Fool Me Twice: Hidden Norfolk - Book 10 Read online

  FOOL ME TWICE

  HIDDEN NORFOLK - BOOK 10

  J M DALGLIESH

  CONTENTS

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  Fool Me Twice

  Prologue

  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

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  First published by Hamilton Press in 2022

  Copyright © J M Dalgliesh, 2022

  The right of J M Dalgliesh to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a purely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  FOOL ME TWICE

  PROLOGUE

  Time has very little meaning these days. The enforced routine, stable and consistent from one point of view, coercive and inflexible from the other, makes a clock, a schedule or personal plans utterly pointless. It was far easier at night, a time when many found it harder… almost unbearable for some. And it was those simple life experiences that he so often took for granted, no, not took for granted, but, in reality, never thought of at all; the choice of when to go to bed, what time to put the light out, when to close his eyes.

  Some nights were calmer than others. Sound carried. The neighbours were prone to arguments; debating how many bricks they could see and heatedly discussing whose guess was closest to winning the bet, being the most recent. Then there were the others, the ones who should never be in a place like this in the first place. That stood for half the people on his wing, if not more. They should be elsewhere, undoubtedly held securely in another facility for their own sake as much as for that of others, but not here. Never here.

  As for himself, where did he belong? He wasn’t offhand or cavalier regarding his fate. He accepted it. And it was terrifying. Every day was terrifying. And when that door opened, the noise grew louder. The pull onto the landing felt like a whirlpool dragging him down into the abyss or walking into what he imagined quicksand to be like – if it was the same as it had been portrayed in the films of his youth, anyway – but either way, no one was there to rescue him. He was alone and everyone knew it.

  His pad mate was okay; unstable and prone to outbursts, certainly, but most of the time he was all right. At least the aggression had never been directed towards him thus far and for that he was grateful. Spiral, as he liked to be called, not his real name – he wouldn’t share his real name – could easily be described as a character. Weren’t they all in this place? He was in for a minimum of fifteen years for aggravated burglary. What the aggravated part was related to was anyone’s guess. Lying on the top bunk waiting to hear the reassuring drone of snoring coming from below lent itself to growing anxiety after lights out. Only then could he close his own eyes and hope to dream of a place beyond these four walls and the cracked window leaking chilly air across his face every night. On a quiet night, he could imagine this was his choice, keeping the room cool with fresh air for a comfortable night’s sleep.

  That didn’t happen often.

  Spiral, or Dave as he’d been named by everyone else on the landing, not to his face for obvious reasons of self-preservation, was already comfortably settled into the new regimen. He had done so within a few days. This wasn’t his first stay at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Fifteen years. That was some sentence, one that he could never hope to manage himself. The thought of it would be too much. The looming thought of what he might receive was enough to spark the fear of dread into him. Those moments of peace, night time, was when those thoughts would come to him, when he had the safety of a locked door between himself and those out there.

  Spiral was sanguine about his time. Was it bravado, false or otherwise? For his own part, he kept his head down, stayed out of the way. If Spiral would let him then the door to their cell would remain closed, a personal choice to isolate, to put a physical barrier between him and them. If he could lock it, then that would be all the better. Pushing it closed was the best he could do and even then, only if Spiral was at work or circulating during association. Was it better to be completely alone? Every step heard on the grates outside the door made him focus on the threat, and there was always a threat, even if it was only in his head. It didn’t mean it wasn’t real.

  Footsteps. They stopped on the landing outside. He heard voices and then the door creaked open. A face peered in at him, sitting quietly at the little table he shared with Spiral. It was Liam, at least he thought that was his name. They’d never spoken before. Although that wasn’t rare.

  “You all right, mate?”

  He nodded, glancing past Liam to another man standing on the landing behind him looking both left and right. He glanced into the cell and their eyes met.

  “What are you staring at?”

  “Me?” he averted his eyes from the man at the door, looking at Liam and then the floor. “Nothing. I wasn’t staring at—”

  “What were you staring at?”

  He didn’t answer, hoping he would go away if he said nothing, sensing Liam take a half-step into the cell.

  “Spiral around, is he?”

  “No… no, he isn’t. A–At work… in the machine shop, I think.”

  He was all but whispering.

  “Ah… right. Of course.”

  He looked up. Liam locked eyes with him briefly. There was something unsaid in his expression, and then he glanced behind him towards his friend at the door, nodded and retreated. He felt relief. Once they left, he would close the door again. Be safe. Liam stepped out onto the landing and he got up, quickly closing the distance between himself and the door, happy to see the two men move out of sight. Putting a hand on the cast-iron cell door, he gently made to close it only to find a figure step into view and force it b
ack open. Hurriedly, he stepped away from the newcomer. There was something in his hand. What was it, a kettle?

  “This is for you!”

  The arm came up in a flash, snapping out at him, and the liquid contents of the kettle flew out at him. Instinctively, he brought his hands up to protect his face, but it was a fraction of a second too late and he heard screaming – he was screaming – the sound reverberating off the walls around him and he knew then that he was in trouble. He was burning. Boiling water mixed with sugar, what inmates called napalm because the mixture turned to paste, sticking to the skin and intensifying the heat. He didn’t hear the alarm sound on the wing outside the cell. He didn’t hear the instructions shouted at his fellow inmates to stand back.

  He was still screaming.

  He was alone. And everyone knew it.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The sports field was well maintained, the sweet smell of recently cut grass hung in the air along with the freshness of the overnight dew, rapidly burning off where the sun had already crested the trees flanking the field. The children were lined up in their respective house groups, sitting neatly in rows in the morning sunshine, the youngest at the front and their older peers behind.

  “Where’s Saffy?” Alice asked.

  Tom Janssen pointed the little girl out to her mother, sitting in the third row and barely visible as she playfully wrestled with one of her friends, both children grinning until being asked to stop by their teacher. The smiles dimmed ever so slightly, but Saffy’s broadened as she looked over at them. Alice waved excitedly – ignoring the possibility that other parents might think her quite mad – keen to show her daughter she’d arrived. There was a good turnout. There must be almost one hundred adults present, a mix of parents and grandparents by the look of it.

  Tom thrust his hands into his pockets. Once the sun gained some height it would feel much warmer, but at the moment the wind was whipping in off the sea a few hundred metres away from them and driving straight across the open field. His jacket was back in the car, a five-minute walk to the car park, and he decided he was more likely to miss Saffy’s first race if he went for it.

  “How’s your mum?”

  Alice’s smile faded. “She didn’t have a good night. I spoke to the hospital this morning and they’re thinking of putting the chemo back a day or two to see if she’s any better. You know how it knocks her for six.”

  Tom nodded.

  “When is Saffy’s first race?” she asked.

  Tom took the race schedule from his pocket, helpfully handed to him by a prefect as he arrived. Unfolding it, he scanned the list of events and located Saffy’s name.

  “Forty-metre dash.” He glanced at his watch. “She should be running soon, I think.”

  As if taking her cue from him, Saffy’s teacher announced who was up next and Saffy stood up along with two others from her group. The little girl looked over at them once more, waving as she stepped through her peers and hurried to join the others at the starting line. Fortuitously, Tom had picked a spot that was just shy of the finish line for this age group, so they’d have a great view of the children running at them.

  Alice frowned as she looked on while the children were lining up. “Oh no.”

  “What is it?”

  “She’s the smallest of all six… and she’s not the quickest.”

  Tom nudged her in the ribs with an elbow. “It’s not the winning that counts—”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Alice said, waving his comment away without breaking her gaze on Saffy’s opponents. “But if she comes last in front of all these people, she’ll be devastated.”

  “She won’t come last.”

  Tom scanned the other runners. To be fair, all but two of them were adopting a stance that indicated they were keen to do well. The other two were Saffy and a little boy who he didn’t know. He was taller than Saffy by at least a head. Silently, he rethought his predicted outcome. There was every chance she would come last.

  The starter’s arm dropped and a cacophony of encouragement erupted from those watching on, both fellow pupils and family alike. Tom found himself shouting for Saffy as well, although Alice was making a decent fist of drowning him out. The line of parents edged forward to get a better look, many filming the occasion on mobile phones and for a second Tom lost sight of most of the runners. Rising on tiptoes, he used his superior height to see over as well as through the throng as the children came back into view, charging past him with determination etched into their expressions. Saffy wasn’t last. In fact, she had a decent chance of stealing second as she flew past them.

  It wasn’t to be and Saffy ended the race third but a good few strides ahead of the next competitor behind her. She stopped as she crossed the line, unsure of how or if she should celebrate. A teacher stepped forward, handing out slips of paper, and directed the first three across the line to a nearby table where their names would be recorded for the points tally before returning to their seating positions to be mobbed by their peers. Saffy’s house appeared to take first and third in that particular race.

  Alice was almost bouncing on the spot with excitement, waving at her daughter as Saffy sat down and looked across seeking approval. Tom found himself smiling. He had no idea an eight-year old’s flat race could be so entertaining, but it was more than that. He hadn’t seen such natural happiness exhibited by Alice in some time. It had been a rough few months since her mother’s diagnosis. Treatment was underway and everyone was confident, but it had taken its toll on all of them, especially Alice.

  “When’s her next race?”

  Tom looked at the schedule again, struggling to find Saffy’s name among the others and tracing the lists with his forefinger.

  “Tom, isn’t it?”

  He lifted his head, looking to his right having not realised someone was alongside him. The man hadn’t been there moments before, he was almost sure. The throng that had gathered around him during the race had dissipated now as the track was clear, parents returning to their social groups until the next race lined up. Saffy hadn’t been at this school very long and, aside from a handful of parents of children sharing classes, neither Tom nor Alice had made great strides in meeting people.

  Tom smiled, accepting the hand offered to him. The man was in his late fifties, Tom guessed. He was tall, slim, with a well-lined complexion that gave away his age beneath a shock of almost white hair, styled and swept away from the face. Could he be a grandparent? It was difficult to judge.

  “Henry Crowe.”

  Tom wondered if this was a name he should know, searching his memory of Saffy’s classmates to consider whether he should be aware of this one.

  “Olivia’s father.”

  Tom nodded, as if this explained everything. It didn’t, but at least he knew Henry was a parent which would help avoid the potential for an embarrassing gaff on his part.

  “Nice to meet you,” Tom said, gesturing to gain Alice’s attention and bringing her forward to introduce them. “This is Saffy’s mum, Alice.”

  Henry offered her his hand as well, matching Alice’s warm smile at the introduction. Tom could read her expression; she had no idea who Olivia was either. Tom felt buoyed by that.

  “It’s nice to be out in the fresh air for a change, isn’t it?” Henry said.

  “Yes, it is.” He wasn’t great with small talk in social settings where he wasn’t familiar with those present. It had never been something he excelled at, preferring to allow Alice to take the lead and he would chip in when he had something sensible to say.

  “Olivia isn’t much of an athlete, I have to say. The poor thing has been a little nervous about today.”

  Tom felt sympathetic, casting an eye over the children as if he could pick her out which, of course, he couldn’t.

  “Winning isn’t important though, is it?” Tom said. “As long as she enjoys herself, that’s the main thing.”

  “Spoken as a true father,” Henry said smiling.

  Tom politely retur
ned the smile, choosing not to correct the man’s assumption. Saffy was not Tom’s child. Following the sudden death of her father, he was the closest thing she had to a father but, nonetheless, he wasn’t. He caught Alice glance in his direction but look away when she realised he’d clocked it; an unreadable expression on her face.

  The next race finished, Tom and Alice applauding the participants as they passed but having no skin in this particular race, so to speak.

  “Ah… shame,” Henry said. Tom looked at him quizzically. He pointed to the little girl just trotting over the line as he gestured. “I feared this would happen.” He shook his head. “I told you, not cut out for sports.”

  Tom found himself mildly irritated as realisation dawned. The emotion switching to disappointment soon after. The man hadn’t raised his voice to cheer on his daughter as she ran her race. Her effort was lacklustre, giving up after the first fifteen metres as she was clearly way off the pace. Several of the other parents along with the teaching staff encouraged her onwards and she picked up the pace to finally trot across the line, head down and disconsolate. Tom found Henry to be standing just close enough to put him into his personal space, sensing the need to engage when he didn’t feel he had much to say. The urge was impossible to ignore.