Flesh and Blood (A DI Amy Winter Thriller) by Caroline Mitchell (best love novels of all time .TXT) 📗

went as each man took turns with her. She didn’t know how long she had lain there afterwards. Jen came and got her because someone else wanted to use the room. She was grateful for the drug that blurred the worst of the horrors. Afterwards, she thought it was over. That Wes’s debt had been repaid. But there had never been any debt, and this was just the beginning.

Mo blinked as Ms Harkness brought her to the present day. She hated the sympathy she saw in her eyes. Hatred and rage raced through her, like fire in her bloodstream. Never again would she doubt herself. She knew what she had become as a result of her past, and she welcomed it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Amy entered the station, the back of her legs aching from standing at the scene for so long. Donovan would be back in about an hour, but there was no time to rest up now. The deceased was George Tobias Shaw, according to ID found in the back pocket of his jeans. The young man’s body had been found washed up on the beach by an elderly man out walking his dog.

It grated on Amy that she had been socialising on the night another victim had died. She was here for work, not pleasure. Word of George’s suicide had spread, and a team known for investigating killers were about as welcome as the horsemen of the apocalypse. Their office phones rang persistently as they were inundated with calls from concerned locals asking if it was safe to venture outside.

For now, the scene was cordoned off, although it was impossible to pitch a tent where the body had been found, partially submerged by the sea. It was a logistical nightmare, with onlookers at every turn, and she was grateful for CID’s manpower as she returned to chase up the latest lead.

She headed into the witness interview room to speak to Alfie Johnson, who Shaw had sent his suicide text to. Like some of the previous victims, he had texted he was ‘done with life’. But was he? The case was a complex labyrinth and Amy would take her leads where she could.

Alfie was already seated, frowning as he picked at his nails. His unruly blond hair and bloodshot eyes suggested he was a little worse for wear.

‘Thanks for taking the time to speak to me in person.’ Amy sat across from him, crossing her legs.

According to early accounts, George was in his early thirties and worked as a supervisor in a book-manufacturing plant. His short-term girlfriend, Ciara, had filled local police in on his lifestyle, telling them George had driven to Clacton for Alfie’s stag do last night. So why had he wandered away from the crowd? Estranged from his family, George had emigrated from Australia to live in the UK. He had been with his girlfriend for just three weeks. Through her grief, Ciara had spoken highly of him, although she had not yet met his friends. Amy wanted to pick the bones of her story, which was too vague for her liking. She needed another perspective.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Amy said, as she and Alfie settled down in the interview room. She flipped open her notebook, ready to make notes. ‘When is the wedding?’

‘Next week,’ Alfie said, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I didn’t get home from my stag do until four this morning, but as soon as I heard what happened, I came straight here.’

‘It must have come as a shock when he texted you,’ Amy said. ‘According to his girlfriend’s statement you were good friends.’ Ciara also told police that Alfie had asked George to be his best man, but Alfie’s brother was stepping in instead. Amy didn’t want to start their conversation on the back foot by mentioning family business. It had little to do with the case, after all.

‘I didn’t see the text until this morning. I didn’t even know he had my number.’

‘But you’re friends, aren’t you?’ Amy replied.

‘Depends on how you define “friends”.’ Alfie blew out his cheeks. ‘George was a bullshitter. You couldn’t believe a word he said.’

Now that Amy had not expected. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s not my friend, for a start,’ Alfie replied. ‘I mean, he wasn’t. I’m sorry he’s dead and all, but the bloke was a compulsive liar. Mad as a box of frogs.’

As she absorbed his words, Amy surmised that Alfie wasn’t that sorry at all. ‘Why invite him to your stag night?’ She clicked the top of her pen before writing the words ‘compulsive liar’ on the pad.

‘He wasn’t invited.’ Alfie tensed. ‘And my stag do was in Southend last night, not Clacton.’

Amy sighed. It was bad enough that the crime scene was being engulfed by the rising tide, but now Ciara’s story was being muddied by Alfie’s account.

‘His girlfriend messaged me on Facebook, and I played along,’ Alfie explained. ‘I thought he’d used my stag night as an excuse because he was two-timing her. But I’m not his alibi for what happened. His death has nothing to do with me.’

Amy scratched the side of her head with her pen. ‘Alibis are for suspects, not victims. You’re not in any trouble.’

Alfie’s relief was evident. ‘Good. I got a fright when Mum told me the police wanted to speak to me, which is why I came straight here. What else has he been saying about me?’

Amy filled him in on what Ciara had said to local officers in her area.

‘Bullshit!’ Alfie replied. ‘George wasn’t a supervisor, he was a caretaker – a rubbish one at that.’

‘And you definitely didn’t invite him to the stag night? There wasn’t some kind of mix-up about the location?’

Alfie shook his head. ‘No. He was weird. He would have been out of place.’

‘And he didn’t give you any inkling as to what he was doing in Clacton?’

‘The last time I spoke to George was to tell him the bogs weren’t flushing properly. He didn’t have