Cover

Praise

Praise for

‘James Hazel grabs you from the off and doesn’t let go until the very end’

MARTYN WAITES

‘A compelling mystery that has you tearing through the pages. Charlie Priest is a genius creation. He’s brilliant and border-line dysfunctional but you can’t help liking him. Highly recommended’

J. S. CAROL

‘Shiver inducing . . . irresistible, The Mayfly is really top notch. Intelligently constructed, characters to die for and a truly sterling opening’

LIZ LOVES BOOKS

‘Addictive . . . wonderfully macabre . . . With this marvellous cast, Hazel’s thriller certainly keeps rolling along at a cracking pace . . . You will be guaranteed to be on to a winner with The Mayfly’

CRIMESQUAD

‘A compulsive and engaging read’

BIBLIOPHILE BOOK CLUB

‘Dark, gory and compelling . . . I was hooked from page one and didn’t put it down’

BREAKAWAY REVIEWERS

‘A heart thumping page-turner’

THE BOOK CLUB CAFE

‘A strong debut’

REVIEWS REVUES

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Grace, who once asked if I was a bald man with glasses. For the record, I am not (at least, not yet).

Epigraph

‘Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone. If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord.’

Romans 12:17–19

‘Eye for eye . . .’

Exodus 21:24

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

1 November 1989

Rose scrambled up the last few feet of hillside where the incline banked sharply, and mossy turf gave way to a stone ledge running across the cliff. The light was fading and the air was cold and damp. She hurried over the crest but knew that she had to watch her step. As the path narrowed, only a series of rotting fence posts joined with wire separated her from the waves crashing on the scree below.

There was a small gathering of people ahead of her where the path widened out before it disappeared altogether as the cliff ended abruptly, falling away at an almost perfect right angle where it would eventually meet the flatter coastline. As she approached, one of the figures broke from the group and hurried to meet her.

‘Thank goodness, Rose,’ the woman gasped. Rose recognised her as the tall widow who kept the flower shop in the nearby village of Tome, but the name eluded her.

‘I came as soon I could,’ Rose explained, sensing the panic in the flower-woman’s voice.

‘Not a moment too soon.’

The flower-woman ushered Rose through the group who parted for her, their grim faces barely registering in the dusk. There were a few she recognised from the town and even a couple she could put names to. Being two months into her post with the local constabulary, she felt she really ought to know all of them, but Rose was damned if she could tell one face from another in this light.

‘What took you so long, Officer?’ growled a voice obscured beneath the hood of a raincoat. The garment would have swamped a basketball player, let alone the dumpy character wearing it. She ignored the insinuation and allowed herself to be led to where the wire fence cut across them and a yellow sign warning of the dangerous sheer drop swung precariously in the wind.

Near the edge, a cracked wooden sign bearing the name of the cliff jutted out of the ground at an angle: DEVIL’S POINT.

‘Who found her?’ asked Rose to the flower-woman.

‘Vern was leading his history group up here.’

‘What was a history group doing up here at this time of night?’

‘Well, it’s more of a ghost walk, if you ask me. The cliff is supposed to be haunted by the ghost of a Celtic sailor who—’

Rose raised her hand irritably and the woman had the good sense not to continue. Rose lowered the wire and stepped over it; it was astonishing how brittle the safety perimeter was.

She stopped and stared ahead. Behind her, the dying sun was plunging into the horizon, its final burst of energy igniting the foot of the night sky with a deep crimson gloss. Rose swallowed hard. Standing on the edge of the cliff, her hair caught in the breeze, was a young girl of no more than ten. She faced outwards towards the sea, her hands outstretched, looking for all the world as if she might suddenly sprout wings and dive into the grey abyss.

She looked back, as if the flower-woman might be able to offer some explanation. She was met with an array of blank faces.

‘Hello?’ Rose called gently, careful not to startle her.

At first, the girl did nothing but, when Rose called again, she turned her head and Rose caught a glimpse of a pale, tear-stained face.

‘Sweetheart, I’m a police officer. You’re standing very close to the edge. Can you step back towards me?’

The girl didn’t move. Rose edged forward. The girl was perilously close to the brink – a strong, unexpected gust might be enough to send her over.

‘You’re safe, honey. You just need to turn around, slowly and carefully.’

The wind whipped around her face as Rose lowered herself to the girl’s level. She was seven or eight metres from Rose but, given the proximity of the danger facing her, she might as well have been a thousand miles away. Her heart racing, Rose extended her hand.

‘Can you tell me your name?’

The girl shook her head, almost imperceptibly.

‘Can you tell me where you’re from?’

Another slight shake.

Rose was about to move towards her when someone spoke from behind. The small man hidden in the oversized raincoat.

‘Officer, look.’

Rose followed the outstretched hand to the girl’s midriff, and down to where a ragged skirt flapped across her thin, bare legs. At first Rose thought it might be dirt. It had rained hard the night before and the ground was muddy in places.

But the rust-coloured patches running from underneath her white dress to her heels weren’t mud.

‘Honey,’ she whispered, ‘what happened to you?’

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Present Day

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Vincent Okoro sat with his arm draped across the back of the front bench of court thirteen, which creaked under the weight of his muscular frame. The trial bundle was spread across his lap but his interrogation of it was limited to idly flipping through the pages, only giving cursory attention to the text. Anything else would have been pointless: he knew the contents intimately.

He was vaguely aware of the hum of people around him. Behind, two men and a woman sat nervously shuffling around, not quite sure how to find a comfortable pose on the ancient wooden pews that served as seating in the Royal Courts of Justice. To his left, an usher draped in ill-fitting robes was moving papers around with great purpose, although the end result eluded Okoro. High above him to the back of the court, a scattering of journalists were engrossed in the soft lights from their smartphones and tablets, trying to find something productive to do before the trial started.

It was a disappointing turn-out. Given the media attention the case had enjoyed for the past two years, he had hoped for more of a journalistic presence on day one of Elias v. The Real Byte Limited. But then it was early. The start time was an hour and a half away. Not even the claimant and her team of blood-sucking lawyers had arrived in court, although rumour suggested they had been milling around the public cafe earlier filling their time with croissants and anecdotes.

Still, an hour and a half to go – and no sign of Priest, or their first witness.

Okoro sighed heavily, and threw the bundle back under the bench. He turned around and was surprised to see behind him another figure who must have ghosted into court.

‘Hello,’ Georgie Someday said brightly, her green eyes peering curiously at him.

‘How long have you been there?’ Okoro asked.

‘Three minutes. I didn’t want to disturb your reading.’

‘I’ve read it before. Where’s Priest?’

‘He rang to say he’s on his way.’

‘Is he with Simeon?’

Georgie grimaced. ‘He didn’t mention that.’

Okoro found himself sighing again, but with more vigour. Simeon Ali – his crucial witness – could make or break this case. Without his evidence, it could well be a very short and humiliating trial.

Maybe the lack of journalists at the back wasn’t so bad after all.

‘Go and phone Priest,’ Okoro instructed. ‘Find out where he is and get confirmation that Simeon is turning up on time this morning and looking like the million-pound witness he is.’

Georgie nodded, brushed a strand of ginger hair out of her face and scurried out.

‘Morning, Okoro.’ A gruff voice directed Okoro’s attention to the claimant’s side of the courtroom where a hunched figure was lining bundles up on the front bench.

‘Hagworth.’ Okoro acknowledged his opponent with a curt nod, which the old silk returned before getting back to the job of trying to make his bundles stand upright – a task that Okoro surmised was being hindered by his shaking hands and milky eyes.

‘Fine morning,’ Hagworth muttered.

Okoro shrugged. ‘I thought there might be more press.’

‘There are some reporters busying themselves in the lobby. Parasites. But enough to give you some publicity, if that is what you desire.’

Okoro grunted in a way that was intended to be non-committal. Dickie Hagworth QC was one of the most experienced libel lawyers in private practice but that didn’t stop him from being an objectionable snob.

‘A fine suit,’ Hagworth observed.

Okoro looked down and inspected his eighteen stone of muscle bulging out of an Armani three-piece. He looked back up, not sure what to say. Hagworth rarely said anything for no good reason.

‘You certainly look the part, Okoro. I hope you don’t take the loss too hard.’ The QC smirked and picked up another bundle.

Okoro leant forward, the bench creaking under the movement, and rested his chin on his hand thoughtfully. Then he said, ‘It’s going to be tough for you back at the gentlemen’s club, Hagworth. Trying to explain how you got beat by a black man.’

In front of him, Hagworth’s line of files collapsed, sending papers scattering across the courtroom floor.

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The morning sun glistened off the frost-covered grass as the procession slowly trailed over the brow of the hill, the church behind them and the vista falling away ahead. Crows lined the fence like sentries, watching the proceedings with avid curiosity. The ground was damp and the day smelt of fresh dew. Only the distant rumble of traffic reminded the gathering that the burial ground was only a few miles outside of the city.

The hole was already dug, ready to accept the casket, which was now lowered into the ground. At the far end, the vicar read the familiar set of words, shivering slightly in the cold. Charlie Priest stood at the back, hands thrust deep into his pockets, trying not to be recognised, but it wasn’t easy. At six foot three with broad shoulders and a strong, athletic build, Priest wasn’t good at merging into the background. With bright blue eyes and drifts of soft brown hair, he cut a rugged and striking sight. Several people had already turned around to look, nudging each other and whispering. They knew who he was. Through the crackle of their hushed chatter, Priest caught one electrifying word drifting on the breeze: Mayfly. He was the man who Kenneth had hired to find his son’s killer. The man who had undone everything for the Ellinders.

The ceremony had been mercifully short. Two tuneless hymns and a generic eulogy read to a modest gathering of family and well-wishers. Kenneth Ellinder’s life had been reduced to fifteen simple minutes before his remains were swallowed by the earth.

When a bearer threw the first handful of dirt over the coffin, Priest turned to go. He had paid his respects and discharged what would have otherwise been a nagging burden. He had felt his phone vibrate several times in his inside pocket; no doubt Georgie trying to ascertain his whereabouts at Okoro’s request. The Priest & Co. in-house counsel would be furious, but the trial wasn’t starting for another hour and a half and Okoro always over-prepared. Besides, Priest’s job was done. Everything had been meticulously organised. All he had to do was wind Okoro up, put Ali on the stand and watch the media lap up the hype.

He was halfway down the hill when he felt a hand on his arm.

‘Charlie,’ said a voice that was neither pleased to see him nor overtly hostile.

Priest turned round and there she was. ‘Jessica.’

She stood on the elevation at his level, the breeze gently playing with her hair, her eyes fixed on his. For a moment he just stared, searching. But he couldn’t read her. This mysterious woman who haunted his dreams stood so close that he could smell the sweetness of her skin, a sensation that was both familiar to him and, at the same time, despairingly alien.

‘Say something,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry for—’

‘Not that.’ She broke her gaze and let her eyes drift into the middle distance. ‘Where were you?’

Priest didn’t know. So much had happened. He had first met Jessica Ellinder the previous year, at his office, with her father. Reluctantly, Priest had agreed to investigate the apparent murder of Jessica’s brother, Miles. The case had almost been the undoing of him and had ended with him exposing her family’s links with a secret neo-Nazi cult.

Jessica was the only positive thing that had come out of that case. They had agreed to meet – Priest had wanted to meet. But he never turned up.

‘Charlie. Where were you?’ she repeated.

‘I’m sorry,’ he offered, but he knew it wasn’t enough.

She nodded. He didn’t need a psychology textbook to tell him that she was disappointed, and angry, but whether that was because she had wanted to see him again or because she wasn’t used to being stood up was beyond him.

He looked down and pushed the earth around with the toe of his shoe, his inadequacy enveloping him. How could he explain it to her? Whenever he tried to sound out the reason in his head, it sounded pathetic, but the root cause was a mantra that had arisen from the ashes of his past: whenever I touch something special, it just seems to wither in my hands. In a world where nothing seemed real, Priest had found that people, especially lovers, eventually faded away. At least this way, Jessica would always stay real to him.

‘How are you?’ Priest asked, feebly.

For a horrible moment, he thought she might do what he felt he deserved and slap him across the face, but instead she released her hand from his arm, as if she had just realised, with embarrassment, that she was still touching him.

‘I’m doing better than perhaps I should be,’ she conceded.

‘Maybe we could start again?’

‘From which point? The point at which I was shown a picture of my brother impaled on a spike, or before that?’

He faltered, although he felt justified in doing so. ‘Starting again doesn’t necessarily have to mean going back to any particular point. Perhaps it’s about rebuilding what we have.’

‘Which is what exactly?’

‘I have absolutely no idea.’

At last, a statement he was sure of. He shouldn’t have stood her up, but maybe there was hope – maybe he could atone. He carried out a quick mental calculation. The trial started in ninety minutes. He had to travel halfway across London to the Strand and negotiate the plethora of cameramen lining the High Court entrance, which would take him to the point where the trial was scheduled to start, but Okoro’s patience would have worn thin way before then.

Inside his jacket pocket, his phone resumed its familiar, angry buzz.

‘Meet me tomorrow night,’ he said, his heart in his mouth. ‘Come over to mine. We can shut ourselves away from the world for an evening. I’ll attempt to cook you something. Do you like lemon sole?’

‘You’re asking me out on a date? At my father’s funeral.’ There was no trace of humour in her voice.

Priest shuffled his feet again. On reflection, he did seem to have set a record for inappropriate passes.

For a full agonising minute, she said nothing, but continued to stare at some imperceptible spot behind him. For every excruciating moment that passed a feeling of hopelessness set in until, finally, she nodded.

‘You’d better be there, Priest. Or God have mercy.’

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

Enjoyed this preview? ❤️ Do not stop here!

Read the complete book free online → 🔗

Continue reading now on BooksBarbecue and discover every page!

Love reading? Bookmark BooksBarbecue.com for more amazing books!

Happy Reading!