Guilt Trip: A Gritty edge-of-your-seat crime thriller packed with mystery and suspense (DS Vicky Dodds Scottish Crime Thrillers Book 5) Read online

  GUILT TRIP

  VICKY DODDS BOOK 5

  ED JAMES

  CONTENTS

  Other Books By Ed James

  Day 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Day 2

  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

  Day 3

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Day 4

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Other Books By Ed James

  Next book

  OTHER BOOKS BY ED JAMES

  SCOTT CULLEN MYSTERIES SERIES

  Eight novels featuring a detective eager to climb the career ladder, covering Edinburgh and its surrounding counties, and further across Scotland.

  GHOST IN THE MACHINE

  DEVIL IN THE DETAIL

  FIRE IN THE BLOOD

  STAB IN THE DARK

  COPS & ROBBERS

  LIARS & THIEVES

  COWBOYS & INDIANS

  HEROES & VILLAINS

  CULLEN & BAIN SERIES

  Six novellas spinning off from the main Cullen series covering the events of the global pandemic in 2020.

  CITY OF THE DEAD

  WORLD’S END

  HELL’S KITCHEN

  GORE GLEN

  DEAD IN THE WATER

  THE LAST DROP

  CRAIG HUNTER SERIES

  A spin-off series from the Cullen series, with Hunter first featuring in the fifth book, starring an ex-squaddie cop struggling with PTSD, investigating crimes in Scotland and further afield.

  MISSING

  HUNTED

  THE BLACK ISLE

  DS VICKY DODDS SERIES

  Gritty crime novels set in Dundee and Tayside, featuring a DS juggling being a cop and a single mother.

  BLOOD & GUTS

  TOOTH & CLAW

  FLESH & BLOOD

  SKIN & BONE

  GUILT TRIP

  DI SIMON FENCHURCH SERIES

  Set in East London, will Fenchurch ever find what happened to his daughter, missing for the last ten years?

  THE HOPE THAT KILLS

  WORTH KILLING FOR

  WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU

  IN FOR THE KILL

  KILL WITH KINDNESS

  KILL THE MESSENGER

  DEAD MAN’S SHOES

  A HILL TO DIE ON

  THE LAST THING TO DIE

  Other Books

  Other crime novels, with Lost Cause set in Scotland and Senseless set in southern England, and the other three set in Seattle, Washington.

  LOST CAUSE

  SENSELESS

  TELL ME LIES

  GONE IN SECONDS

  BEFORE SHE WAKES

  DAY 1

  Sunday

  1

  He stretches out against the bus stop, pushing his back until it clicks.

  There.

  Makes him grunt. He swears he can hear the echoes in the quiet street, darkening in the winter chill. No movement, just boxy ex-council houses and satellite dishes. Cars too expensive for this part of Dundee, the ice on the windscreens twinkling under the sodium-yellow streetlights. A missing cat poster is plastered on the Perspex shelter, another pair of them wrapped around the nearest lamppost.

  How could he live here?

  Him of all people?

  Scratch that – how could anyone bring themselves to live here?

  His watch says half three and there’s still no sign of him.

  Street’s getting dark and it’s still deadly silent.

  Almost.

  Just the background thump leaking from somewhere. He can’t place the source. An hour he’s been here and neither the beat nor the tempo’s changed. Just that constant thud. Maybe someone’s making the music.

  Kids these days…

  A flash of lights at the end of the street traces across the Toyotas, Fords and Vauxhalls. An old Audi rattles across the icy tarmac, then stops a few feet away from him. A faster bass drum tattoo leaks out of the windows, droning bagpipes playing ten times faster than physically possible. Tartan techno, they call it. Got to love it, eh?

  He pushes himself flat against the bus shelter, pulling his coat tight.

  White reverse lights flash on, haloing in the frosted Perspex. The engine whirs and the car swims back into a reverse park. A phlegmatic cough and the engine dies.

  Then he gets out of the car.

  Gavin Mason. Tall and dark. Good looking for Dundee, but still far from being a film star. Hair coiffed at the front, shaved at the sides. Puffer jacket and black trousers, beige Timberlands like it’s still 1998. He burps into his fist, the air misting around him, locks his car – no remote locking – and gets a flash of lights for his trouble. That slow gait of his, wandering up the path at the side of the house, head tilted to the side like he’s sleepwalking. He stops and looks around, his eyes thin slits, his face glowing from his phone’s backlight, then he unlocks the door and disappears inside his little box. The bottom left of a four-flat block, two storeys, pebble-dashed breeze blocks.

  Gavin’s coffin.

  He puts his hands in his deep pockets and touches the hammer. The handle’s cold, even through the gloves.

  Five.

  Four.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  He gets up and slopes off down the street towards the house.

  A woman walks towards him, hunched over, wearing a duffel coat. Wispy beard on her chin, her mouth twisted. ‘Excuse me, son?’

  He flashes her a kind smile. ‘Sorry, I’m running late.’

  Her face wrinkles. ‘Just wondering if you’ve seen my cat.’ She taps another poster on another lamppost. Even her fingers have liver spots. ‘Have you seen Whispa?’

  ‘Sorry.’ He shrugs, holding up his gloved hands. ‘Don’t live here. Just visiting a mate.’

  ‘Aye, okay.’ She t
rudges off up the street and opens a garden gate with a screech. Seconds later, she’s inside her own box, a mirror image of Gavin’s.

  No movement inside his house. Good.

  He crosses the road and creeps up the drive. No noise, no music. No Nirvana, Slipknot, Muse. Just silence. Can’t even hear that bloody bass drum from over here.

  The toilet flushes inside.

  He touches the hammer in his coat, checking it’s accessible, then knocks on the door, three times, rasping his knuckles.

  An engine rumbles behind him.

  A taxi.

  Shit.

  And she gets out. Emma. Blonde hair mostly hidden by a parka hood. Barely as tall as the door she exits from.

  He slips over the wall into the back garden and crouches low, holding his breath, keeping an eye on the flat.

  His back is bloody killing him.

  Shitting hell. What’s she doing here?

  ‘Thanks!’ She hauls up her tight jeans, then sets off up the drive, boot heels clicking.

  The door bursts open and Gavin peers out. Looks around, then he spots Emma.

  She winks at him, a sly grin on her face. ‘Hello, you.’

  Gavin thumbs back at the door. ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘Do what?’ She wraps her arms around him, smothering him in a deep kiss.

  He loosens his grip on the hammer.

  Gavin’s hand crawls over Emma’s jeans, then slithers under the surface like a worm. She slaps his hand, then pushes him inside, tearing her coat’s zip down.

  The door slams, the sound rattling around the street. Still quiet, though he can hear the sodding thud of that bloody bass drum. Seems even faster now, but that just might be his own heartbeat.

  They didn’t care who saw them, did they?

  Means they don’t care what happens to them.

  He’s got to wait this out, though, so he settles into a crouch. And he really needs to click his sodding back again.

  Bloody hell, it’s cold. His breath’s freezing in the air. Bitter wind biting at his neck. Can’t even feel his back now.

  He checks the watch and it’s half five. Two hours he’s been here. Two. Hours. Dark now.

  Shite almighty.

  A thin sliver of streetlight crawls over the frosted back lawn.

  ‘Whispa!’ That old dear’s out on the street again, doing her hunched-over shuffle. Hopeful eyes scanning the street. ‘Whispa! Here, boy!’

  Doesn’t see him.

  Can’t see him.

  Gavin’s lights are on. Bedroom and hall.

  He grabs his ankles and pushes up until his spine cracks.

  THERE WE GO.

  Another taxi crawls up the street and pulls up onto the pavement with a honk of the horn.

  The flat door rattles open and Emma steps out, her coat zipped up. ‘We can’t, Gav. Not now. Okay?’

  The sweet smell of dope leeches out of the flat. Strong stuff, too. Typical of him. So bloody typical.

  ‘We need to tell him.’ Gavin’s voice, deep, all vowels. ‘This isn’t fair.’

  ‘Who said it’s got to be fair?’ Emma shrugs and reaches over to peck him on the cheek, then caresses it. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?’

  ‘Wish you could stay.’ Gavin steps out, topless, just wearing jeans, low enough to see his bald hips. Wispy coils of hair on his chest, a dragon tattoo snaking up his right arm. He kisses her, wrapping his bare arms around her, the dragon swallowing her up, then he breaks off and pats her on the bum. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I know.’ Emma sashays down the path and skips into the taxi. It trundles off, and Emma’s waving, mouthing “I love you” back. Then it’s gone at the end of the street.

  Gavin’s standing there, arms wrapped around his body, sucking on his joint, shaking his head. Then he trudges back over to the door.

  And he’s on him, battering the hammer off his skull.

  The dull edge bounces off his temple with a sickening crunch.

  He wraps his free arm around Gavin’s throat, hand over his mouth.

  The joint drops onto the path, scattering out sparks. It flickers out.

  Gavin’s scratching at his arm, tugging at his wrist, his nails digging into the leather. He manages to get in another hit from a bastard of an angle and Gavin goes down.

  He pulls him inside, a dead weight, his naked back squeaking on the lino, then he nudges the door shut.

  Quiet in here. That empty sound.

  The seats are those old-style ones, all hard wood and rounded, like they should be on a veranda in the Wild West. The place is like a boy’s bedroom. Video game posters on two walls, rock bands on the others.

  He gets out the hammer again and sucks in a deep breath.

  This is the hard part.

  Gavin’s blinking, looking at him. Blood running down his face from both wounds..

  He lifts the hammer, his gloved hands tight around the handle.

  Shit. Can he really do this? Hitting him a couple of times is totally different from ending his life.

  Gavin pushes backwards, eyes wide.

  He swings out with the hammer. A wet crack. Blood oozes down Gavin’s forehead. Then another blow, in the same place. Crack.

  He hits him again and again and again and again and again.

  Ten.

  Twenty.

  Forty-five.

  Sixty.

  Holy shit.

  Gavin’s dead eyes stare through him.

  His breathing’s out of control, his heart thudding.

  He reaches over and feels for a pulse through the glove.

  Gavin’s definitely dead.

  He tosses the hammer on the floor and slumps back against the units, sucking in gasps of air, tears stinging his cheeks.

  Christ. That was way harder than he expected. He shuts his eyes and lets the release course through him.

  He reaches into his pocket and fumbles the plastic bag. It floats down to the floor. His hands aren’t working properly.

  He’s absolutely covered. Blood and gore all over his clothes. He went a bit overboard there, but after what Gavin’s done… He deserves worse. Way worse.

  He strips down and chucks the trackies and T-shirt in, then pads through to Gavin’s bathroom, stark bollock naked, save for the socks. Shower over the bath, but at least it’s an electric and not an old tap job. Not the first time he’s had to shower like this, probably not the last either, but the little bar of soap he brought is cutting through everything. The plughole’s a red mess. He showers until the soap’s all gone and the water is draining away clear and the bits of blood and brain aren’t in his hair.

  He gets out and dries off using a dirty towel, but leaves the shower running at full heat, a neat forensic countermeasure. He takes the towel through to the bedroom.

  He can’t look at the bed. The unmade bed. The unmade bed that stinks of sex. He just can’t.

  He kicks off the soaking socks, wrapping them in the towel.

  Old black 501s and a white SUGARMAN T-shirt are on top of the chair. Perfect, though SUGARMAN went shit after his second album. Too gangsta. One of those big outdoors coats someone from Oasis would wear is hanging up. He takes the clothes back through to the kitchen and puts his own clothes and towel into the bag, stuffing the hammer in deep. They’ll be burnt and that’ll be chucked in the Tay within the hour. He steps back into his shoes and he’s ready to leave.

  DON’T LOOK AT THE BODY.

  Wait.

  Gavin’s keys…

  There, on the table by the door. The four Audi rings, interlinked, the leather tattered and worn. Gloves back on and he pockets them, opposite side from the weapons.

  One last check. He’s left nothing. No traces, nothing that can come back to him.

  He sucks in the thick air, heavy with dope and the acrid tang of that soap. Getting quite damp in there now.

  Definitely nothing left behind, no forensics traces.

  Didn’t touch the door and gloves anyway. Stepped over the
floor. Gloves on to attack Gavin with the hammer. Socks to walk through. Showered with socks on. Clothes and towel in the bag. Dressed in Gavin’s clothes.

  Sorted.

  He leaves through the door and walks on like he lives here, his head freezing in the cold air, stepping down the path.

  He stops dead at the end.

  Blue lights flashing, heading this way.

  Christ.

  He’s been so careful. Hasn’t he?

  He races over to Gavin’s car and unlocks the door. Drops the keys. Shit! He picks them up, opens it and gets in, then slumps back in the seat. His back crunches and he almost shouts.

  The squad car passes him and double parks a few doors down.

  He tracks their movement in the wing mirror. The officers get out. Both men, both big. Staring up and down the street.

  The first officer limps across the road and frowns up at Gavin’s flat, nostrils twitching. The second points down the street and shouts something. The first one nods and they shuffle off, the second speaking into his radio.

  The music.