The Dead of Midwinter

THE DEAD OF MIDWINTER BOOK 1 IN THE JOSEPH STONE THRILLER SERIES J R SINCLAIR Copyright 2022 © J R Sinclair All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Published worldwide by Voice from the Clouds Ltd. www.voicefromtheclouds.com CONTENTS Chapter 1 Sixteen Years and Five Days Later Chapter 2 One Week Earlier - 21st, December Chapter 3 Chapter 4 22nd December Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 23rd December Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 24th December Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 25th December Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 26th December Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 New Year's Day Chapter 29 Join the J.R. Sinclair VIP Club Pre-Order A Flood of Sorrow Chapter 1 of A Flood of Sorrow Go Behind the Scenes Acknowlegdements For Barry, Tom, and Jonathan, for encouraging me to take the plunge into crime and to write this book. CHAPTER ONE The wipers thrummed back and forth at their highest setting, fighting a losing battle against the waterfall cascading down the car windscreen. Joseph squinted through the veil of shimmering rain at the blurred country lane covered in a veil of darkness. In the growing tempest, the headlights of their SUV could barely cut through the murk. Thank God for the Cat’s Eyes down the centre of the road, like runway landing lights guiding them home. ‘If it keeps up like this, the roads are going to be underwater around Warborough by morning,’ Kate said as she peered out at the deluge. ‘Definitely not a great night to be out driving, that’s to be sure,’ Joseph replied. ‘Just think how we could have all been safely tucked up at home if we’d had Ellie’s birthday bash there, rather than dragging ourselves all the way to Oxford.’ His wife raised her eyebrows at him. ‘As we both know, that’s not how the parent mafia works. Hold a birthday party at home, and Ellie would be a social pariah at school.’ ‘Yes, talk about bloody peer pressure to keep up with the Joneses,’ he muttered. Kate sighed. ‘I know, I know. Whatever happened to jelly and ice cream birthdays, complete with the pin the tail on the donkey?’ ‘You realise that sounds like something straight out of an Enid Blyton book, right?’ ‘No, that would be lashings of ginger beer.’ Kate gave him a wry smile. Joseph laughed. ‘If you say so. Anyway, I’m not sure my hearing is ever going to recover from that many screaming six-year-olds hurtling around the confined space of the play barn. As soon as we get back home, I’m having two paracetamol, followed by a stiff drink.’ ‘For a policeman, you do realise you have a very low mental pain threshold?’ ‘Oh, give me a bunch of hardened criminals any day over a herd of demonic kids having a good time.’ ‘But, Daddy, it was the best party ever!’ Ellie said, piping up from the back seat where she’d been totally absorbed in playing on the birthday iPad that Kate’s parents bought her. In Joseph’s opinion, it was way too expensive a present for a six-year-old, who should be making dens in the garden rather than mucking around with that sort of thing. But when it came to Ellie and Eoin, Kate’s parents wrote their own rulebook, which mostly seemed to involve a huge amount of spoiling. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed your party, sweetheart,’ he replied, smiling into the rear-view mirror at his daughter with her ‘I Am Six!’ badge she was proudly wearing. ‘It was the best birthday ever, Mummy and Daddy!’ She beamed back at him, all gums, teeth and pigtails. Even his hardened heart melted, because how could it not? All Ellie needed to do was just be her usual sunny self, and every time she effortlessly defused his grumpiest of moods. Quite how Kate and he had produced this bundle of gorgeousness, born on the twenty-first of December, which also happened to be the winter solstice tonight, seemed like a miracle to him. By contrast, there was their son Eoin and the last thing you could describe him as was gorgeous. There was one word that best summed him up, loud. His default mode was making noise, from yelling to crying, and all of it at volume eleven. In his rear mirror, he could also just see Eoin’s head lolling to one side. His mouth was wide open and a line of spider silk drool trailed down from his lip onto the sleeve of his rocket ships onesie. Thankfully, the car had worked its usual magic on him and within a minute of setting off, he’d screamed himself to sleep. Despite Eoin’s diminutive ten months—who, much to the delight of his mum, they’d named after Joseph’s long-dead Irish Dad—he still had the lungs to put an opera singer to shame. Certainly, Eoin’s performance back at the party had taken a starring role in the headache that was currently bouncing around inside his skull like an angry wasp trapped in a jam jar. The one small blessing was that at least Joseph wouldn’t have to face that hellhole again for a while, otherwise so innocently known as the Play Barn. That name really painted the wrong mental picture. The actual building was a warehouse that verged on derelict, the state of the place barely disguised by the violent primary colour scheme, bright enough to make your eyes bleed. The finishing touch to the unique ambience of the Play Barn was the distinct whiff of leaking toddler nappies that always seemed to pervade