The Ballard Down Murder: A Dorset Crime Prequel by Rachel McLean, book 0.5 in the Dorset Crime series - Chapter 1

Detective Sergeant Dennis Frampton flapped his newspaper open. His wife had laid the kitchen table, the usual Tuesday morning spread: toast and jam, a pot of tea. Tomorrow there would be a boiled egg, Pam’s way of marking the middle of the week. And on Saturday, a fry-up.

You had to go a long way to beat Pam’s fry-ups as far as Dennis was concerned, and even further since she’d switched to using an air fryer. The olive oil had taken longer to acclimatise to, but he was just about there.

She sat down opposite him and picked up the pot of tea. “Got anything interesting on today, Den?”

He shook his head. “The alleged robbery in Swanage.”

“Alleged?”

“I’d lay odds it’s an insurance scam. The shop’s been trading poorly for months, there were rumours it was about to close.”

“Well, we all need to find a way through adversity.”

“Not by breaking the law, we don’t.” He lifted his newspaper higher.

There’d been no witnesses to this robbery, and the CCTV had conveniently been down. He had to follow it up, just in case.

But armed robbers? In Swanage?

It was no more likely than a flock of rowdy seagulls pecking their way into the till and making off with the takings.

“Well, I hope it turns out for the best,” she said.

He grunted and placed the last slice of toast in his mouth. He took his handkerchief from his pocket – clean and freshly ironed that morning – and dabbed at his mouth.

“You were up late last night,” she reminded him.

“Watching Morse.” Dennis liked to watch reruns of Inspector Morse on the UK Gold channel. It was his secret vice. Well, almost secret.

He yawned.

“Sorry, love. It’s rude of me, I know.”

She smiled. “It’s fine. Maybe an earlier night tonight?”

He shrugged.

She sipped at her tea. “Well, I’m meeting up with Mary, going shopping in Poole.”

“Any particular reason?”

“It’s her daughter’s birthday next week, she wants new clothes.”

Dennis nodded. The thought of spending the day buying clothes for somebody else’s daughter was almost as bad as spending it chasing after a non-existent robber.

He pushed back his plate, laid his newspaper on the table in front of it and stood up. He replaced his reading glasses with his bifocals, which had been sitting next to his plate.

“Anyway, best be going.”

He rounded the table and kissed Pam on the top of her head.

As he left the dining room, his phone buzzed: a text from his former DCI, Tim Mackie.

Dennis put the phone back in his pocket. He’d rather check it when he was out of the house.

No one knew Dennis was still in touch with Mackie. The occasional social contact had been expected, but this went further. Dennis missed Mackie’s experience. The two DCs on his team were good, Johnny Chiles in particular, but neither of them had the old DCI’s nose for a case.

Dennis grabbed his tweed jacket from the hook in the hall, slid his slippers off, and put on his shoes. Practical, sturdy shoes, the kind of thing you needed working as a detective in Dorset.

Once outside, he took out his phone and read Mackie’s message.

Happy to meet up later. This Superintendent Carpenter’s idea?

Dennis frowned. Carpenter knew nothing about this.

All my idea, sir.

His phone buzzed.

You don’t have to call me sir. Not now I’m retired.

It would take Dennis a lot more than a few months without Mackie in the office to get used to that.

See you later, he tapped out, hesitating before sending without adding the sir.

Yawning again, he placed his phone in the hands-free holder he never used while he was on the move, and pulled the car out of the drive.