Murder in the Lakes E-Book

Rachel Amphlett

• Herausgeber: Saxon Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

A wedding, a missing fiancée, and a murder – Melody Harper is about to discover just how dangerous "I do" can be...

Fledgling private detective Melody Harper is down on her luck and nursing a black eye when she’s approached by a new client who believes her daughter is in danger.

There’s a wedding next weekend, and the client’s daughter is the bride. Except Melody’s client hasn’t told her the whole truth – the groom’s last fiancée seems to have disappeared, and nobody has any answers.

Now tasked with going undercover to protect the bride-to-be, Melody finds herself out of her comfort zone and on an outdoor adventure weekend in the Lake District with the hen party.

After narrowly escaping death in a climbing accident, Melody’s detective skills are tested to the limit when one of the bridesmaids is murdered – and time is running out.

This is her biggest investigation to date, but will Melody even survive long enough to unmask the killer and protect the bride?

Murder in the Lakes is a page-turning murder mystery from USA Today bestselling author Rachel Amphlett and perfect for readers who love amateur sleuths and deadly crimes.
 

Leseprobe

MURDER IN THE LAKES

AN ENGLISH MURDER MYSTERY

RACHEL AMPHLETT

Murder in the Lakes © 2025 by Rachel Amphlett

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

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

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

About the Author

CHAPTERONE

It’s never a good start to the day when the daughter of one of your clients leans across your desk and slaps you in the face.

She had a mean left hook on her too, helped somewhat by the platinum engagement ring that she’d only thought to remove after she’d hit me, before throwing it onto the carpet on her way out.

It helped – a little – that my client managed to hold back her smug look of satisfaction until after her daughter had stormed out of the office, slamming the door in her wake.

‘I knew he was trouble, Melody,’ she said. ‘I told you.’

I stumbled around my desk, bent down to pick up the ring and handed it to Heather McAdams. ‘Perhaps hang on to this,’ I suggested. ‘I’m presuming he’ll want it back. Or you can sell it.’

I moved to the mini refrigerator under the window, cracked open the door and pulled out an ice pack.

I guess it shows how often this happens to me that I have one prepared.

I held the door to stop it swinging open. I didn’t need my client to see the case of beer that Charlie had left in there on his last visit.

I held the ice pack to my cheek as I made my way back to my chair and somehow managed to sit down and look my client in the eye without losing my composure. My eyes stung, and I was going to have a bruise, that much was for sure.

Mrs McAdams only realised now how hard her daughter had slugged me, and that maybe I wasn’t happy about it.

‘Are you all right?’ she said.

I glared at her. I had a sneaking suspicion her question was brought on by a sudden thought that her daughter might get sued for assault, rather than any concern for my welfare, and whether she should make a speedy phone call to the family solicitor.

‘I’m fine,’ I replied. ‘I’ll print out my invoice for you. I accept payment by card only.’

She looked taken aback for a moment, seemed to debate whether to ask if she could pay on account, and then thought better of it.

I ignored her and turned my attention to the computer screen instead. The system allowed me to automatically check off each service provided. I spitefully added an extra thirty pounds miscellaneous line item for the ice pack, hit the “print” button and then slid the still-warm invoice across the desk to Mrs McAdams.

‘Oh, my,’ she said, as she ran her manicured fingernail down the page. ‘This is rather more than I expected.’

‘A copy of my expenses is on the second page,’ I said, jutting out my chin. ‘I’m sure you’ll find everything is in order. You’ll appreciate that I do provide a rather exclusive service.’

She looked flustered. ‘I wasn’t implying—’

I raised an eyebrow.

She lowered her gaze in response and flicked over the page instead.

I drummed my fingers on the desk while she read through the numbers. Such a sign of impatience always annoyed the hell out of me when people did that anywhere within a mile radius of me, so I was banking on it getting on her nerves and that she’d hurry up and pay, then leave me in peace.

Sure enough, she flicked the page over with an exasperated sigh, then handed over her credit card.

It was from one of the larger banks, the word “platinum” embossed across the front of it with a sparkly finish that glinted in the sunlight streaming through the window.

A car horn honked somewhere beyond the double-glazed panes, followed in quick succession by a higher pitched beep and a stream of colourful swearing.

I swiped Heather McAdams’s credit card across the handheld reader and handed it back to her, then used a large rubber stamp to punch the word “Paid” across the top of the invoice.

And yes, I pretended I was stamping her daughter’s face with it before I released the spring mechanism.

‘Thank you,’ I said, and stood to show her the way out, dumping the ice pack on the desk. ‘If you know of anyone else that would be in need of my services, please give them this.’

I handed over a business card.

Heather McAdams took it between her forefinger and thumb as if it was infected with weaponised smallpox and wrinkled her nose. ‘I’d best go and find out where Charlotte is,’ she sniffed.

I was careful not to slam the door behind her, such was my frustration. I put away the credit card machine, leaning against the cupboard door to lock it while last month’s filing attempted to escape its clutches, and threw the remnants of the icepack in the waste bin in the small kitchenette off to one side of the open-plan office.

Then I wandered over to the window that overlooked the street below.

It was a fine day, a welcome change from the steady drizzle that had soaked the capital for the first two weeks of September. The puddles that had lined the pavements had evaporated, and one of the part-time employees from the café opposite my office window was wiping down the white plastic tables and chairs outside the doors in anticipation of a busy lunchtime.

Heather McAdams was hurrying across the road to an expensive-looking white cabriolet parked on the opposite side. Her daughter, Charlotte, was in the passenger seat, her arms crossed, fuming no doubt. An animated exchange began between the two of them as soon as Heather slid into the driver’s seat, and they were still going at it as the car drove away.

I glanced at my watch.

It was only eleven-thirty, but I figured I’d earned an early lunch break, so I closed the office, flipped the cheery “Back Later!” sign over on the door, and walked down the internal stairs to the street towards the best sushi place in town, in my humble opinion. I grabbed a bento box, found a quiet corner of the restaurant to sit in, and picked up a fork.

I’ve never learned to use chopsticks. I’ve always been too hungry to bother.

As I tackled a particularly delicious piece of sashimi, I contemplated what I’d do for the rest of the day.

Contrary to what people might tell you, I am a private investigator. I’ve got the paperwork to prove it.

It was something I’d wanted to do since I was ten years old. My grandad used to lend me books about spies, detectives, and private eyes and I was enthralled by the stories of mysteries solved, righted wrongs and a pervading sense of justice. As a child, even playing hide and seek with my grandad – an ex-Royal Marines Commando – involved lessons in counter surveillance and being peppered with pinecones if he could spot my brother, cousin and me trying to hide from him in the woods.

I loved every moment of it.

That’s why, when the world closed down a few years ago and I found myself abandoning a half-finished undergraduate degree like so many others, I decided to spend the time retraining. I found an online course, passed the exam a year later when the world reopened for business, and set out to follow my dream.

But when I first started out in my chosen role, actually being a PI was a career move quickly regretted when it became apparent that, at six foot tall, I stick out like a sore thumb, making covert work near impossible.

Not only that, but I also didn’t have any police or military experience, so any would-be customers looked down their noses in disdain at my efforts to impress them with my qualification and karate black belt and then leave as soon as was deemed polite.

Sometimes they didn’t even wait that long.

Distraught at my chosen career path disappearing down the nearest drain, I returned to my parents’ house with the sole intention of moping around until I figured out what to do next.

That lasted precisely three weeks.

CHAPTERTWO

My grandad and I had always been close.

My earliest memories are of him pushing me in a wheelbarrow up the road towards the small allotment he tended to save him and my nan buying the weekly vegetables. While he ensured the tiny seedlings were watered, I was put in charge of pulling out any errant weeds that threatened his crop of carrots, potatoes, cabbages, and peas. We worked in silence, simply enjoying each other’s company.

One day, a lady who rented a neighbouring patch of land came hurrying over to him, asking for his help.

Straightening, he’d rubbed his aching back, and then beckoned to me and we followed her over to where she’d erected a small shed.

‘It’s been eating all my bloody veg,’ she’d said.

We looked to where she pointed, to see a baby rabbit cowering next to the shed, petrified by the sound of our voices.

The woman pointed at the shovel in my grandad’s hands.

‘Kill it.’

He baulked, and in that moment’s pause, the rabbit took off, its white tail bobbing between the cabbages as it made a run for the boundary of the allotments.

‘It got away!’ The woman placed her hands on her hips and glared at Grandad.

‘Sorry,’ he said, and then jerked his head towards our patch. ‘Come on. Back to work.’

As we wandered back towards our vegetables, I slipped my hand into his. ‘I’m glad it ran away, Grandad.’

‘Me too. I couldn’t have killed it anyway.’

He looked down at me and winked, and in that moment I knew we’d become co-conspirators.

Even if he did pepper me with pinecones on a regular basis during our games of hide and seek.

* * *

Three weeks after I’d returned to my parents’ house with no other accommodation options available, ruing the day I’d qualified as a private investigator, Grandad died peacefully in his sleep, leaving me wretched. I’d lost my best friend and confidant, and I didn’t have a clue how I was going to cope.

Two weeks after that, and a week after his funeral, I was still struggling.

I dragged myself out of bed every morning, dressed, and thought I was doing okay – until I had to walk past his old armchair in the living room, the teak arms worn down by the palms of his hands over the years, and I’d fall apart again.

Mum suggested to me that I go for a walk every morning – more to get me out of the house I think, rather than any actual benefit. I’d return an hour or so later, completely unable to tell them where I’d been or what I’d seen.

I was numb.

It was a Friday morning when Dad found me in the dining room, absently scrolling through my social media news feed on my phone and wondering why the hell I was bothering.

‘Thought I might find you here.’

I put down my phone and rubbed at stinging eyes.

He pulled out a chair at the end of the table and lowered himself into it as if he was scared I’d bolt at the last minute. ‘You’ve got to realise, Melody, your mum and I only want the best for you.’

I sniffed. ‘I know, Dad. Really I do.’

‘Well then, do something with your life. Stop moping around. I know you miss your grandad, but do you think he’d want to see you like this?’

‘No.’ Another loud sniff.

Dad shoved the box of tissues across the dining room table at me. It hit my elbow, and I tore two from the lid before blowing my nose loudly.

‘You’re not going to achieve anything sitting around here.’ His tone softened, and I raised my eyes to meet his gaze.

‘What do you mean?’

He reached into the pocket of his well-worn jeans and withdrew an envelope that had been folded in two. ‘We had to wait until the solicitor had sorted out the will and everything before we could tell you. Before your grandad died, he made me promise that I’d pass this on to you, along with the message that came with it.’

I frowned, confused. ‘What message?’

‘Open the envelope first.’

I leaned over and took it from him, ran my thumb under the seal and pulled out the thin slip of paper it held.

My eyes opened wide as I extracted a cheque. A very large cheque, with the solicitor’s signature scrawled across the bottom right-hand corner. ‘Dad?’

‘Your grandad said, “Tell her to get out of here”,’ he said. His mouth twitched, and then he winked. ‘I think he meant it in a nice way.’

‘Oh, Dad.’ I covered my mouth with my hand as tears rolled down my cheeks.

My grandad could still kick me up the backside, even from the grave, bless him.

It worked, though.

Four days later, I announced to my family and friends I was going to travel the world instead for a year while I sorted myself out and pondered what to do with my life.

However, after three months in Europe, I was running out of cash faster than my planned year break was passing by, and in an effort to make my money stretch a bit further, I booked a last-minute flight to Chennai, India.

I landed in monsoon season.

CHAPTERTHREE

I loved India.

I loved the people, the food, the chaos – everything. And, while I was there, I found the inspiration for my new business.

Weddings are a big deal in the Indian community, no matter where in the world they live. I thought weddings in England were huge, but they were nowhere near as good as the ceremonies I saw in Chennai.

For a start, there’s the explosion of colour – clothes swathed in reds, yellows, and bright oranges. Sometimes there are horse-drawn carriages sparkling with shiny tinsel and trinkets that jangle as the procession moves along the street accompanied by cheering from passers-by. Then there is the food, the customs, the way the whole community becomes involved and is consumed by the celebrations.

There’s a lot of money involved in putting together a wedding, too. Families save for years leading up to the day their sons and daughters get around to tying the knot, and when you’re spending that sort of money, you want to make sure you get what you’re paying for.

That’s where wedding detectives come into the picture.

A wedding detective will turn the prospective groom’s life inside out, and all without him knowing.

Bank accounts, social media, career websites – nothing was off-limits to these entrepreneurial women.

As the twentieth century turned to the twenty-first, the old ways of arranged marriages were becoming shunned by a new generation of twenty-somethings who preferred informal matches to their parents’ way of forging life partnerships.

With that came the inevitable suspicion and paranoia.

Who exactly was their daughter’s groom?

How much money did he have? Where did he work? What was his lifestyle like? Did he have any unfavourable habits?

And, most importantly, would he be a good husband?

Pre-matrimony investigations uncover all of this and more, before being presented clandestinely to the future bride’s parents for consideration.

Often, the private detective’s work revealed nothing more than a late payment of a bill, perhaps an anomaly in an otherwise perfect credit history, or maybe a tendency to drink a little too much at work functions.

Sometimes, though, a scandalous indiscretion or a violent past was uncovered, and the wedding would be called off, saving the beloved daughter a lifetime of embarrassment – or worse.

Inspired, I spent the rest of my trip talking to the women that ran these businesses, learning from them, making pages and pages of notes, until one day I returned to Chennai airport and caught the next flight back to England to begin my new career.

If I couldn’t be a private investigator, I’d be a wedding detective instead.

CHAPTERFOUR

When I returned from India, I discovered that Grandad had been even more generous than he and Dad had ever let on, which is how I found myself leasing a small office above a fish and chip shop in Bermondsey the second day after my flight landed back in the UK.

No, I have no idea why I picked Bermondsey either, and my only excuse for agreeing to be shown the office by the agent was that I was suffering from a crippling bout of jet lag.

As I traipsed up a narrow staircase and tried not to stare at his bum as I followed, I mentioned the smell of chip fat and fish that seemed to cling to everything.

‘It’s only the bins next to the window here.’ He waved his hand over his shoulder, as if to waft the thick aroma away. ‘You won’t notice it upstairs.’

I ran my hand over the stair bannister and immediately regretted my decision as it became covered in dust. I sneezed, wiped my hand on the back of my jeans, and tried not to panic.

What the hell was I letting myself in for?

The opportunity to bolt back downstairs and launch myself out through the door and into the street below was thwarted by the agent reaching the top of the stairs and turning to me with a key held aloft, a toothy smile creasing his features.

‘The moment of truth,’ he said, and swung open the door.

I managed to stop myself from gasping out loud.

Instead of the damp-ridden rat-infested garret I’d imagined, I stepped into an airy bright space that had been recently painted in modern neutral tones with white skirting boards, architraves and ceiling.

The floor had been stripped back to the original dark wooden boards and was polished to a high sheen, and as I walked over to the three large windows on the far side, I knew I was going to stay.

‘What do you think?’

The agent’s voice broke into my thoughts, and I remembered my mum’s advice about not appearing too keen.

I sniffed. ‘I can still smell fish and chips.’

His nose puckered. ‘Really? Oh, no. They assured me the new ventilation fans installed last week would sort that out.’

I felt bad, honestly I did, but Grandad’s money wasn’t going to last for long if I didn’t haggle on the rent – and find some paying clients pretty quick.

I tilted up my head and sniffed again. ‘The shop’s open during the day too, aren’t they?’

‘From noon, yes.’

‘Hmmm.’

I avoided his gaze and instead continued over to the window and rested my palms on the sill.

The view took my breath away.

Somehow, the building’s original architect had ensured that its footprint managed to squeeze in between the jumble of shops and office blocks in such a way that the windows on the top floor offered an unobstructed view of Tower Bridge and the river, while at the same time providing a glimpse in between the green spaces that dotted the sprawling borough.

I don’t know how I managed to stop my jaw from hitting the floor, but I did manage to stop the squeak of surprise from escaping – just.

‘Are you all right?’

The agent hurried over.

‘Dust mites, I think. I’ll be okay in a minute.’ I gave a theatrical cough, patting my chest, and then jerked my thumb over my shoulder. ‘The view’s not bad.’

‘I know,’ he sighed, and joined me to stare at the vista. ‘I’m told on a good day, you can see for miles.’

‘A shame I won’t have time to appreciate it,’ I said, and began to pace the room. ‘I expect I’ll be too busy.’

I withdrew a tape measure from my bag and proceeded to work out where I would put a desk, chairs, visitor’s sofa and rugs. To the side of the room, a small well-appointed kitchenette had been installed, and as I snapped the tape measure closed and ran my hand over the worktop that had been fixed in place, the agent cleared his throat.

‘So, what do you think?’

I made sure I had a smile in place before I turned to face him.

‘I’m sure if I were a software developer or something, it’d be perfect,’ I said. ‘Unfortunately, the sort of clientele I have demand confidentiality, and they’re often from privileged backgrounds. They won’t take kindly to having to approach the building from the street and then navigating such a narrow flight of stairs to reach me. And as for the smell—’

He automatically sniffed the air, and I bit back a laugh.

He held up a finger. ‘Follow me.’

I did, and he led the way back to the small landing but instead of turning right to go downstairs, he turned left and opened a second door.

Bright sunlight poured in, and he stepped to one side to let me pass.

‘It’s only been used as a fire escape before,’ he said. ‘But perhaps if I persuaded the owner to have the ironwork repainted, and an alternative exit route established, you and your clients could use this instead?’

I moved past him and found myself standing on an ornate cast iron staircase that wound its way gently down the side of the building on the opposite side from the alley and into a narrow lane that thronged with life. A café bustled with energy nearer the entrance to the main street, while next door a new age shop displayed books and charms on white metal stands on either side of its front door. Beyond that, a little sushi bar looked like it was doing a busy late morning trade before the lane curved round and the next shop was out of sight.

Why the hell hadn’t I noticed this on my way in?

What sort of detective was I?

‘What do you think? Could this alternative entranceway work for your clients, do you think?’

I stepped back inside and waited while the agent shut the door.

Eventually I got my thoughts back in order.

Haggle.

‘I suppose it’ll have to do, yes.’

‘Excellent.’ He smiled. ‘Now, in respect of the rent.’

‘Yes, that. Well, I—’

He interrupted me again by holding up a finger. ‘I realise the cooking aromas may be a little off-putting to your clients, and there’s the hassle of having to use this alternative entrance,’ he said. He lowered his voice. ‘But, between you and me, the owner has been a right pain in the arse to deal with.’

My eyebrows must’ve shot upwards, because he smiled.

‘How about we say an initial weekly rent for the first three months, then increase to a moderately higher monthly rent for the rest of the calendar year? After that, well, we’ll see how we’re doing, shall we?’

Meaning, he didn’t want the client placing the lease back on the books any time soon.

Meaning, if I was a good tenant, the place was mine for as long as I needed it.

Meaning, I had just scored office space for a fraction of the price I thought I was going to have to pay in this neighbourhood.

I thrust out my hand. ‘I think we have a deal.’

CHAPTERFIVE

Having an office above a fish and chip shop wasn’t all that bad, despite what I said to the agent.

The owners, Michael and Louise Zervas, comprised a second-generation Greek, married to a third-generation Irish Catholic. This had the effect that their two sons were mysterious as all hell but would then go and confess to their mother. Added to the intrigue was the fact that both were in their late twenties and, yes, I’ll be honest – they weren’t bad looking either, especially Charlie who was older than his brother by four minutes.

We soon formed a strong bond. The landlord was non-existent, the agent was happy so long as the rent got paid, and we were left alone.

Exactly what we all wanted.

The first two weeks of my tenancy were taken up with placing orders for furniture, ensuring the furniture turned up, and then rearranging it several times before I was happy with the overall result.

During this time, Charlie and Dan, his younger brother, proved to be invaluable.