The Thames Crossbow Murders (Vance And Shepherd Mysteries Book 3)

Book summary

A crossbow-wielding serial killer haunts the banks of the Thames. As detectives Shepherd and Vance investigate, a brilliant pianist meets a similar fate, and the murky waters of British and Russian secret services complicate matters. But what’s the connection between the murders and the international organizations, and who's the elusive killer behind it all?

Excerpt from The Thames Crossbow Murders (Vance And Shepherd Mysteries Book 3)

Book excerpt

New Scotland Yard and Rainham, London

Detective Inspector Jacob Vance sighed heavily, not for the first time that morning, and stared at the recovered equipment on his desk. It amounted to a Nikon Coolpix P1000 point-and-shoot digital SLR camera, a small black notebook, a plastic carrier bag containing sliced bread and a silver thermos flask with its coffee still remarkably hot. The victim’s time of death was, according to the chief medical examiner, 24 hours before the discovery of the body. That happened at 11.55 this morning when he was found by another birdwatcher or birders as they called themselves, so it was surprising that the coffee was still drinkable.

A knock came at his door while he considered the quality of the flask.

“Come!” Jake smiled wryly at the department’s computer wizard, Detective Sergeant Max Wright and, particularly, at the dark rings under his eyes that spoke clearly of nighttime nappy changing duties. The detective inspector had been best man for Max last year at a lavish wedding reception held Fulham Palace, Bishop of London’s former residence. “What have you got for me, Max?”

“Not much, Sir, but that camera probably set our victim back over 1,000 pounds. The one I saw was £1,300. It’s ideal for bird photography because it has a 125X zoom with image stabilisation, and it zooms from 24 to 3000mm and, with an extension, to 6000.”

“So, our Mr Pearson was correctly equipped for his hobby, and the killer wasn’t interested in making off with his camera. Did you find anything about this Roderick Pearson?”

“His driving licence is clean and tells us that he lives in Romford.” DS Wright consulted a piece of paper, the worse for wear for being too long clutched in his left hand. “Risebridge Chase, in a property currently valued at £1,600,000, would you believe? Five-bedroomed, detached, in two acres of grounds with various outbuildings.”

“Do we know if he was married?”

“Well, with a house that size, Sir, it’s a fair bet. He must have had a pretty decent salary to afford it.”

“Leave me the address, Max.”

The sergeant looked at the scrap of paper and then at his boss with evident embarrassment. “If you have a pen and paper, Sir. This note is almost illegible, and all screwed up.”

Vance pushed a scratchpad across the desk and casually tossed a four-colour retractable ball pen with a rubber grip.

“Preferred colour, Sir?”

“Sarky sod! I’ll transfer you to traffic duty if you don’t write that address, sharpish!”

Wright grinned, selected black and wrote the street number as neatly as possible.

“It makes you wonder, doesn’t it, Sir?”

“When will you learn to speak with subject, verb and direct object, DS Wright?” Jacob Vance snapped.

“Sorry, sir. A guy with his income, tramping around in a deserted area of the Thames, photographing gulls, of all things!”

“Each to his own. I’ll break the news to his widow, if she exists, and find out what made him tick.”

“I suppose he could have afforded goodness-knows-how-expensive a camera.”

“Indeed, but think; this Nikon has the advantage of being compact, doesn’t need a tripod because, as you said, it has built-in image stabilisation and can zoom in on our feathered friends as close as you like.”

“You’re right, of course, Sir. But who would want to kill a birdwatcher?”

“Question of the day! Get back to work Max; see whether you can find out anything else about this Roderick Pearson.”

Vance watched the door shut on his brilliant computer expert and sighed heavily again. Who, indeed, would want to shoot a crossbow bolt through the throat of a well-to-do birdwatcher? Maybe his family or workmates could provide an answer. Certainly, forensics had given him nothing. It appeared that a ghost had shot Mr Pearson. A killer who had left no trace of their presence except for the 20-inch carbon pro bolt transfixing the victim’s throat. No traces of prints on the bolt, but with such a precise murder, Vance would have expected no less. He was already formulating an impression that the assassin was a professional hitman or hitwoman. The cleanness of the hit, remote location, and lack of trace evidence suggested that scenario.