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SLEEPING BEAUTIES

AN INSPECTOR TOM REYNOLDS MYSTERY

Jo Spain

Dedication

For Julie and Maureen, two beautiful ladies

PROLOGUE

Fiona, 2012

How could I have been so stupid?

Such a pathetic, moronic idiot.

I’m that woman, the one I used to scorn. I believed him when he said he didn’t mean it, when he said he was sorry. The first time. The second time. Every time. I thought he’d change.

But he’s gone too far.

He’ll kill me if I don’t end things.

No. This stops now.

I won’t be a dumb victim.

This is what Fiona tells herself, bravely and resolutely, as she slowly limps along the lonely, narrow, hedgerow-lined road that leads to her home.

The sun is setting but still retains some heat, the evening hazy with it. Her bared arms are pale; the flimsy yellow cardigan hanging loosely from her fingers is almost trailing on the ground. The string strap of her vest slips down with every other step, coming to rest on an ugly four-finger-shaped bruise before she roughly pulls it back onto her shoulder, wishing it would stay put.

She’s nearing the river. Angry midges swarm at her face and she swats them away. She accidentally swipes her mouth with her finger and winces. Her split lip still stings.

She’ll stop at the bridge, rest a little on the stone wall her grandfather built with his own hands using rocks from their land. She’s always loved that spot. She can make herself look respectable, wash away the worst of the blood and the mascara tears before she returns to her mother and father. She’ll be safe then. Fiona inhales the sweet smell of pruned cherry laurel bushes and starts to relax.

A horn blares behind her and she jumps, her heart pounding in her chest. She hadn’t even heard the car as it approached, despite the near silence of the countryside, the only sounds the late melody of the song thrush and leaves whispering in the gentle breeze.

Frightened, she turns to see who’s approaching. Is it him?

There’s little room for a car to pass; she has to stand flat against the hedge. Its sharp branches scratch her back.

It’s the blue Ford that belongs to the neighbour from two miles up. An older man who has just moved in to renovate the house vacated by his recently deceased mother.

He doesn’t observe rural custom. He doesn’t wave, doesn’t stop to offer Fiona a lift. He tries to not look at her at all, which is difficult considering she’s inches away from his bonnet as the car edges by. When he does glance sideways, she can see the shock register on his face.