodied flesh of his chest. I pushed aside any last remnant of pity and let adrenaline flood my arms with extra strength so I could continue my stabbing frenzy, the rage an outpouring of frustration zeroed in on this exquisite moment of retribution.

  Finally exhausted, I slumped to rest my shaking arms against my thighs as I watched the blood run in rivulets across his abdomen onto the brown suede and bubble from between his slack lips.

  Steeling my resolve I snapped on a pair of latex gloves. I had one last act to perform while the monster was still alive. As I grasped the limp penis from the blood-soaked pubes, his legs twitched as though he was attempting to flee. A whimper broke the bubble of blood on his lips. My sharp knife sliced through flesh almost too easily.

  He screamed then, the sound surprisingly lusty in the empty house.

  “Harley, you sodding bastard!”

  I slashed downwards across the inside of his thigh, puncturing the femoral artery to ensure his death. I was the judge, jury and executioner of Keith Carroll.

  “Keith, is that you?” A female voice called out.

  Shock froze my hand in mid-slice. My heart raced frantically. This wasn’t part of my plan! What was she doing home so early?

  “Andrea! Help…” His arm flailed out, upending the box of rubber condoms and gloves next to the couch. But his voice had dwindled to nothing more than a whisper that no one but me could hear.

  Wildly I looked around the room but there was no escape through a window protected by security grilles. This wasn’t in my plan! I racked my brain for ideas but I was scraping an empty barrel. I knew of only two ground floor exits: the front door and the back door accessible through the kitchen.

  I put a hand up to adjust my mask into place, preparing to make a bolt for it. At the last minute I scooped up a handful of rubberized gloves and condoms. Setting my shoulders, I barreled through the door, the dripping knife clutched in my other hand.

  She had left the front door ajar from her entrance. Above her cultured pearls her mouth was a perfect O as she gasped. The Halloween outfit I wore disguised my identity and I must look like a frightening masked intruder to her. I needed to use that shock to my advantage. Before I could push past her, I saw her eyes drop to the knife I still held, then dart to the doorway behind me.

  “Keith? Keith! Harley!”

  I swept my arm wide, scattering the rubber items into her face, hoping to distract her. But she latched onto my arm, grappling with me. My sole slid on the tiled flooring and I stumbled, colliding with her staid, woolen-coated body with enough force to knock us both to the ground. Her hand reached out instinctively to save herself and connected with my mask, tugging it from my head as we landed with a thud.

  My face was exposed, and her eyes widened in astonished recognition. Shaking her head in confusion, she said, “I don’t understand. What have you done?”

  I ripped the mask from her fingers, but I knew it was too late. She had seen my face! My heart was galloping in my chest. I didn’t want to hurt her. Tears blurred my eyes as they locked on hers.

  “Why did you have to come home early?” I said.

  I really didn’t want to hurt her, but what choice did I have?

  My fingers curled around the knife handle. Nausea roiled once more through my guts.

  She had recognized me. She knew I wasn’t a stranger who had broken into the house. I was shocked at how rapidly self-preservation kicked in to seal her fate.

  She must have read my intent because she scrambled backwards, her hands clawing for a grip on the smooth tiles to pull herself to her feet and run. But I was too quick, stabbing her through the woolen cloth to her heart. Gurgling sounds grated from her throat as she writhed on the ground.

  With an effort, I jerked the knife out of her back and dropped the bloody blade with a clatter. I pushed myself onto my haunches, my chest heaving with dry retching. More than anything I wanted to strip off these blood-stained clothes and soak under a hot, cleansing shower.

  I had thought it would bring relief to kill the molesting bastard the world knew as an upstanding citizen. His death had been horrifying but empowering. But she had spoiled it. My chin dropped to my chest, pulled by the lead weight of despair. What had I done?

  Now I simply felt like a murderer.

  Chapter 2

  December 1 Friday

  When Isla Standing entered the Ironrod Lyons Freemont boardroom, an effluvium of testosterone-fuelled suspicion wrapped around her. From across the breadth of the long, gleaming oak table three pairs of eyes swiveled towards her: Ernest Lyons, managing partner; Ashton Finley-Browne, senior partner; and Ryan Gildenstern, an ambitious young associate who she suspected was jockeying to outmaneuver her as Ironrod Lyons Freemont’s potential new partner.

  Ryan flicked a glance at Lyons and they exchanged a comfortable chuckle. Isla stifled a wave of annoyance. She flashed Lyons a sultry smile guaranteed to stir life into his dormant nether regions and her voice revealed no hint of anger as she said, “Sorry, I’m late, gentlemen. There was a mix up with my appointments.”

  The real reason she was late was that an argument with her husband Quinn had turned into heated foreplay that had ended very satisfactorily under the duvet. Now, she felt cross to realize that being twenty minutes late for the meeting had enabled Ryan to get a leg up on her when she had believed she was the only associate invited to the meeting.

  Ryan made an ostentatious show of checking his watch and Isla fought the urge to bare her teeth at him. This was an important introductory meeting to discuss a potential new client for the firm, a prominent Hong Kong businessman who was establishing branches for his cat food industry throughout England. Drawing and keeping new clients to the legal fold was one of the surest avenues to making it onto the first rung of the partnership ladder. Isla had her heart and eyes set on that goal, but so did Ryan.

  Whatever advantage she felt she brought to the law firm from gaining her law degree at the University of Law and being admitted to Gray’s Inn for her Bar Professional Training Course, had quickly evaporated under the onslaught of ravenous competition from the five other trainees. It had taken years of painstaking work clocking up billable hours by the bucketload to rise past her competition. Yet when she outlasted the others and left the office at 11:00 p.m. Ryan’s lights were still glowing under his door. When she believed she had billed the most hours for a particular month, Ryan pipped her at the post by an extra hour or two. When she thought she had pulled off the coup of the office by gaining a senior partner as her mentor, she discovered Ryan was being brought under Ernest Lyons’s wing. No matter how hard she worked, being part of the old boys club meant Ryan breezed through one step ahead of her.

  Well not this time, you smarmy twat! The words formed inside her head. She had brushed up on Hong Kong law and licenses and knew she could hold her own when they discussed strategies before meeting the client at three that afternoon.

  “Oh, no, was there a glitch in your computer?” Ryan’s rugged features assumed a concerned look.

  “Something like that,” Isla said, juggling her armload of folders on
to the wooden tabletop and distrusting his sudden interest.

  Ryan exchanged a smug smile and a conspiratorial look with Lyons and Finley-Browne. He absentmindedly ran his hand through thinning strands to ensure diplomatic coverage of a growing bald spot.

  “That was no computer accident, Isla. You’ve been removed from this team due to the sudden increase in your pro bono workload, so the appointment was canceled,” Finley-Browne said in his upper crust nasal whine.

  Isla looked at him blankly. When her gaze passed over Ryan he was sitting with a too-innocent expression on his face that told her he knew exactly what Finley-Browne meant.

  She tried on a laugh, treating his remarks as a joke. “That’s a good one, Ash. You know I’m not involved in any pro bono work at the moment.”

  Lyons pushed back his chair and rose from the table. Despite his sixty-two years, he was trim as a youth and sported a luscious mane of dark locks that Isla suspected were dyed.

  “I believe we’ve resolved our stand for this afternoon’s meeting, so I’ll leave you to it.” He gave Isla a brusque, dismissive nod. “Ryan, walk me downstairs. I’d like to discuss that golf tip you told me about.”

  Isla bit her lips to stop from screaming out, Wait! What do you mean the meeting’s over before I’ve even had a chance to participate?

  With a pitying glance and a semi-shrug in Isla’s direction, Ryan lifted himself from the table and practically sprinted after his mentor.

  Stunned, Isla turned to Finley-Browne who remained seated.

  “Ash, what in hell just happened? I’ve been boning up on Hong Kong law for the past week in preparation for this meeting and now I find it took place without me? And what did you mean that the meeting disappearing from my calendar was no accident?”

  Isla knew she was being assertive and in the higher circles of her law firm that was seen as being too tough for a woman, but right now she didn’t care. Chances like this were too few and far between to give up without a fight.