The London Bibliophile Murders (Vance and Shepherd Mysteries Book 7)

Book summary

Detectives Jacob Vance and Brittany Shepherd face their most perplexing case yet when a series of literary-inspired murders terrorizes London. Each victim's name echoes famous literary characters, leading the detectives on a tense chase to unmask a killer who thrives on deception. Will they stop him before the next chapter of his deadly narrative unfolds?

Excerpt from The London Bibliophile Murders (Vance and Shepherd Mysteries Book 7)

New Scotland Yard, Westminster, and Duke of York pub, Covent Garden, January 2024

Detective Chief Inspector Jacob Vance despised the festive season, its frivolous celebrations a stark contrast to the gruesome scenes he had encountered in his line of work. Though he cherished more time with his wife, an esteemed psychologist, the monotony of normal routine was suffocating. As a high-ranking officer, he was expected to maintain order and efficiency within his Serious Crime Section. But as the Christmas season dwindled and gave way to another year, he yearned for the days when he was a Detective Inspector on the gritty streets of London, facing criminals head-on. His colleague, DCI Brittany Shepherd, had just finished taking down a notorious drug lord, her success a reminder of Vance’s own lack of action. Envious and restless, Vance closed his eyes and prayed for a brutal murder case to shake him out of this mundane existence.

As if summoned by a spell, Vance’s infamous desktop phone suddenly began its manic ringing and danced across the green leather surface, interrupting not just him but the entire department. Someone urgently needed to speak with him.

“Yes, I see. Where exactly? Is Forensics on the scene? I’ll be along presently.”

He phoned down for a driver to take him to the crime scene in the Seven Dials area of Covent Garden and, more specifically, the Duke of York pub.

As Vance made his way through the crowded streets of Seven Dials, his mind was racing with questions. Who could have committed such a brutal murder in the middle of the day in a bustling pub? And why did they choose this particular victim?

He entered the Duke of York pub and was met by a flurry of activity. Forensic experts were scouring the crime scene for any clues, and uniformed officers were taking statements from witnesses.

With swift, practised movements, he donned the necessary gear for investigating a crime scene. A smile spread across his face as he spotted his old friend and colleague, Dr Francis Tremethyk, Chief Medical Officer and proud Cornishman. The doctor was carefully adjusting the victim’s dishevelled jacket back into its proper place after his cursory examination.

“Jacob me-dear, it’s been far too long!” The jovial and flushed face of the doctor lit up with a warm grin, instantly easing Jacob’s nerves. He couldn’t help but think that seeing Tremethyk was almost as calming as taking a sip of single malt whisky—something the chief inspector was known for being quite the connoisseur of. A whiff of the distinct aroma of a pub afternoon lingered in the air, adding to the familiar comfort of being in his friend’s presence.

“What can you tell me, off-the-cuff, doc?”

“At first glance, it’s straightforward, Jacob. Somebody followed this poor chap into the gents’ toilet, stuck a sharp-bladed knife into his neck, and hurriedly left the scene.”

“What kind of knife?”

“Something like a Japanese katana or a stiletto. I’ll be certain only after the autopsy.”

“Wouldn’t there have been a considerable amount of blood?”

“Are you referring to the blood on the attacker’s clothing?”

“Yes, that’s what I’m getting at.”

“It’s not a given. The assault was unexpected and from behind, causing the blood to spurt in a sideways direction. Someone quick on their feet could have avoided any stains. Based on where the crime took place and the angle of entry, it appears that the perpetrator was most likely a male.”

“Mmm. I’d better get on and find who was first on the scene.”

Vance’s gaze locked onto a young woman with vibrant purple hair and a face adorned with metal piercings. She sat across from a hardened detective, trying to maintain her composure but failing as her eyes betrayed the terror that gripped her. As Vance approached, she shrank back in fear.

“I’m Detective Chief Inspector Vance,” he announced, flashing his warrant card. “I need your account of what happened.”

The girl flinched at the mention of the crime, her eyebrows furrowed in anxiety. “As I told your colleague, I didn’t exactly witness it,” she stammered, “I…I was just in the restroom area washing my hands when I heard a noise from the men’s room. It sounded like a thud, maybe someone falling. And then a man rushed out, not even bothering to wash his hands.” The fear in her voice was palpable as she relived the moment in her mind.

“Can you describe him?”

“I only gave him a glance. All I can say is that he was tall and slim, maybe in his thirties. I noticed he was in a hurry.”

“Hair colour?”

“Oh, yeah, he was wearing a hat pulled down over his face, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he was a skinhead under that.”

“Tattoos?”

“Naw, he had a light jacket, cream coloured. It covered his arms, see?”

Vance thanked her for her statement and moved on to speak with other witnesses. The constable would take her contact number. But something about this girl stuck with him. Maybe it was her unique appearance that set her apart from the rest of the pub-goers, or maybe it was just a gut feeling.

His next interaction was with another colleague-friend, Dr Sabrina Markham, Head of the Scientific Department.

“What can you tell me, Sabrina?”

“He was Francis Alexander, aged thirty-three. No signs of robbery. He lived nearby at 32, Charlotte Street.”

“Occupation?”

“I couldn’t find any information, but he appeared to be quite affluent.”

“Well, well, aren’t you the remarkable Markham! How did you come to that conclusion?”

“Oh, just from his wallet stuffed with crisp banknotes and the scent emanating from his body. It’s Apsley Cologne, a luxury fragrance that costs around £100 a bottle.”

“Bloody hell, Sabrina! The only thing I’d spend that much on would be a rare cask single malt.” Markham gritted her teeth in frustration.

She grinned at him. “We all know your particular taste, Jacob. But I will give you credit for being well-groomed, though perhaps not quite at the level of our Mr Alexander.”

“I’m determined to take that as a compliment, Dr Markham!”

“So you should, Jacob, the way it was meant!” She winked at him, which he took correctly because he had been her husband’s best man and DS Wright was still the finest computer expert in the whole of the Yard.

There was nothing much else Vance could do at the scene of the crime, so he followed his instincts and returned to the purple-haired woman. He asked for and received a private room, which the landlord used for his paperwork. There, he questioned the young woman.

“Just a few more questions, Miss—er—?”

“Halifax, like the town. Janice Halifax.”

“Well, Ms Halifax, did you know the victim?”

Her calm demeanour suddenly collapsed as she scrambled for a tissue from her handbag and dabbed her eyes and blew her nose. “Yeah, to be honest, I did. I first met Francis—Fran—” her voice caught and she gulped, “he preferred me to call him that, in this pub about,” she raised her eyes to the ceiling, calculating, “about three weeks ago. He wandered over to the bar and offered me a drink, which became three and we ended up going to his place. It’s a two-minute walk from here.”

“Wasn’t that rather sudden?”

She met his gaze unwaveringly, eyes hardening. “He was different, a real gentleman and anyway,” she fixed him with brazen brown eyes, “I prefer older men, they’re more understanding of a girl’s needs.” She fluttered her eyelashes and adjusted an imaginary stray lock of hair.

“What can you tell me about Francis Alexander? What did he do for a living?”

She thought for a moment, “He said he was in stocks and shares, not that it means much to me. I’m not into business of any kind.”

Vance leaned back, studying Janice as she fidgeted under his scrutiny. Her story seemed genuine, but he knew better than to take everything at face value. He decided to dig deeper into her connection with Francis Alexander.

“Miss Halifax, did Mr Alexander ever mention anyone who might have had a grudge against him? Anyone who could have wanted to harm him?” Vance asked, watching for any flicker of recognition in her eyes.

Janice hesitated, biting her lip before answering slowly, “He... he did mention an ex-business partner once. Said they had a falling out over a deal gone wrong. But I never thought it was serious.”

Vance’s interest piqued at the mention of a potential motive. He made a mental note to look into this ex-partner and see if there was any validity to Janice’s claim.

Before he could delve further into the conversation, a uniformed officer entered the room, whispering something in Vance’s ear. Vance excused himself from the room, leaving Janice Halifax to stew in her thoughts. Outside, the uniformed officer informed Vance of a new development at the crime scene. There was a witness who claimed to have seen a suspicious figure lurking near the pub just before the time of the murder.

Intrigued by this new lead, Vance hurried back to the Duke of York pub. He found the witness, an elderly man named Mr Jenkins, sitting nervously at one of the tables, sipping on a cup of tea to calm his nerves.

“Mr Jenkins, thank you for coming forward. Can you tell me what you saw?” Vance inquired, taking a seat across from the man.

Mr. Jenkins shuffled his feet nervously, his body trembling as he spoke. “I was out walking my loyal companion, Buster, around the block when I saw him. A tall figure, towering over the others on the street, clad in a light cream-coloured jacket that seemed to glow against the dull backdrop of the city. His hat was pulled low over his eyes, casting shadows upon his features. It was that stark contrast that caught my attention, like a lone ray of sunshine on a cloudy day.” Mr. Jenkins paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “He was lingering near the entrance of the pub, fidgeting with something in his pocket, his gaze fixed on something or someone inside. I didn’t recognise him at all. And believe me, I come here every day and know most of the regulars by name.” He shook his head in disbelief. “He wasn’t one of them.” Mr. Jenkins’s voice quivered as he recalled the memory. “I didn’t think too much of it at the time, but when I heard about the brutal murder that occurred later that night, I knew I had to come forward and share my encounter.”

Vance listened intently, scribbling notes in his pocket notebook as Mr. Jenkins recounted every detail he could remember about the mysterious figure. As he finished speaking, Vance thanked him for his cooperation and assured him that his statement might be crucial to the investigation.

With a new lead to follow, Vance’s mind raced with possibilities as he mulled over the information he had gathered so far. The mention of the ex-business partner and now the sighting of a suspicious figure outside the pub added layers of complexity to the case.

Deciding to prioritise finding out more about the ex-business partner, Vance made his way back to Scotland Yard. He headed straight for his office, where he intended to delve into the financial records and connections of Francis Alexander in search of any leads that might point him in the right direction. He could also seek permission to visit the deceased’s flat on Charlotte Street.

As he pored over the financial records, Vance’s sharp eye caught a discrepancy in the accounts of Francis Alexander. There were large sums of money being transferred to offshore accounts under different names, all linked back to the deceased. Vance’s curiosity piqued as he delved deeper into the transactions, realising that this case went far beyond a simple business dispute.