The Dead and the Buried

THE DEAD AND THE BURIED DETECTIVE INSPECTOR MARC FAGAN JASON CHAPMAN © Offworld Publications May 2023 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored on a retrieval system Or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author, producer and publisher. Authors notes This novel is a work of complete fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. For mum and dad Thank you for teaching me patience, perseverance and the value of hard work PROLOGUE DAY 1 Skenfrith Castle – Monmouthshire – 12:36am P rofessor Robert Turner pushed his exhausted body forward. With every passing moment, the horror of his imminent death became more apparent. Turner could sense his lungs with bodily fluids. Regret, anger, and terror raged through his mind. His assassin held back, stalking a few dozen yards behind the stricken victim. As if they were enjoying a midnight stroll. Turner glanced up into the crystal-clear night sky. A full moon shone down on the ruined castle. Casting shadows off the surrounding trees, like hooded spectres, clawing out into the darkness. An owl shrieked into the gloom, seeking a mate. A few moments later, a reply came back. Turner struggled to regulate his faltering breath as he staggered towards the castle entrance. The moonlight provided helpful visibility for the aging lecturer. He struggled to reach a gangplank that crossed the castle’s dried up moat. A handrail provided a welcome balance for his failing body. The pain was unbearable. With every weakening step he could feel the dagger his attacker had driven into his back. The first instinct was to remove it. But Turner knew this was the end. His car had been driven away, and he was too weak to call out for help. The row of cottages that were a few hundred yards away were shrouded in darkness. Turner stared at the cylindrical castle keep in the distance. He managed a glimpse behind. ‘Consider this your dying confession, old man.’ A voice loomed out of the blackness. ‘Tell me where the journal is.’ Turner summoned his remaining energy, stumbling towards the opening of the keep. Eventually, he reached his target. His strength failed. He dropped to his knees, peering up through the circular opening into the star filled sky. The cloaked figure entered the keep, planting a firm hand on Turner’s shoulder to stop him keeling over. ‘This won’t change a thing.’ Turner gasped. ‘You have desecrated an ancient site.’ The stranger explained. ‘Your sins will be cleansed on this night.’ ‘You think killing me is going to discourage others. It’s simply a matter of time before the markers are found. With, or without the journal.’ ‘Time Professor Turner, is the one thing you are out of.’ Turner felt excruciating agony as his executioner wrenched the dagger from his back. The killer took their steadying hand off Turner’s CHAPTER 1 Skenfrith Castle - 07:43am ‘The call was made by the landlord of the pub across the road. He always walks his dogs on the grounds of the castle. To make sure no overnight visitors have been dropping litter.’ Detective Sergeant Sean Watkins explained. ‘They’ve been having problems with fly tippers recently. As well as the odd gang of teenagers looking to smoke weed. The local police do their best, but this is a relatively large area to cover.’ Detective Inspector Marc Fagan walked across a narrow wooden gangplank that led to the interior of the ruined castle. CSI officers were patrolling the grounds. Two officers stood guard outside the entrance to the keep. The usual inner and outer cordons had been established. A CSI ducked under the police tape and approached. ‘You’re going to love this one Fagan.’ ‘What have we got?’ ‘One male in his mid-seventies. A stab wound to the upper chest. It also looks as if someone had plunged the dagger into his back. Before flipping him over and shoving it through his chest.’ ‘You mean knife.’ Fagan corrected him. The CSI shook his head. ‘It’s definitely a dagger. And from the looks of it, I’d say it’s old. At least a few hundred years.’ Fagan stared towards the opening of the castle keep. ‘Let’s have a look, shall we.’ A tent had been erected to protect the body. Another CSI was scouring the walls of the keep, putting rubbish into an evidence bag. Fagan entered the tent first. ‘Jesus.’ He gasped, gawping at the sight that confronted him. The man was naked, lying on his back. His arms and legs spread out. At the centre of each palm appeared to be a metal spike, which had been driven through each hand. His feet also had similar treatment, with a metal spike forced through the bridge of each foot, exiting the sole. The CSI pointed at the hand. ‘Whoever did this must have used a sledgehammer or something heavy. This is pretty solid ground.’ Fagan looked the body up and down. ‘Some sort of ritualistic killing?’ The CSI nodded. ‘It looks that way, doesn’t it. The way the body has been positioned and everything. Also, whoever did this must have had an accomplice.’ ‘So there could be two murderers.’ Watkins speculated. ‘It’s possible, yeah.’ Fagan spotted what appeared to be a parchment