Awash with Murder: Sylvie Broadstairs Mysteries, #2

By M. S. Saxon

Awash with Murder - A Sylvie Broadstairs Mystery (Book 2)

The discovery of an abandoned child leads Sylvie to a hidden corpse, and suddenly the psychic Geordie sleuth is dragged out of retirement. With her own private murder investigation team of misfits, along with clues from the spirit of a murder victim, Sylvie pokes an unwelcome nose anywhere and everywhere to get to the truth.

And all the while, DCI Seymour Witless, with his ongoing raft of personal problems, is asleep on the job.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. S. Saxon
• Release date: Jun 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224493586

M. S. Saxon

M.S. Saxon was raised in the North East of England as a true Geordie. With an admin career behind her (Yay!) and two nest-departed children (even more Yay!), she resurrected ancient writings & drawings collected over the years and somehow made them presentable. This was to be a whole new phase of her life. A few things tried to trip her up - illness, finances, exceptionally long electrical cables - you know, all the usual stuff. But she's not defeated yet. And still with so much left to do.

Book preview

Statement of Copyright

Copyright © M.S. Sanderson 2024 All Rights Reserved.

***

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of very brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other none-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

All characters within this publication are fictitious and have no connection with actual persons living or dead. Place names, although familiar to the setting have been used and described in a fictitious way to fit the narrative, and not authentic in any way.

Book design by M.S. Sanderson

Illustrations by M.S. Sanderson

This publication is available in ebook and paperback format.

First edition: June 2024

Website: www.mssaxonbooks.co.uk

Table of Contents

Contents

Statement of Copyright

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1: Moving day

Chapter 2: Frau the ‘Diktat’

Chapter 3: Golf, anyone?

Chapter 4: Nurse Gerry will see you now

Chapter 5: The Meet ‘n’ Greet

Chapter 6: The job interview

Chapter 7: The discovery

Chapter 8: The mystery woman

Chapter 9: Tracey’s treat of the day.

Chapter 10: The corpse is identified

Chapter 11: Nursing care by the sea.

Chapter 12: Rambo visits the vet

Chapter 13: Billy Blackbush’s big day.

Chapter 14: Bobby goes undercover

Chapter 15: Yoyos at Coffee Joe’s

Chapter 16: An unfortunate interview

Chapter 17: When is a buzzard not a buzzard?

Chapter 18: Charlie’s heavy date

Chapter 19: Mystery woman number 2

Chapter 20: Shopping for bread

Chapter 21: Witless follows a lead

Chapter 22: Hoggy lends an ear

Chapter 23: Drowning sorrows

Chapter 24: The attacker strikes again

Chapter 25: Subterfuge and disguises

Chapter 26: The best laid plans ...

Chapter 27: The big reveal

Chapter 28: The reunion

Note from the author & acknowledgements

Other books by M.S. Saxon:

Awash with Murder –

A Sylvie Broadstairs Mystery

by M.S. Saxon

Prologue

It was a real pea-souper that morning. With the speed of a slug, the first light of dawn trickled through the fog, furnishing the fairground with a sinister, fragile quality. The only sound was the crashing of the waves from the beach beyond with the occasional cry from a seagull, hunting for an easy breakfast.

Sheila’s eyes snapped open and for a brief moment she wondered what the hell she was doing scrunched up in a hard metal seat on the ghost train ride. Groaning with pain, she unravelled herself bit by bit to a sitting position. Her knees were scuffed, her elbows bloodied. Was it safe to go back out there? The only way she could know would be to make a move. Climbing out of the carriage, she followed the rickety track to the ride’s entrance and peered out from behind the black curtain, scanning the area with eyes darting from one shadowy corner to the next. The fog clung to everything like a deep shroud, making it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. In the distance, she could just make out the silhouette of a fairground worker unlocking a nearby food stand, the clatter of metal echoing through the stillness. Hesitating for a moment, she weighed up her options. Should she ask the worker for help or continue on alone? Before she could make that decision, a voice called out through the mist.

‘Oi, you!’

But there was no way of telling where it was coming from, except that it was sounding closer.

‘What are you doing skulking around here?’

Maybe it was him. Then came the sound of racing feet, slapping down on wet concrete. She began to run, with footsteps echoing through the empty fairground. Adrenaline flooded her body as she twisted and turned through the curved metal of the carnival rides. On and on she drove herself forward with no sense of direction, only her sense of hearing, but she’d need more than that to shake off those pounding feet behind her.

As sod’s law would have it, her legs began to fail her. Gasping for breath, she stumbled to a halt between a rusted carousel and a crumbling ticket booth. But her pursuer’s steps became louder, gaining momentum. With a second surge of adrenaline, she sped off once again.

She was fast approaching the main thoroughfare but the fog was just as thick as ever, the running steps behind her still not slowing. Her muscles burned with exertion; her lungs ached for air.

Up ahead, there was a tiny clearing through the mist and the Marine Park came instantly into view. Without a thought she ran out into the road. From nowhere, came a sudden screech of brakes and she crashed onto the bonnet of a black Sierra blocking her path. The window was down and the driver yelled, ‘Get in!’

With heart battering against her ribs, she peeled herself from the bonnet and hesitated.

‘GET IN!’

She glanced behind. The vague outline of her pursuer hammered its way towards her through the thoroughfare. There was no time to consider. Flinging open the rear passenger door, she threw herself across the back seat and the vehicle sped off with her legs dangling from the open door.

Chapter 1: Moving day

The air was thick that Saturday morning, with a fog that swirled around her feet as Sylvie pounded the pavement en route to The Posh Wash. Three tiny sparrows abandoned their dispute over a pie crust and flew to safety as she propelled a loaded shopping trolley up the hill, stole a glance at the Town Hall clock and winced from the pain in her chest.

Bobby’s load was not so easy to transport - two large black sacks already punctured several times by his thumbs, battering his thighs with every step. He struggled to keep pace.

‘For God’s sake, Sylvie, sweetums! Will you slow down? They won’t even be open yet.’

Sylvie turned for a nanosecond but her speed didn’t falter.

‘There’s so much to do, Bobs. Frau the Diktat wants me all shipshape, waiting on the naughty step in an hour, and we’ve all those boxes to shift yet.’

‘Promise me you won’t call her that to her face. Anyway, the word’s dictator.’

‘Diktat is my word and I defend my right to use it.’

Her name’s Frau Schmidt. It’s not hard.’

‘No, but my God, she is. Did you see that rule book she handed me? Nakedness and sex in the corridors are disallowed at all times; the swapping of medication is punishable by death. Who does she think we are? The Tory cabinet? I’m beginning to regret moving at all. Leaving my little caravan behind - it’s a betrayal.’

‘You mean the caravan that shakes, rattles and rolls better than Elvis? I know you’ll miss the old sardine can, but I’ll take care of it, I promise. Anyway, we’ve been over all this and it’s safer to have company around, just in case.’

She stopped, glowered at her business partner and closest friend, though she would never admit to the latter. Despite his forty-five years, Bobby Mason still held onto his innocent face, his full head of blonde hair, and no matter how irritated he made her, Sylvie could never tongue-lash him for long.

‘Listen here, matey .... I may have turned seventy and had a bit of a wobble, but I’m not past it yet. Not by a long chalk.’

As she continued to stride ahead, coils of white hair, having escaped the confines of the yellow fisherman’s hat, bounced defiantly across her shoulders. From a safe distance, Bobby rolled his eyes, knowing better than to keep on poking the bear.

It was then that they spotted Hoggy in his trademark fedora, driving the buckled wheels of his rusty perambulator towards a bunch of sweaty drainage workers. Bobby gave him a wave and Hoggy took a moment to peer through the fog. Eventually he yelled, ‘Mornin’ Missus and Mister Bobs!’

‘I wish he wouldn’t call us that.’ said Bobby. ‘People will think we’re married.’

‘I don’t think there’s any danger of that, Bobs. Not so long as you keep wearing that silly cravat. But we’ll have to get you fixed up with someone soon. Just let me know who you fancy getting jiggy with and I’ll sort it for you.’

‘We could have done with Charlie’s help today of all days.’

‘I know, but he deserves that holiday after everything he’s been through. Anyhow, he’s back on Thursday. There’ll still be plenty of jobs for him to do, and don’t worry... I won’t tell him your secret.’

‘Secret? What secret?’

‘Come on! I ask who you fancy, and you start randomly talking about Charlie. I’ve seen that adoring glint in your eye, the sidelong looks you give him when you think no-one’s looking.’

Bobby sniggered and his cheeks flushed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. He’s practically a geriatric.’

‘Whatever you say, Bobs.’

‘Hey up. Looks like Florrie hasn’t opened up yet anyway. Place is still in darkness,’ he said as they stopped outside the laundrette.

‘Bollocks. Where the hell is she, anyway? It’s gone eight thirty.’

Sylvie fidgeted outside the shop, her eyes scouring the street while Bobby dropped his bags to the ground and inspected a torn finger nail.

‘Oh look, here she is now,’ Sylvie announced as Florrie Fortune squeezed her own bagged laundry out from a doorway across the street and clashed the door behind her. Twice. She waved a hand, acknowledging the early arrivals and made her way towards them with her breasts leading the way, swinging like pendulums with the motion.

‘That should wake the old bugger up,’ she said, producing her keys. ‘Lazy, drunken bastard.’

‘So, your Stan was down the Top Club last night then, Florrie?’ Sylvie asked.

‘He’s always down that bloody club. Spending the Sunday joint money, and our Patrick’s bed and board. Too bloody sick to work, yet he can drink himself stupid night after night. Where’s your car? I heard you got yourself a new one.’

‘Left it next to the Town Hall. It’s a Fiat Panda. The only thing Ernie ever bought me, and it had to be after he snuffed it. The road works wouldn’t let me up here. Is there a blockage, water leak or summat?’

‘Gawd knows, but the customers won’t like it if they cut my supply.’

She turned the key in the lock; pushed open the door; parked her bags and switched on the lights.

‘Now then, what the hell have you brought apart from the kitchen sink?’

‘Aha! Everything but, as it goes.’ Sylvie hauled the biggest bag from the trolley and brought it inside, followed by Bobby dragging his load closely behind.

‘It’s all bedding, Flo. The new place hasn’t got the machines plumbed in yet, and I know Clarabelle had a wee on the bed somewhere the other night, I just couldn’t find it so I thought it best to bring the lot. Is that okay?’

‘Course. That’s not a bother. Tell you what, I won’t add a service charge if you load the machine yourself. You’ll need one of the monster machines on the end.’ She gave a nod and waved a forefinger in the direction. ‘You know where the measuring cups and powder are.’

‘That’s all fabby, Flo.’

Flo went to hang up her coat and fill the kettle. ‘Did you manage to get rid of those pups your little doggie had? Gruesome looking beggars, weren’t they?’ she said distractedly from the back kitchen, while Bobby wrestled the duvet from Sylvie’s load and opened the washing machine door.

‘We did, Flo. The two ugly sisters we called them, didn’t we, Bobs? My poor Clarabelle, her insides have never been the same. And the size of those nipples - still scraping the floor, firing off sparks like Roman Candles.’

As Bobby began to push the wad of material through the opening, he suddenly stepped back in horror.

‘Jesus Christ .... There’s some ... thing in here.’

‘Has someone left something behind?’ Sylvie padded across with a cup of washing powder in one hand and peered inside the machine, yanking the duvet back out onto the shop floor.

Bobby turned away, shielding his eyes. ‘Flaming hell, it’s another dead body isn’t it, Sweetums?’

‘It’s a little boy, Bobs.’

‘Oh God, I can’t bear it.’

‘And he’s not dead. In fact, I think we just woke him up.’

Florrie trudged back into the shop, pinning her hair back as she went.

‘Kettle’s on. Cuppa while you wait?’

With the absence of an immediate answer to her question, Florrie followed the gaze of the two early comers. A wide pair of blue eyes stared out from the depths of the machine and the boy behind them with the spikey dark hair sucked hard on a very pink thumb.

‘Tommy Tulip! Whatever are you doing in there?’ said Florrie. ‘And where’s that mother of yours?’

Tommy‘s thumb slid from his mouth, his face twisted and he began to cry.

Sylvie offered a hand. ‘Come on out of there, Tommy, and nice Bobby here will get you some breakfast. After he’s loaded the washing.’

‘I will?’ Bobby was still adjusting to the reality of the scene as Tommy uncurled himself and stepped onto the linoleum floor.

‘Yes Bobs, pop across to Sinbad’s and get some ... what does Tommy like for breakfast?’ She addressed the question to the boy while Bobby shoved the duvet back into the vacated space, closed the door, poured detergent into the top receptacle and pressed the start button.

Tommy wiped his wet cheeks with his jumper sleeve. ‘Liquorice laces would be nice. With sherbet for dipping ...please,’ he sniffed.

Sylvie produced a purse from her pocket and handed a note to Bobby. ‘Well, since I’m not the magic fairy, it’ll have to be toast. And how about some peanut butter?’

A big smile spread across Tommy’s face. ‘Peanut butter? Yes!’

Bobby took the note, headed for the door and sighed. ‘On my way...’

‘When did you last have a drink, Tommy? Would you like some water?’ asked Florrie, heading back to the kitchen.

‘Yes please.’

Sylvie led Tommy across to the window seat and sat him down.

‘Tommy, have you been in there all night? Why aren’t you at home?’

Tommy lifted his knees to his chin, resting his heels on the edge of the seat, and stretched his blue school jumper over the top of his bony kneecaps.

‘I didn’t want to stay ... by myself.’

Florrie returned with the water and handed it to him. He gulped it down.

‘You mean your mam’s not at home?’ she said.

‘Where is home?’ Sylvie whispered to Flo.

‘Tommy lives with his mam in the flat upstairs.’

‘Does your mam work, Tommy?’

He nodded.

‘Sheila cleans at Bolingbroke Hall three afternoons a week,’ said Florrie.

‘So does she finish in time to get you from school, Tommy?’

Tommy shook his head.

‘Not always. But I’m a big boy now and I can walk myself home.’

‘So, you walked home yourself yesterday afternoon?’

He nodded again.

‘And do you have your own key?’

Tommy pulled a key from his trouser pocket and showed her.

‘Did she leave you a note? A sandwich? Anything?’

Just then, the shop’s doorbell chirruped as Bobby returned with breakfast.

‘Sixty-five sodding pence for a tiny loaf, can you believe it? And don’t get me started on the fairy-sized jar of peanut butter ...’

‘Language, Bobby! There’s a traumatised child present.’

‘Sorry, Tommy. Don’t repeat that word in front of your mam. If we find her.’

‘Bobby!’ Sylvie stood up and snatched the bread from his hand. ‘Where’s your flamin’ tact?’ Then she turned to the boy. ‘Now, Tommy, shall we make some toast with this or bash Bobs over the head with it?’ Sylvie grinned wickedly, and Tommy laughed.

‘Come with me, Tommy,‘ said Flo, offering her hand, ‘and I’ll show you how to make the best peanut buttered toast you ever tasted.’

‘You know, Bobs, Sinbad’s a bit of a pirate,’ said Sylvie as soon as the kid was out of hearing distance.

‘Really? You do surprise me.’

‘When I was a bairn, my mam would send me to the corner shop with fourpence and I’d come back with five potatoes, two loaves, three bottles of milk, a hunk of cheese and six eggs.’

‘Unbelievable.’

‘I know. Can’t do that these days.’

‘Your scrawny arms got weaker?’

‘No. Too many bloody security cameras.’

‘Hmmm...You almost had me there. Now this may sound random, but don’t