A Perfect Time to Murder

ALSO BY N. R. DAWS The Kember and Hayes Series A Quiet Place to Kill A Silent Way to Die This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.Text copyright © 2023 by N. R. DawsAll rights reserved.No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattlewww.apub.comAmazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.ISBN-13: 9781542030090eISBN: 9781542030083Cover design by Ghost DesignCover image: © oleshko andrey © javarman © DavidSamperio © Burdun Iliya © 32 pixels © Nicholas Rjabow © Lanova Daria / Shutterstock; © Raylipscombe / Getty Images; © AWL-Tom Mackie / Plainpicture For Steven,my brother and stalwart research companion. CONTENTSPROLOGUECHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYCHAPTER TWENTY-ONECHAPTER TWENTY-TWOAUTHOR’S NOTEACKNOWLEDGEMENTSABOUT THE AUTHORFollow the Author on Amazon PROLOGUEChristopher Morris grimaced in pain as his stomach and bowels clenched, causing a wave of nausea that left him gasping for air and frightened for his life.His breath came short and shallow, his chest felt like someone had taken to sitting on top of him to stop it expanding. His head throbbed as though his brain was trying to get out by hitting it from the inside, but fatigue prevented him moving enough to ease the knots of tension in his neck or to look across at his workmate in the next bed. Paul Ramsey hadn’t moved for over an hour but that wasn’t unusual for a tired mine worker. Paul always snored without fail, not disturbingly loud like an engine but more akin to an insistent purring. He tried to call out to his colleague but his mouth and throat were too dry to form any words.He guessed the time to be about two or half-two in the morning and the dormitory felt unusually warm for this time in the small hours. He tried to move his arm to pull off his blanket but his stomach cramped again and he waited for the nausea to pass. It only faded a little this time, refusing to let him sleep. Tiredness fogged his mind as it had earlier. That morning, he’d become disorientated and confused while inspecting the underground mine works and had stumbled, although the floor in that section was even with nothing there to trip over. He knew he should have reported it and gone to see the doctor, but he’d put the tiredness and shortness of breath he’d suffered for over two weeks down to fatigue and the need for a few days off. He knew Paul had been feeling the same because they’d talked about whether it could be the flu or food poisoning. After all, the conditions here were not the best and the food could never be described as home cooking, but no one else had said they were ill and they’d all eaten the same food and breathed the same air.The nausea surged again and the room spun as if he’d drunk ten pints and a bottle of whisky. He waited for it to subside and tried to recall his thoughts from a few seconds earlier, wondering whether he might have been thinking about the mine or food, possibly the war or weather. They were the only things around here anyway, but the gist escaped him and he promised himself he’d visit the doctor first thing. His forgetfulness had increased over the last two weeks as well and he was scared he was going doolally. He tried concentrating on something else, such as the five other men who slept in the hut, but as soon as the thought entered his head, he couldn’t for the life of him remember who they were, where he was or why they were all here.More pain shot through him as all the muscles in his legs and arms spasmed at once and something clutched his heart. Was this what it was like to have a fit or a heart attack and die? Lying on his back, he should have been able to see the roof of the hut beyond the open rafters but his eyes appeared to have stopped working and all he could see was black. In any case, it had become too painful to move them, so he squeezed his eyelids closed to ward off the fear.It was the last movement he ever made.Ten hours later and less than sixty miles to the west as the crow flies, the cloud base hovered a few hundred feet above the runway of RAF Redhill. Lizzie Hayes opened the throttle of the de Havilland Puss Moth and powered the three-seater along the airstrip, feeling the effect of rain-sodden grass dragging at the rubber tyres. With trees on the perimeter seeming to grow larger by the second, the little aircraft reached the speed committing it to take-off and Lizzie pulled back on the control column. The engine laboured as it hauled the Puss Moth into the air and began climbing above the Surrey countryside into the full drizzle of the depressing grey day.Having delivered a Miles Magister training aircraft to Redhill a little over two hours ago, a glimmer of hope for better weather had come in the form of a weather report suggesting a slight improvement over the next hour. That suits me, Lizzie had thought. The chit in her pocket stated RAF West Malling as the delivery destination for the Puss Moth and she wanted to spend the night in her own bed at the end of a tiring day. Her last delivery three days ago had culminated in an enforced overnight stay in a draughty dispersal hut followed by an