Cavendish & Walker Box Set Read online

  Cavendish & Walker Series: Books 1-3

  Sally Rigby

  Contents

  Deadly Games

  Free Book

  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

  Read more about Cavendish & Walker

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Fatal Justice

  Introduction

  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

  Read more about Cavendish & Walker

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Death Track

  Mailing List

  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

  Read more about Cavendish & Walker

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2019 by Sally Rigby

  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 story is a work of fiction. All names, characters, organisations or places, events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any persons, alive or dead, events or locals is almost entirely coincidental.

  Edited by Emma Mitchell of @ Creating Perfection.

  Cover Design by Stuart Bache of Books Covered

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  To instantly receive the free novella, The Night Shift, featuring Whitney when she was a Detective Sergeant, ten years ago, sign up for Sally Rigby’s free author newsletter at www.sallyrigby.com

  Chapter One

  Dr Georgina Cavendish sat at the old oak table in her kitchen, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, mentally preparing for the day ahead. Monday was her heaviest day, with back-to-back lectures and tutorials. If she were lucky, she’d manage to grab a sandwich in the fifteen minutes she had spare at lunchtime.

  ‘Penny for them.’ Her partner, Stephen, walked into the kitchen and headed over to the coffee machine. He poured himself a mug and leant against the worktop, smiling at her.

  ‘Just bracing myself for today’s onslaught.’

  She loved lecturing, apart from having to mould the new first-year students into her way of working. They seemed to have no concept of good timekeeping, thinking they could wander into lectures or tutorials whenever they liked. Sloppiness in punctuality invariably meant sloppiness in their academic work, and that was unacceptable in forensic psychology. However, the current first years were almost house trained, making her life much easier.

  ‘Only a few more weeks and it’s the end of term. Then you can relax and look forward to Christmas in the Alps.’

  She hadn’t yet told her parents she wouldn’t be around for their traditional family Christmas. She was waiting for the right time. Telling them she was going with Stephen might soften the blow. They thought he was wonderful. Came from the right family. Went to the right school. His parents were distantly related to Princess Diana’s family from Althorp, Northamptonshire. The last time she’d spoken to her parents, her mother had hinted at how much she’d love a wedding to look forward to. Even her father had nothing bad to say about Stephen; a miracle in itself.

  ‘True. I’m looking forward to having a rest.’

  ‘It depends on what you mean by “rest”.’ His eyes glinted.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ she replied, laughing.

  ‘I do indeed. Do you fancy going to the pub later? It’ll save cooking. I have a funding meeting all afternoon with our illustrious Head of Department. I’ll be wanting to murder a beer or two after.’

  ‘Sorry, not tonight. I’ve too much to do.’

  She had a stack of marking, as well as wanting to work on her latest research project. An Associate Professorship was coming up later in the year, and she wanted to be the front runner. After all the publicity she’d brought the department following her research into familial depression and the development of anti-social behavioural traits, she deserved the promotion. University funding was directly linked to research, and applicants for the post would be judged on their contribution. She wouldn’t let the opportunity slip out of her hands.

  When Stephen moved in six months ago, she’d worried working and living together would put a strain on their relationship. But they didn’t actually see much of each other during the day. They were both in the psychology department but taught on different programmes.

  ‘I’ll only steal you for an hour. It won’t interfere with the master plan.’ He flashed a disarming smile.

  George almost gave in, being a sucker for his dimples, until she remembered the second years were submitting an assign
ment on mental health disorders the following day.

  ‘I’ve another set of assignments due in tomorrow, and I can’t get behind so early in the academic year. What about later in the week?’

  ‘When you’ll come up with another excuse.’ He placed his mug on the worktop. ‘I saw more of you before we started living together.’

  He was right. They used to go out at least two or three times a week, either for meals or to the theatre or cinema. She’d had time for him then, even though she’d felt her work had suffered.

  They’d only been seeing each other for eight months before he’d suggested they live together. George had agreed because it made sense on paper. They were similar in many ways. Both fiercely independent, due to being at boarding school from an early age. Workwise it was a lot easier. If they saw each other every day, she wouldn’t be distracted so much by having to go out in the evenings.

  Because career came first. She loved being with Stephen but had no desire to move beyond living together. It worked for him, too. He was divorced with two children, who he didn’t see often because they lived overseas with their mother. Early on in their relationship, he’d told George he’d had a vasectomy, so having more children was out of the question. That suited her fine as she had no desire to be a mother.

  On the surface, theirs seemed a perfect match. Even if some of his habits drove her crazy.

  A few noses were put out of joint when they’d got together. Stephen always had a trail of students and staff vying for his attention. He was the archetypal tall, dark, handsome man. He was good company and had a great sense of humour. Until he didn’t get his own way.

  ‘I won’t. Promise. You go. I’m sure there’ll be someone you know in the pub. There usually is.’

  Her suggestion wasn’t exactly unselfish. It would be much easier to get on with her work in silence, rather than having the TV or music blaring.

  ‘Suit yourself. Expect me when you see me, then.’ He marched out of the kitchen. His footsteps thumped up the stairs.

  Even when Stephen was the one being unreasonable, he had the knack of making her feel guilty. She couldn’t live her life from moment to moment, like he did. Planning and being methodical was how she was wired. Those traits contributed to her success. She’d make it up to him when he got home later.

  Her calm mood now shattered, she decided to walk to work rather than wait for a lift from him. She’d sneak a cigarette. It was her secret vice, something she indulged in only occasionally, and never when he was around.

  She slipped on her calf-length, deep blue wool coat, knitted hat and scarf, and headed out of her eighteenth-century terraced cottage, which she’d bought with some of the money inherited from her grandma. She loved its intimacy. It was the perfect size for one. Well, now two. But there was still enough space for them both. She walked down the path and onto the pavement.

  A typical chilly November morning, the sun was just beginning to rise behind leafless trees. Her cheeks tingled from the wind. She walked down the road until she came to another path, beside the winding river which divided Lenchester in two, and led to the university.

  She followed the river, entering a tall wrought-iron gate onto the university grounds, and then lit up. Inhaling deeply, she allowed the smoke to permeate her body. Instant relaxation. As she blew the smoke out into the air, she noticed one of her colleagues coming along the path. Shit.

  She cut behind a large oak tree, making sure to stay out of sight. Something caught her eye, and she turned her head. A pair of jean-clad legs poked out from the other side of the trunk. But that would be ridiculous. Who’d sit on the ground in this weather so early in the morning?

  She went to investigate further.

  A girl sat on the grass leaning against the tree. Her head was bowed, her hands clasped together, held up to her chest in a pleading pose.

  Was she meditating?

  ‘Hello?’ George shivered as a gust of wind swept past.

  The girl’s head tilted, and pair of lifeless eyes stared up into the overcast sky.

  The cigarette fell from her hand. Was she? No—not possible. She stepped closer. The girl’s dead gaze stared back at her, unflinching.

  George’s hands trembled as she reached for her cell phone and pressed 999.

  ‘There’s a body. I think she’s dead.’

  Chapter Two

  Detective Chief Inspector Whitney Walker parked her car and headed towards the imposing Victorian police station. She loved the building, despite the ineffective heating system and it being overcrowded. She’d be sorry to move once the fancy purpose-built station, situated on the edge of the city centre, was finished.

  Before she even had time to grab a coffee, she was summoned to the office of her new boss, Detective Superintendent Tom Jamieson, by his personal assistant. She’d messed up on a case which meant the shit was going to hit the fan. Knowing what he was like, she expected he’d be wiping the floor with her.

  She tapped on his open office door and walked straight in.

  ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

  He held up his finger, indicating she should wait a moment until he’d finished whatever it was he was doing. It looked to her like he was just shuffling papers. It was probably all for her benefit, but he needn’t have wasted his time. She took the opportunity to glance around his office. In pride of place on the wall behind him was his degree certificate from Oxford University. He always made sure everyone knew he’d gone there. Wore it like a badge of honour. It didn’t impress her. Well, it did. But not in respect of his job on the force. He’d only been there a short while and had already managed to piss her off big time.

  He’d come into policing via the Superintendents’ Fast Track scheme, which meant he had no experience in the field. Unlike her. She’d joined at eighteen and had worked her arse off for her promotion to Detective Chief Inspector. It had been a challenge, especially with her daughter Tiffany to look after and the negative views some of her superiors held, that being a mum and an effective officer was mutually exclusive.

  But she was determined to be a success and make a difference. Ever since her brother, Rob, had been attacked by a gang of lads twenty years ago and ended up with brain damage, she’d known what she wanted to do with her life. She remembered the attack as if it was yesterday. The police did hardly anything about it. And never found the boys responsible. She’d move mountains to ensure that wouldn’t happen on her watch.

  The trouble with people like Jamieson was they thought their superior position meant they knew better than everyone else. She’d like to see what he’d do when confronted with a drugged up, knife wielding thug. He’d shit himself. As far as she was concerned, he was a highflying paper pusher.

  But he was her immediate boss, and she had to answer to him for everything. Usually he left her alone as senior investigating officer to work cases as she saw fit. Except when she screwed up.

  He glanced up at her, took off his gold-rimmed glasses, and set them on the desk in front of him.

  ‘Take a seat, Walker. I’ve called you in to discuss the Hodgson debacle.’

  Calling it a debacle was an understatement. Two days ago, she’d orchestrated an early morning raid on a large house in Lewiston, one of the poshest areas of the city. She’d taken fifteen armed officers with her, and a dog handler, as they’d been informed there was a German shepherd on the premises. The dog turned out to be a poodle. And the only drugs in the house were prescribed medication and several bottles of vitamin pills. The fact they’d got the wrong house was bad enough. What was even worse, the house they’d raided belonged to close friends of the Chief Constable.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She sat on one of the chairs in front of his mahogany, reproduction antique desk.

  ‘What happened?’ He leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk.

  ‘We were misinformed about the location of the drugs.’ From a little shit who was history once she got her hands on him.

  ‘Didn’t you check th
e validity of the information?’

  Of course not. We picked an address from Google maps and decided to raid it, just in case.

  ‘Yes, I did. It came from a reliable source, sir.’ Maybe not the best thing to say.

  ‘Clearly, not reliable enough. Have you spoken to this informant of yours?’