Bold Lies (DI Kelly Porter Series #5)

by Rachel Lynch

Overview

An investigation leads DI Kelly Porter back to her former command… and the ex who betrayed her

A brutal murder in the Lake District.

A double assassination in a secret lab in London’s West End.

Seemingly unconnected, unexpected links between the gruesome crimes emerge and it’s up to DI Kelly Porter to follow the trail – all the way to the capital.

Back amongst old colleagues and forced to work alongside her calculating ex, DCI Matt Carter, Kelly must untangle a web of deceit that stretches into the highest echelons of power. A place where secrets and lies are currency and no obstacle is insurmountable.

A must-read from million copy bestseller Rachel Lynch, for fans of L. J. Ross, Carol Wyer and Angela Marsons.

Praise for Bold Lies

‘I’m yet to read a Kelly Porter book I wouldn’t recommend! Once again the setting, the case and the character development fit together in perfect harmony to create a wonderful story I absolutely flew through’ **{::}Reader review {::}**⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘I have loved each and every Kelly Porter novel I've read... Yet again I was completely pulled in by Rachel Lynch's wonderful writing and characters, it's exceptionally compulsive reading!’ **Reader review **⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘A riveting read, and I eagerly anticipate the next case for DI Kelly Porter’ **Reader review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘Once again Rachel Lynch has produced a terrific book from the world of DI Kelly Porter’ **Reader review **⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘Rachel Lynch prevails again and is fast becoming one of my favourite female sleuth writers... This book will keep you riveted’ **Reader review **⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘It's a cracking good read with a cast of believable, three-dimensional characters, original settings and is pacy, action-packed and written in an engaging manner. There is never a dull moment and something exciting happens in every single chapter’ **Reader review **⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781788632683
Publisher:	Canelo Digital Publishing Ltd
Publication date:	05/27/2019
Series:	DI Kelly Porter Series , #5
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	384
Sales rank:	259,810
File size:	2 MB

About the Author

Rachel Lynch grew up in Cumbria and the lakes and fells are never far away from her. London pulled her away to teach History and marry an Army Officer, whom she followed around the globe for thirteen years. A change of career after children led to personal training and sports therapy, before publishing her first novel in 2014.

Rachel Lynch is an author of crime fiction whose books have sold more than one million copies. She grew up in Cumbria and the lakes and fells are never far away from her. London pulled her away to teach History and marry an Army Officer, whom she followed around the globe for thirteen years. A change of career after children led to personal training and sports therapy, but writing was always the overwhelming force driving the future. The human capacity for compassion as well as its descent into the brutal and murky world of crime are fundamental to her work.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

George looked across the lake. It was a beauty. Like all of them, it sat serene and calm, like a feline at rest, waiting to pounce; driven by cloud and pressure from above. He peered skywards but was satisfied that he had time to catch one more fish. His permit had always been sorted by his dear friend Alan, but that was no longer possible. The old man had enjoyed a good innings, as they say. The cricketing reference would have pleased him; that was how they'd met, after all.

The boat rocked gently and he heard the screams of children kayaking in the distance. Derwent Water was fairly quiet out of season, and large enough to cater for all tastes. The big house had its own private beach, but no one owned the lake; that belonged to everyone, and rightly so. He smiled, thinking of his daughter's laugh. He still hadn't forgotten.

His line tugged and his concentration was taken to the crystal-clear depths, and a fuss under the gentle ebb and flow of the water lapping at the side of his boat. He allowed some line to be yanked away and then reeled it in a little: whatever it was wasn't large. The poor thing also didn't give him much of a scrap, coming to the surface straight away and practically rolling over exhausted after a minor scuffle: snowflake generation, thought George.

His mouth fell open.

He'd only gone and caught a bloody vendace! The freshwater herring was supposed to be extinct, but he'd heard rumours of a revival. He reached gently into the water and cupped the wriggling silver body: she was beautiful. He admired the colours shining off her skin, and was almost tempted to keep her. He'd been using a hook for fish much bigger than this little mite, but it had only caught the side of her mouth, and he removed it with ease, lowering her back into the water for her to revive and dart away.

His day couldn't have gone better, but then he remembered that he'd forgotten to take a photograph; now no one would believe him. He had no idea if he'd even brought his damn phone with him.

He packed away his gear, then picked up the oars, and headed for the private beach. There was a motorboat, of course, but he couldn't understand why anyone would want to chug toxic fumes into the clear air in this wonderful place. He gave thanks to his old friend; he would toast his memory tonight, as he always did when he came here to keep an eye on the place. The burden was not insignificant, but he understood the motives behind the decision. It had made him unpopular, but that wasn't a first and it certainly didn't put him off. The most important thing was that he was honouring the dying wish of an old gentleman.

George couldn't imagine moving here. Well, not yet, anyway. There was too much invested in London. It would take years to transfer everything and make it ready. And it was a pipe dream anyhow.

By the time he eased his small boat onto the shingle beach, the sky was getting dark. Even though it was June, the mountains could make everything turn to night if they wanted to. He glanced up at the peaks behind the house: they were covered in thick grey cloud that showed no signs of clearing. It was time to go in and make sure he had a fire lit. The kitchen was always warm, thanks to the Aga. But the main fire in the sitting room was magnificent and George had lit it every night in remembrance of nights with Alan, sitting in front of it sipping a fifty-year-old Janneau Napoleon. The cellar in the old pile was Alan's pride and joy, and George couldn't bring himself to clear it out just yet. Apart from to open the odd bottle of red with dinner, of course. He never was very good at telling the difference between a bottle worth a thousand pounds and one from Tesco, but they all tasted good from Alan's collection.

He left the boat on the beach and walked up to the house, stopping when he saw that he had a visitor. It wasn't entirely a surprise, and he held out his hand in greeting.

'Come in, I'm just about to put a lasagne in the oven,' he said. Their feet made scraping noises in the gravel and George stopped outside the kitchen door to take off his wellington boots. His visitor didn't bother.

'Who were those men?' he asked.

'What men?'

'They drove past me on their way out. Don't tell me you've got plans for the place already?'

CHAPTER 2

Derwent Marina was quiet. The small building, set back from the beach, with seats outside and at least fifty boats and vessels for hire, was a modest operation. The car park catered for about ten cars. The place ticked along during the winter but saw a steady trade build from the spring onwards. There were boats and kayaks available to buy, but mainly it was rentals that brought in the steady flow of cash that enabled Graeme Millar to pay his mortgage and live a comfortable life. He paid a few locals to fit buoyancy aids, size up wetsuits and generally keep the place clean and tidy, but he ran the business and was responsible for the upkeep of the plot. The land didn't belong to him; he paid rent to a landlord who refused to sell up. In fact, most of Derwent Water's coastline was privately owned by wealthy families desperate to cling on to illustrious histories but unsure of how to maintain their enormous estates. Most had been turned into luxury holiday homes, or water sports centres.

Allerdale House was no different. It stood huddled behind trees on the lake's western shore, away from the prying eyes of the tourists crammed onto the steamer puffing between Keswick and Lodore every day. But a kayaker, strong of arm and curious to boot, might catch a glimpse of the grand slate facade, slightly up a hill and facing east. The trees shielding the residence from nosy visitors had been planted over two hundred years ago, and the only indication that they guarded something special was a sign on the beach that read: Private: Keep Out! No landing on the beach. Graeme Millar told every customer the same, and even supplied a map showing which beaches they were allowed to paddle up to. The red lines denoted no-go areas, and there were plenty of them. With Allerdale House's owner passing away after Christmas, who knew what would become of the place.

At 9 a.m. the wind was insignificant, and Graeme knew that it would be a good day for business. It was Whitsun week and the kids were on half-term. Sure enough, two cars pulled into the car park and children got out, looking at the water and approaching the kayaks with delight. He always recommended two hours for families with small kids, because he knew that it would take them at least an hour to make it out of the marina. Derwent Water was just under three miles long, but an inexperienced kayaker would be lucky to get halfway down before having to turn back again, either through cold or exertion. There were a few islands in between to keep them occupied, including the one where Swallows and Amazons was set, though Graeme reckoned that the majority of kids hauled to the Lake District on holiday these days hadn't even heard of the book.

He called one of his staff over to get the families booked in while he checked the boathouse to see if the three rowing boats he'd had to pull from the water last week were repaired and varnished yet. Major repairs were carried out in the winter, and the wooden vessels had only needed a tweak or two. The boats were his livelihood and they needed looking after properly.

To an outsider, the boatyard looked like a tip; a junkyard of detritus and bits of wood. In fact it churned out new boats every year, and a launch was currently being renovated in the shed. The Lady of the Lake was a stunning ninety-seater, a 1929 model; once a dayboat on the Amsterdam canals, then a tourist tripper on Lake Windermere, she'd made her debut on Derwent Water in 1985. She'd needed a season out of the water and a loving refurbishment. Graeme swung open the doors of the main shed and admired the gleaming mahogany and oak panelling. Her name had been repainted and she looked glorious and ready for action. He sucked in the morning air tinged with varnish and cleaning chemicals. But something else caught his attention.

'Damn cats!' Graeme was a dog lover, and to him, cats were vermin, killing local wildlife and scavenging from the campsite two hundred yards down the shore. Today one of them had obviously caught a bird and brought it in here to rot, or perhaps something bigger, like a rat. He made a cursory circuit of the boat, finding nothing but noting that the smell was worse near the stern, especially by the cabin. He tutted. He'd have to climb up there to make sure. The last thing they needed was the Lady being put back into service with an animal carcass somewhere on board.

He went back out into the morning sunshine and towards the smaller shed, where the rowing boats were upended and ready to be carried back to the marina. Two were six-seaters and one a four-seater. They took a good hammering during the peak season, but they were sturdy craft and had been in service since before the 1950s. All the wooden vessels in the marina were way older than Graeme, and they'd no doubt outlive him too.

It wasn't until lunchtime that he got the opportunity to tackle the problem of the Lady's suspected passenger. He ate his sandwich before venturing back to the shed with a ladder, thinking that whatever he might have to dispose of could well put him off his food. Trade had been steady throughout the morning and he pushed aside the worries that plagued him throughout the long, quiet winter, as he did every year. His was essentially a seasonal income, and he'd been through some tight scrapes.

Walking back to the shed through the trees, he avoided the wettest parts of the ground, which lay exposed and unpaved just as they had a hundred years ago. Patches of gravel had been laid, but not on the shortcut that he took. He looked south and whistled to himself, stopping and smiling as the clouds parted over Cat Bells. It was probably the most iconic of the spines around here, and when the sun shone, there was nowhere more breath-taking. He made out a snaking stream of walkers trudging up to the summit, their bright coats looking like a line of tacks on a map. It was the busiest Wainwright in the whole National Park.

When he opened the shed door, his heart sank. The smell had worsened. He sighed and set the ladder up, climbing onto the vessel and pulling back the tarpaulin. She looked exquisite. He hopped over the edge and his stomach turned over. Something had definitely died up here and it was creating an eye-watering stench.

He bent down and peered under the seats, which were warm and reminiscent of boatyards of long ago, when steam and beam was the only way to travel. He covered his mouth: nothing. Following his nose, he walked back to the cabin. Twenty-five of the launch's seats were under cover, an essential arrangement in the Lake District. On rainy days, scuffles for shelter sometimes caused moments of rage between passengers. The smell was definitely worse back here and he knelt down again. Nothing. He stood up, puzzled, and walked towards the bridge, covering his mouth again as he neared the control panel. Another tarp covered the helm.

'Bloody hell!' This was no bird, he thought. He wondered if a dog had crawled in here to die. The stench was reminiscent of a dead sheep on the fells, covered in maggots and sweet with rot. His hand shook and he felt foolish for being so apprehensive. He'd seen dead animals all his life. It was unpleasant, that was all.

He pulled back the tarp.

An adrenalin rush took hold of his body. He ran to the ladder, leaping onto it before his brain could even process what he'd seen. He stumbled on the slippery rungs and jumped from halfway to the gravel below. His legs shook and he retched as he left the shed and ran to the water's edge to be sick.

Slowly his senses returned to him, and he took his mobile phone from his pocket and dialled 999.

CHAPTER 3

In a rented garage in Bethnal Green, ten minutes from the Tube station and five from the best Thai restaurant in east London, Emily Wilson closed her computer. Mike was finishing up with the incubators that housed flasks containing the proteins of brain cells, and he'd already locked the two sterile cabinets containing their most dangerous compounds. From the inside, they could have been in a maximum-security laboratory in a slick facility in Washington, under top-secret instructions from the White House to find a cure for all pathogens. As it was, the lab was home-made from top to bottom, and no one apart from four people knew it existed.

The four scientists had worked in the industry for a total of over a hundred years. They knew what they were doing.

But that was the point. And that was why they'd told no one. They were close to finalising eleven years of research.

George was on holiday, and Alexandros had left early to call his mother in Cyprus. Alex was thirty-nine years old, but his mother treated him like he was still ten. She checked that he'd eaten, that he'd slept well, and that he'd booked his flights home for the summer. Today she'd texted him to say that the family cat, Aphrodite, had finally passed away peacefully after eighteen years of idleness and luxury. She had been distraught. Alex had made his apologies before he left, and Mike and Emily had poked fun at him, pretending to be offended. But it had been a good day, and they were going out to celebrate later that evening. George was on his way back, and was due to join them in the Thai restaurant. He had told them that he had some exciting news to share with them.

They all felt an excitement that they hadn't felt for a long time, something akin to the birth of a new baby, or a daughter getting married, or, they assumed, winning the lottery. George was the father figure to them all; the project had been his idea, and his conception. His whole life's work was invested in this little lab in the middle of a council estate near the Regent's Canal, where they'd worked like moles in the dark for years, testing, retesting, dedicating hours after a full-time shift at their day jobs to come here and look at one more slide, observe one more alteration, discard one more compound. Often they worked into the night, but it had all been worth it. George's condition was showing signs of coming under control, and sometimes they couldn't quite believe what they were on the verge of achieving. Emily and Mike both had families to attend to, but they still committed way more time than they should, and George was grateful.

A clatter outside made Emily look up and peer through her goggles. Mike did the same and caught her eye, shrugging. They were used to the odd scrap outside between teenagers, or a drunken brawl involving bottles and brawn. She took off her goggles and stretched. The four of them were friends as well as colleagues, all employed by the pharmaceutical giant Ravensword. The lab in Bethnal Green was an extracurricular activity. They didn't get paid. They did it because they believed in it.

Their clandestine meeting room was affectionately known as the Squash Club, because that was where Emily and Mike told their respective spouses they were when they spent hours away from home. George wasn't married any more, and his only child had tragically passed away. Alex was a free spirit, with no shortage of interested girls but no desire to commit just yet. His dark good looks made him hugely popular in the bars and clubs he frequented, and it gave him an exotic edge. He shared his various encounters with the others in the Squash Club, garnering advice from his elders and envy from George, who looked back nostalgically on his own youth. They were a tight unit. Like family.

There was a checklist to adhere to every evening when they shut the lab, and Mike ran through it now with Emily, who yawned again. The last job on the list was to lock the inner facility and turn off all the lights. A generator kept the incubators going, as well as the dimmed lights inside the cabinets.

The lab was like a skin inside the garage walls, and once outside, they both felt the rush of cold air. They were like lab rats themselves when they were locked inside, methodically transferring compounds from one plate to another, looking for changes that might indicate a match. Mike locked the door and secured the bolt. There was perhaps three feet of space between the outer garage and the inner lab, and they barely had room to fasten coats and pull up hoods. Despite it being June, it was late, and the sun had long disappeared.

Neither heard the main door open.

Mike was the first to be hit. A large instrument slammed into his head, splitting his skull apart and dropping him to his knees. Before Emily could scream, two hands grabbed her throat and twisted her head to one side before forcing it the other way with such force that it tore the skin around her throat, snapping her cervical spine and severing her spinal column. She fell on top of Mike.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Bold Lies"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Rachel Lynch.
Excerpted by permission of Canelo Digital Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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