Down Among the Dead by Damien Boyd

 Down Among the Dead

Down Among the Dead by Damien Boyd (DI Nick Dixon Crime Book 10)
English | 2020 | Mystery & Thriller | ePUB | 602 KB

Damien Boyd is one of the reputed author of the Crime, Mystery, and Thriller genres. He hails from London, United Kingdom and is particularly famous for writing down his highly successful thriller novel series known as The DI Nick Dixon series. Before becoming a full time author, Damien used to work for the Crown Prosecution Service.

Somerset’s bloody past meets a dangerous present in this thriller from the bestselling DI Nick Dixon crime series.
When a badly decomposed body is discovered during an archaeological dig on the Sedgemoor battlefield, Avon and Somerset police are notified immediately. The remains are recent, and Detective Chief Inspector Peter Lewis knows exactly who they have found.
A single stab wound from a curved blade implicates convicted serial killer Daniel Parker, who Lewis arrested fifteen years ago.
With Parker’s appeal hearing imminent, Lewis comes under intense pressure to pin this new murder on him quickly and quietly. It’s an open and shut case—and Lewis should know—so why then does he insist on assigning it to DI Nick Dixon?
As Dixon starts to re-examine the original investigation, shocking revelations come in from the forensics team. And just as Dixon’s worst fears begin to surface, another body is found…

‘The guilt weighs heavy, Master Appleby?’

He paused outside the open window, watching the drunkard slumped in his carved oak chair: head back, mouth open; a flagon on the table in front of him, his tankard upended on the floor beside him.

‘And a fine manor house. Tell me, how does a cobbler afford that, I do wonder?’

The fire flickered in the hearth, sparks from the dying embers dancing in the draught as the last of the candles on the table burned out.

‘Is that vomit down the front of that fine silk shirt, my treacherous friend?’

He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of hooves behind him, the grey he had turned loose at the crossroads having followed him through the woods, the reins trailing on the ground.

‘See what you have done? A horse thief I am now.’

Rebel, slave, horse thief; destined for the gallows as sure as night follows day.

‘But not before I have added murder to my litany of trespasses.’

A knife on the table and a sword hanging on the wall above the granite lintel. He glanced down at the rusting hand scythe he had found on the edge of the cornfield at Chedzoy, dropped by one of his band of brothers fleeing the field of battle. Turning the blade in the glow from the fire, he ran his finger along the cutting edge; blunt. A blacksmith, come to this. Still, the point would be sharp enough for the task at hand.

He tried the latch on the door, careful to make no sound.

‘You will waken, Master Appleby, when I am good and ready.’

Not bolted either; the door inched open, the hinges well greased. The wet leather soles on his boots made no sound on the stone floor, just as the boots of thousands of good Somerset men marching out on to Langmoor had made no sound that fateful night ten long years ago.

He picked up the flagon and sniffed the dregs. Rum.

Unconscious in drink; a door not bolted.

‘A want of care, Master Appleby,’ he whispered. ‘Did you think I had forgotten you?’

He took off his wide-brimmed floppy hat and placed it silently on the table, watching the last of the raindrops trickle down between the timbers. Two hours in the saddle, lappery all the way; he was soaked through. ‘You’ll catch your death,’ his wife would have said, had she not taken up with another, thinking him dead. Then he sat down opposite the slumbering Appleby, listening to the crackle of the fire, and the snoring.

Fresh bread and cheese on the table were tempting.

‘Maybe afterward, when the Somerset men butchered at Westonzoyland have been avenged.’

He picked up the knife from the bread board and dropped it into his coat pocket. A scythe was his weapon of choice this night; a knife would not do at all.

Appleby cut a sad figure: two weeks unshaven, the turncoat had put on weight since last he had seen him that dismal night, galloping away into the fog, his betrayal complete, the battle joined.

Leave a Comment

%d bloggers like this: