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A NineStar Press Publication www.ninestarpress.com It’s A Sin ISBN #978-1-911153-15-3 ©Copyright Steve Burford 2015 Cover Art by Aria ©Copyright 2015 Edited by Elizabeth Coldwell NineStar Press, Ltd. This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, NineStar Press, Ltd. Published in 2015 by NineStar Press, Waterford, Ireland. Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. IT’S A SIN Summerskill and Lyon Book One Steve Burford Dedication For Neil Chapter One Three people walked past him on the canal path that cold November morning before anyone realised something was wrong. The first, a professional man, out early for the morning paper, saw him sitting under the small footbridge that crossed the narrow strip of dark water. He took in the face-concealing hoodie, the flashy and doubtless ridiculously expensive trainers, and kept as far away from him as he possibly could without actually walking on the water itself. The skin on the back of his neck prickled nervously as he walked past the youth, and the Guardian was rolled tight in his fist ready to beat the lad off if he leapt on him from behind. But the slouched figure remained immobile, his back to the bridge’s crumbling brickwork, and the man passed by unscathed, relieved and curiously exhilarated. A young mother pushing her pram had been next. She hesitated when she came upon the sitting figure, glanced nervously at the precious bundle in front of her, then steeled herself and marched straight past him, arms stiff, pram a small juggernaut. She passed safely, and laughed a little to herself at the frantic hammering of her heart and her breathlessness. She cooed nonsense to her child about ‘silly mummys’, and inwardly vowed never to go that way again at that time of the morning. It was the elderly man walking his dog, diligently employing his pooper scooper, who wondered what a young lad would be doing sitting on the damp grass, propped against a dripping stone wall so early in the day, and who asked himself if, maybe, something might be wrong. He moved a little closer, pulling slightly at the dog suddenly grown restive on its lead. Perhaps the boy was drunk. Well, he’d had a couple of mornings like that himself when he’d been that age. Or maybe he was stoned or high or whatever the hell they called it nowadays. And what were you supposed to do then? He hesitated. His dog whined. And then it hit the old man: what if the boy in front of him was dead? Chapter Two Foregate Street Police Station. He’d liked the sound of the name. It had a vaguely medieval ring to it. And Worcester―that was an historical city, right? Something big in the Civil War, if he remembered his history lessons. He had, however, reckoned without the city planners, specifically the ones who had been in charge during the Sixties who had fallen out of love with history and deeply in love with that new wonder material of modern architecture, concrete. Worcester Foregate Police Station was an ugly, functional block of a building with all the medieval charm of a giant brick. With a sigh and an involuntary check of his tie, Dave Lyon entered the building, presented his ID to the desk sergeant and was pointed in the direction of the canteen where he was told to wait until he was called. All very cold and efficient. At least it wasn’t hostile. That’d probably come later. “You new to the station, then?” Dave dragged his attention away from a menu in its uncertain black marker pen to the smiling face asking the question. “Yeah. Starting today.” The woman in canteen whites restocking the sandwich shelf poked him playfully with a baguette. “Uniform?” Dave gave a look of mock wounded pride. “Sergeant me. Starting that today, too.” “Good for you.” She sighed, taking in the height, the lean build, the short, dark hair and surprisingly blue eyes. “So, suppose we shan’t see that much of you around here, then? You’ll be off having your pub lunches and meals on expenses.” Dave laughed and nodded at the greasy whiteboard. “Depends what your egg and bacon sandwich is like. Reckon you could tempt me here on a regular basis?” The woman laughed, too, just a little more breathlessly. “I’ll see what I can do. My name’s Eileen,” she added. “By the way.” “Hello, Eileen. Pleased to meet you. I’m Dave.” “Hello, Dave.” And she was gone back behind the counter, taking with her a blush that was quite surprising for someone used to the heat of a kitchen. Dave scanned the canteen, still empty that early in the morning. Spotting a paper abandoned on one of the tables, he went over to it and sat down. It was the Mail. He sighed, opened it and began to read. Chapter Three The question, Claire thought as she took her seat, was did she now flirt more with Madden or less? Promotion had brought her one step closer to him in rank, but did it also take her one step further away from that sort of behaviour? She smoothed her hand along her skirt, a reflex action and not really intended to draw attention to her legs. She ran her hand through her short blonde hair, another reflex but this one intended to draw attention to her new cut. If she did flirt, she decided, it would be because they both expected it, and because they both knew it meant absolutely nothing. The bottom line was she was there because of a ton of bloody hard work, not because of her appearance or how she could make an older man’s heart race just a little bit faster, even first thing in the morning before his cup of wake-up coffee. Besides, a girl should never turn her back on her mam’s lessons, even if that girl was, as of 0800 hours this morning, a fully fledged Detective Inspector. “Good morning, sir,” she said with a commendably straight face. “Good morning, Detective Inspector Summerskill,” replied Chief Superintendent Madden, equally po-faced. His emphasis on her rank gave her all the pleasure she’d known it would. “I trust I find you ready and eager for your first day in your new position?” “Most definitely, sir,” she said. Bring it on. Madden nodded, toyed for a while with the manila folder he was holding, then finally held it out over his desk. Claire took it and opened it immediately. Madden leaned back in his more comfortably upholstered chair and watched, his faint smile unnoticed by her as she skimmed the papers, any traces of amusement well concealed. It took less than a minute. “Happy slapping!” “Assault.” Sod flirting. Claire glared at Madden. Chief Superintendent Madden returned the expression with the impassivity of a stone Buddha. “Your point, inspector?” My point, as you well know, you patronising old goat, is that there is a major arson case going down, and what is almost certainly a gang-related pair of killings right here, right now on our turf, and you’ve given me for my first case as a DI… “Kids. It’s kids larking about.” “That’s ‘youths’, inspector,” Madden corrected her, “and it is technically assault.” He paused. “And possibly hate crime. You had noticed that, I trust?” “Of course. It’s just…” Claire transferred her glare to the folder in her lap as if hoping the intensity of that expression might get rid of the damn thing by causing it to spontaneously burst into flames. Damn it. Maybe this was how you got to rise further up the ranks, not by flirting but by the speed with which you could pull carpets out from under people without apparent effort. She’d noticed what the report referred to as the ‘unifying feature’ even before the single sentence final paragraph. And it was just another off-pissing factor that she’d given Madden an opportunity to make it appear as if she hadn’t seen it or didn’t care. “We’re here for all sections of the community now, Inspector Summerskill,” Madden went on, steepling his fingers. He leaned forward. “And we have to be seen to be here for all sections of the community.” “Yes, sir.” She gritted her teeth and prayed that giving in now would cut short any sermon. The stinging irony was they both knew she actually believed what he’d just said more than he did. “Imagine what a field day the local press would have if they thought we were behind in our civic duties.” “Yes, sir,” said Claire, determined to ride it out. There was one good thing about this poxy first case as DI. It could almost certainly be tied up quickly. With kids there were bound to be some mates, or mates of mates, who’d grass each other up pretty sharpish with just the right application of pressure. It might not even be too bad a start to her new job, to have something quick and clean on the record.

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