Her Final Hour
192 Pages
English
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Her Final Hour

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192 Pages
English

Description

What if the perfect friend was hiding a deadly secret?When a championship jockey discovers the body of a young woman during a cold morning’s training ride, the local racing community is shocked to its core.Everyone says she was the perfect friend, the perfect daughter and the perfect fiancée.However as Detective Mark Turpin delves into the girl’s fateful last hours, he discovers a past full of lies and mystery. Investigating the truth behind her savage death, Mark uncovers jealousy and ambition within the tiny community, accompanied by a disturbing reluctance to help the police. When another death takes place only days later, Mark realises he is running out of time to stop a killer who will do anything to keep a dark secret hidden...Her Final Hour is the second book in a new murder mystery series from USA Today bestselling author Rachel Amphlett."Mark Turpin is a welcome addition to the ranks of fictional detectives" Peter Robinson, bestselling author of the DCI Banks series

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Published 26 October 2020
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EAN13 9781913498221
Language English

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Exrait

HER FINAL HOUR
A DETECTIVE MARK TURPIN MURDER MYSTERY
RACHEL AMPHLETT
Copyright © 2020 by Rachel Amphlett
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. While the locations in this book are a mixture of real and imagined, the characters are totally fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Reading Order & Checklist
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 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46
Chapter47
CONTENTS
Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58
About the Author
Missep a dook? Downloap the FREE Official Reaping Orper anp Checklist to Rachel AmPhlett’s dookshere
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CH APTER O NE
Winter wrapped its grip around the Oxfordshire coun tryside, feathering the bare hedgerows of the Berkshire Downs with a dusting of frost, determined to maintain its hold on the hills and valley below. Will Brennan flexed his hands, and let the leather reins give a little in his grip. A cold mist blanketed the landscape, creating ghost -like silhouettes of the horse chestnut trees that bordered the training yard, and obscuring the large Georgian farmhouse beyond. He was losing circulation in the tips of his finger s, despite the weather forecaster on the radio enthusing about the mild start to winter, and despite the thin wool gloves he wore. At least his helmet, covered with a bright gr een and blue silk cap, stopped some of his body temperature escaping. Grey light hinted at the approaching sunrise before a cold breeze sent a discarded plastic feed bag tumbling across the concrete. It s nagged on the tendrils of an ivy bush that climbed up the side of one of the brick-built stable blocks, fluttering as if to free itself. The other stable lads called out to each other, swe aring as they prepared the horses, their voices muffled by the thick air. Brennan murmured a greeting to one of them as he pa ssed, a new kid whose name he couldn’t remember, who had the soft facial featu res of someone who hadn’t yet spent a winter on the Downs, exposed to all its ele ments. Another year or so and he’d be as ruddy as the rest of them. Vapour escaped Brennan’s lips, mixing in the air wi th the heat wafting from the horse’s nostrils, the beast snorting and shaking it s head as he led it across ice-covered puddles. Coffee would have to wait until he returned, and af ter the horses had been tended to. At a call from the back of the string, he was given a leg up into the saddle and the horses set off at a brisk pace. Weak sunlight began to crest the horizon as the str ing of racing horses entered the lane from the yard, their hooves clattering across the pitted surface while their riders shivered and grumbled. Not too loudly, though. After all, MacKenzie Adams was known for choosing a lucky few to ride his horses in races even if, to begin with, those races were a t the smaller courses around the United Kingdom. For many it had been the start of an illustrious ca reer, and Brennan was hungry for
the same. His stomach rumbled loudly, and he cursed the turn of thought. Keeping the weight off was a constant struggle, especially when his gi rlfriend’s mother insisted on feeding him twice as much as everyone else whenever he was there. He peered between the horse’s ears, a tight grip on the reins, listening. At this time of the morning it was unusual to see a ny traffic, but the lane was narrow with a twisting curve that had spewed out its share of speeding motorcyclists over the summer, touring the Oxfordshire countryside at high speed with little regard for their safety, or that of a horse and its rider. Half a mile up the hill, they turned onto the gallo ps through a gap in the bramble hedgerow, and Brennan’s heart rate edged up a notch in anticipation. From here the view swept over an undulating field, fallow and ready for planting, abandoned hay bales spiky with thick frost. In the distance, clumps of ancient oak and birch trees huddled close within shaded copses. The hillside swept down through the valley and past the space where the old power station cooling towers had once pierced the horizon , then onwards through the Vale to Oxford. Years ago, before his time, these had truly been th e Berkshire Downs. A flourish of ink, a handshake at local government level, and the boundary had slipped into Oxfordshire. And on April Fool’s Day, according to his grandfath er. A mud and stone track led across the field to the g allops, and when the horse paused at the bottom of the slope, Brennan loosened the reins before giving him a swift kick that sent the animal trotting towards the open gates. The lush green grass on either side of the gallops sparkled with frost that reached out to the dirt- and sawdust-layered track, clumps of churned-up earth shadowing a racing line created by yesterday’s training session . Brennan sniffed, resisting the urge to wipe his nos e with the back of his glove. He needed both hands on the reins. The beast beneath him tended to lose his riders if given half the opportunity, and Brennan had no intention of being the horse’s lates t victim. He knew that the rest of the stable lads were running a sweepstake to see how lo ng it would take. He scowled. They may have been eager to make some m oney from his misfortune, but he was keener to make MacKenzie Adams sit up an d take notice of him. He glanced over his shoulder to where Adams stood n ext to a dark-green four-by-four vehicle at the side of the track, binoculars i n his right hand, thermos coffee cup in the other, bundled up in a padded jacket and scarf against the elements. He raised his thumb, and Adams lifted the cup in re sponse. Brennan turned his attention back to the course and kicked the horse, relishing the sudden power as he leapt into action. He squinted to see through the swirling mist that c loaked the oval course, and leaned forward as the horse pushed into the first c orner, recalling McKenzie’s instructions to him before they had set out from th e yard. ‘He’s racing at Newbury on Saturday, so give him a gentle workout. The last thing we want is an injury.’ The problem was, Empire of the Sun – or Onyx, as he was known in the stables –
didn’t understand the concept of a gentle workout. It was why MacKenzie had sent him out ahead of the rest of the string, given it was common knowledge that any hint of another horse in front of him would send Onyx into race mode. The trainer always joked that the animal possessed two speeds – fast, and faster. The horse’s withers tensed as his shoulder muscles trembled, and Brennan felt the power beneath the sleek black coat. The temptation teased him as they entered the first straight. It would be so easy to loosen the r eins further and let the horse fly over the soft earth. Almost as if Onyx could read his mind, the horse su rged forward, straining at the bit between his teeth. Common sense prevailed, and, with some reluctance, Brennan kept a tight grip and eased the animal back to a slower pace as they approached the next sweeping corner. Onyx tensed, and Brennan dug his heels into the sti rrups at the sudden deceleration in speed, confused. He stood and peered between the horse’s ears, and t hen saw what was spooking the animal. To the left of the track, under the white metal rai ling that the horses followed along the gallops, was a discarded bundle of rags. ‘It’s nothing, you idiot. Get on with it.’ He dug his heels in and urged the horse forward. Onyx reared up and twisted to the right without slo wing down, without giving Brennan a chance to correct his position or slow hi s trajectory as he was catapulted into the air, the reins snapping from his grip. He had a swirling view of green grass and grey sky tumbling over one another, and then hit the ground. Seconds later, winded, Brennan rolled over and lay on the dirt, staring at the swirling mist. He wiggled his toes and fingers, slowly worki ng his way along his limbs until he was sure no bones were broken, and then eased into a sitting position. Onyx stood on the far side of the track, peering do wn his nose at him. ‘Dickhead.’ Brennan brushed off his jodhpurs and st omped across to the horse, snatching up the reins before it decided to take off without him. The mist blanketed his position from the start of t he training oval and, if he could remount, no-one would know and he’d still have a ch ance of a race at the weekend. Except the horse refused to cooperate. Onyx whinnied, then sidestepped, turning his rear to the course. ‘Bloody hell. Move, will you?’ Brennan tugged at the reins, and then glanced over his shoulder. Under the soles of his boots, the ground began to t remble a moment before the thunder of hooves reached him. ‘Come on. Please.’ He used all his weight to turn the horse, pushing a gainst his flanks in an attempt to get Onyx to do as he was told for once, and then co llapsed against him, sweat pooling under his arms. ‘Right now, I hate you.’ He sighed, and then raised his gaze to the horse’s head, expecting a knowing
sideways look from the animal. Instead, Onyx was staring at the bundle of rags und er the railing on the inner side of the course, his ears flat, his hooves planted firml y on the turf, the whites of his eyes glaring in the winter light. Brennan kept hold of the reins and moved in front o f the horse. He opened his mouth to urge him forward, and then stopped as he d rew closer to the discarded clothing and realised why the horse was so scared. Blood had congealed in her hair, the dull red glistening as a beetle wandered across her forehead. Her hands had been tied behind her, her pink lace k nickers twisted around her left ankle, and her blank stare watched the clouds, accu sation in the milky film that blurred her eyes. Brennan let the reins fall, the horse forgotten, an d dropped to his knees. A moment later, he vomited over the lush turf.