COFFIN COVE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 1) by JACKIE ELLIOTT (books for new readers .TXT) 📕

“Fucking lawyers,” one of the enforcement officers told him, “they got off on some technicality.”

“Oh, that’s unfortunate,” Gerry agreed, trying hard not to clap his hands in relief.

Back in his office, he rejoiced inwardly and stretched back in his chair. Now, finally, he could have some peace. Just keep his head down and make it to retirement. He began to feel optimistic. His new secretary, Christina, stared at him, as he hummed under his breath and thanked her for her hard work.

That was two months ago. Gerry’s warm feeling of relief ended when Hilstead finally called.

“Captain, not good news, I’m afraid to say. Not good news at all.”

Gerry gripped the phone, feeling his world collapse around him again.

“You got off!” he said, almost pleading with Hilstead. “How can that not be good news?”

“Well, that’s the problem, Captain,” Hilstead said. “I got off, but I owe my good friend a considerable amount of money. The Fisheries confiscated our product, and then there are the lawyer fees to deal with on top of that. The thing is, Captain, when I’m doing good, you do good, right? And if I’m not doing so good . . . well, it’s only fair that you help me out. That sounds fair, doesn’t it?”

“I can give you back some money,” Gerry said quickly. “I haven’t spent much of it.” It was true. For once he was being careful, just taking the odd few notes here and there, so as not to arouse suspicion. His ex-wife was always looking for evidence of income, accusing Gerry of hiding money from her.

Hilstead laughed, without humour.

“No, Captain. After everything I’ve done for you, you owe me. You’re going to help me out.” He told Gerry what he needed.

“I can’t do that!” Gerry gasped. “I’m not in the same department anymore, you know that! I’m behind a desk!”

He pleaded with Hilstead, but Hilstead just said, “You’re going to pay, Captain. Somehow, you must pay.”

Tonight, Gerry Roberts stood at the door of his office and wished he could crawl into a dark room and wait for the mercy of death. This would never end. And now he had reporters sniffing around.

He heard the distant hum of a janitor’s vacuum cleaner. He wasn’t sure of the time, but it must be late. He’d lost all track of time. He walked to the men’s washroom and splashed some cold water on his face.

He’d shaved in a hurry this morning, sleeping through the alarm and having to propel himself from sweat-drenched sheets into the shower. He couldn’t remember getting to bed or undressing himself. He found the empty bottle of vodka on the floor beside the armchair.

He did remember that he’d been dreaming again. It was the same dream, over and over. He was crawling through the darkness, keeping low, hiding. He was being hunted. He’d woken in his usual fog and hadn’t taken care with his razor, the dream still real and vivid in his mind. He knew he’d nicked his neck, and although he’d stopped the bleeding, there was a raw patch that had chafed against his collar all day.

At work, he’d sat at his desk knowing he couldn’t go on like this. He called the number that Hilstead had left him and waited for him to answer. When Hilstead didn’t pick up, he left a message. Told him about the reporter and the picture. “I think she knows something,” he said, trying not to sound desperate.

All day he’d taken papers out of his in tray and put them back in again, unable to concentrate until he heard back from Hilstead.

He stared at himself in the mirror, red-faced from the booze and red-eyed from lack of sleep. He wished he had the courage to slice that razor across his neck and end his miserable existence. I can’t even do that right.

He walked slowly back to his desk, picked up his jacket and shoved his phone in his back pocket. His ex-wife had called several times today, but he couldn’t face that conversation. He owed her money too, and there was no way he could deal with her until he had a good half a bottle of vodka inside him.

Outside, he felt the cool breeze from the ocean, and it occurred to him that the happiest days of his life had been on the water. On an impulse, he walked away from his car and down towards the sea. He crossed the manicured lawn and stopped at the edge of the stony beach. The tide was coming in and he breathed deeply, taking in the scent of the seaweed and feeling calmed a little by the rhythm of the waves, lapping nearer and nearer.

He pulled out his phone and turned it over and over in his hand, wondering if he should phone his wife and apologize. Tell her everything. Clear his conscience. Maybe a fresh start?

Or maybe he should just turn himself in. Would it be so bad? Maybe he could cut a deal, give them Hilstead, and avoid prosecution. He mulled this over. In his mind, he pictured himself as the hero, conveniently forgetting for a minute all the bribes he had taken over the years.

He heard a footstep crunch behind him.

Gerry turned around, expecting a groundsman. He probably shouldn’t have walked on the grass.

It wasn’t a groundsman.

“Hello, Captain.”

Gerry stared in surprise and held out his hand as if to defend himself.

Before he could speak, he saw a flash, and stared in horror at Hilstead.

Gerry crumpled wordlessly to the ground.

As his eyesight faded, Gerry saw Steve Hilstead walk away from him. It all got fuzzy, but he thought he saw Steve stuff something into his jacket pocket.

A seagull landed beside him, and Gerry watched as it pecked