On a sunny Summer Saturday, the beautiful Derbyshire town of Bakewell is full of visitors from all over the world. Sightseers and shoppers crowd the streets. On the other side of the river, the Farmers’ Market is in full swing.

Sirens. An elderly woman has been found unconscious and barely alive on the edge of Bakewell Park. A bag-snatch mugging? All her ID is missing and it will take police many hours to discover who she is.

Then – a wealthy French woman is reported missing. She’d gone to the town alone after a serious argument with her husband.

Later that day, it becomes clear that a young Dutch backpacker has disappeared. CCTV confirms he was in the town around lunchtime.

What on Earth’s happening in this famously peaceful town?

DCI Day doesn’t know how many crimes he’s dealing with – let alone how to solve them!

It’s two days before witnesses come forward and give an indication all three incidents are linked. Police worldwide know that the first 48 hours are vital in solving crimes and saving lives. The Derbyshire detectives are faced with a confusing ‘uphill challenge’.

To make matters worse, men arrive from London, Holland and France – and all are intent on violence!

On target for publication in early 2022, here is the first part of THREE DEAD TOURISTS.

THREE DEAD TOURISTS

Introduction

The couple arguing across the breakfast table at the CASA Hotel were causing no small amount of discomfort amongst those surrounding them. That they were speaking in rather loud French made it a little more tolerable as all but two of the listeners were English and therefore had no understanding of any foreign language.

Had subtitles been available, they would have read something like this:

“You don’t love me anymore!” said Amelie Giraud.

“I do love you!” insisted her husband, Antoine.

“Then why will you not make love to me – am I not still beautiful?” She was just twenty-eight and definitely still beautiful.

“You are beautiful,” replied her forty-four-year-old, rather exasperated husband.

“Have I not got a good figure?” She had.

He presented the correct reassurance.

“Am I not a good and kind person?”

“Indeed you are my love,” he lied.

“Then why don’t you want to screw me?”

Antoine put his head in his hands.

“Are you already an impotent old man?”

He didn’t reply and, for a few moments, glowered at her. Neither of his mistresses had any doubt about his virility and he thought of a recent weekend away with his energetic favourite, Sylvie. Unfortunate timing because he was unable to control an almost imperceptible grin.

That was too much and his reward was the dregs of a, fortunately lukewarm, coffee flung across his designer T-shirt in the split second before his wife stormed out.

On a nearby table two German men were attempting to disguise their amusement. Identical twins Wilhelm and Benjamin Schmitt were travelling the country, training Audi technicians about the servicing requirements of the company’s new electric car range. Giraud glared at them; he was the only person in the hotel who knew they had fake identities, weren’t German, didn’t work for Audi and knew nothing at all about electric traction. Bill and Ben, as they were laughingly known by their London-based colleagues, were professional murderers. Bill, being older by seventeen minutes, had had more time to practise – his score currently standing at twelve – four more than his brother. Their boss had given them two functions: do Mr Giraud’s bidding and, at the same time, assess his capabilities as a future partner in crime.

Giraud relaxed a little and gave the twins an almost imperceptible nod of the head. The pair stood and approached his table. As soon as they were in whispering distance, he hissed a single word. “Bakewell!” They headed for the door.

Peace returned to the dining room. Antoine Giraud ordered fresh coffee and ate a large bowl of fruit.

When he returned to their room twenty-five minutes later, he was mildly irritated to discover his wife wasn’t there. He went to the window overlooking the car park and discovered that his Porsche Cayenne was also missing. Now the irritation was far from mild – this might screw up an opportunity to make an obscene amount of money with vastly reduced risk – his wife was going to get a damn good beating when she returned.

–

Max Bergsma was keeping on the move and not sticking to his original itinerary. He had decided his long-planned cycling holiday would go ahead despite his break-up with girlfriend of three years, Lotte Dumoulin. The idea of a suddenly solo tour of England wasn’t particularly to his liking but the twenty-two-year-old Dutch student had two very good reasons not to cancel. Firstly, he’d invested a lot of his savings on ferry crossings and equipment but, rather more important, Lotte’s two brothers were looking for him and Max was under no illusions what would happen if they caught up with him. Okay, maybe he shouldn’t have given her a couple of black eyes when he found out she was seeing someone else but how was he to know her brothers would take such exception to that?

Travelling without Lotte did have its advantages, though. This tall, blonde, good-looking guy with near-perfect English had already scored two one-night stands with local girls on his meanderings across Yorkshire.

He’d packed up his tent on the tiny campsite just outside Buxton, Derbyshire and, by 9am he was cycling down the A6 on his way to his next stopover in Ashbourne. Max was happy to take the long way round because he’d been told the small town of Bakewell was a ‘must see’ place.

–

Dorothy Hawksworth hated her home town of Ambleside in the Summer season; the Lake District was gridlocked by common people; even getting to the shops was an ordeal. Usually at this time of year she would be on a luxury cruise to some exotic location but this July, she had run out of acquaintances who could tolerate her company for more than a few hours. Cruises were for man-hunting and this was not an activity she was confident in practising without an accomplice.

But she needed to be out of town because a legal dispute she had initiated backfired and her already limited popularity had plummeted. It was a bit of a come down, but the sixty-two-year-old divorcee had decided to tour around some other slightly less crowded British tourist destinations. Why not? She had a good car, enjoyed driving and could afford to stay in decent hotels.

This Saturday morning, she had a light breakfast in the Rutland Arms Hotel in Bakewell and set off to walk the town. Apparently, it was some kind of Farmers’ Market Day and she’d been told it was well worth a look.

PART ONE

Chapter One

Day’s DAY 1 Sunday 8am

The early phone call didn’t wake DCI Derek Day. He’d already been down to the kitchen and made himself a coffee – plus three teas for the horde of females occupying his king-size. As he re-entered the bedroom with the tray, the scene made him smile. His wife, Jess was wearing her brand-new first-ever pair of reading glasses and therefore doing a passable impersonation of the world’s most beautiful university professor. Younger daughter, Sophie was reading to her mother and ten-year-old Alice was staring intently at something on the tablet in front of her. The Sunday morning ritual was well under way. All three laughed – then groaned when the mobile on the bedside table began to buzz.

Day placed the tray on the opposite table, raised his eyebrows and walked around to retrieve the phone. As he left the room, he simply said, “Day.”

Detective Sergeant Andy Grainger apologised. “I’ve just been reading through the overnighters, sir. A couple of things I’d like your opinion on, sir. I hope that’s okay?” Andy’s promotion had just been confirmed and he was probably being over-conscientious.

“No problem, Andy but make it snappy, my coffee’s getting cold.”

“RTA eight o’clock last night on Thirteen Bends, sir…”

“RTA? You’re disturbing me on a Sunday morning for an RTA, come on Andy!” Thirteen Bends was a notorious stretch of road between Chesterfield and Bakewell. RTAs were commonplace.

“More interesting than that, sir. Cyclist going down the hill lost control and hit a car head on. Rider’s unconscious up at the Royal – it’s our old friend Daniel Thorneycroft.” One of the town’s most persistent petty criminals was going to be out of action for some time.

“And?” Day wasn’t in a sympathetic mood.

“One of the uniforms who attended is a bit of a cycling freak, sir. He noticed the smashed-up bike was an expensive foreign model and had a good look inside the panniers. Usual sort of stuff you’d expect to find when someone’s on a camping holiday. Documents inside identified it as belonging to a Dutch bloke called Bergman. The bike’s obviously been stolen but it hasn’t been reported. How can this Bergman not know his bike and all his gear’s been stolen – or he does know and daren’t report it – it doesn’t make much sense to me.”

“Passport, wallet, phone?”

“Not there, sir. If he’s got any brains, he’ll be carrying them.”

“Age?”

“PC who looked though his stuff said it suggested a young man.”

Day laughed. “My first guess is that he’s found himself a local woman and is snuggled up in bed somewhere!”

DS Grainger took the throwaway comment as a put down and began apologising again.

“No, Andy, you’re right to be concerned. Get someone to have a really good look at those panniers then phone around the local camp sites, see if anyone’s got a booking for him. Start in Bakewell then go outwards. They’re busy this time of year so most will insist on pre-booking. Anyone watching Thorneycroft?”

“No sir. Doctor says he’s hanging on by a thread. He’s not going anywhere.”

“You said a couple of issues?”

“Yes, sir. Misper, sir. Unusual one, reported at 6.12pm yesterday. French bloke, staying at the Casa, reported his wife missing. They had a tiff at breakfast and she cleared off in his car.”

“What are they doing over here?”

“Touring, he said, sir. Wants to see the Peak District and the Crooked Spire. Reading between the lines on the report, he’s more concerned about the car than the woman!”

“How’s that?”

“Porsche Cayenne, sir,” replied Grainger, expecting the name to mean something to his boss. Day knew that Porsches were fast and expensive but little else. Grainger sensed the shrug.

“Top of the range, sir. Expensive car, staying in a suite at the poshest hotel in town and the bloke got right up the nose of the PC who went to see him. Wealthy, with obvious clout – expecting prompt action. Apparently, the wife’s phone had come on at 11am but she wasn’t answering so he tracked it to Bakewell. Seemed aggravated by that. He hired a car and set off there but the phone was switched off again by the time he arrived. Said he drove round for an hour looking for his car but then returned to Casa. I rang him a few minutes ago; wife’s not back and he’s gone out looking for her again.”

Day’s favourite kind of customer – not! “That sounds pointless unless he’s not told you everything he knows. Names please, Andy.”

“Mr and Mrs Giraud, she’s Amelie and he’s Antoine.”

“Description of the wife?”

“Got a photo, sir. Twenty-eight, very attractive, speaks passable English apparently.”

‘Don’t they all?’ thought Day. “Expensive car like that must have a tracker?”

“I asked about that. Yes, it does; comes as standard but the owner had disconnected it. He was a bit cagey when I asked him why.”

“Reg number circulated?”

“Yesterday evening, sir. A bit premature, I thought.”

“Should be something we could leave to the uniforms but I’ll come in. Anything more about that mugging in Bakewell yesterday, Andy? I assume DI Sharp’s dealing with it?” It had been on the local news but Day had resisted the temptation to rush to the scene and take control.

“Yes, the DI’s all over it. Nasty one, sir. Very nasty. Victim’s critical in the Royal and we still don’t know who she is. Looks like a bag-snatch. I’m guessing she resisted and got a punch in the face – smacked her head on the concrete when she fell! We’ve put out all the usual appeals but she’s such a mess a photo wouldn’t help yet. No witnesses – in the middle of Bakewell – on a Saturday – can you believe it!”

He couldn’t. “Said sixty-ish on the news; anything else?”

“Labels on her clothes suggest fairly well-off British, but that’s about it.”

“No possibility of links with the French or Dutch folks?” asked Day.

“Nothing so far, sir.”

“Be about an hour, Andy. In the meantime, see if you can find out exactly what kind of clout our Mr Giraud has.”

One piece of toast later and the DCI was heading in to Beetwell Street Police Station for what he hoped would be a very short visit. Multiple incidents involving tourists – not good for Bakewell or Derbyshire’s image.

–

The summer had been fairly ordinary so far; disappointing weather three-quarters of the time and delightful for the rest. In terms of crime, the Chesterfield detectives had been dealing with a steady parade of minor offences that kept them busy but not frantic. They were only loosely involved in the aftermath of an escape, just two weeks previously, when a notorious thug had been freed from an ambulance on its way to York Hospital from Long Sutton Prison. The organisation of the ambush and the violence of the attack had shocked the nation. Every police force in the UK had been checking for potential local connections but the Derbyshire team had concluded that their area was an unlikely location for a bolt-hole. Every police officer was carrying a photo of Dino Cooke but few hoped to be the first to meet him. DCI Day was an exception; after reading about this criminal’s exploits, he thought a ‘one-on-one’ confrontation would be rather stimulating.

Ian would be grateful for comments/suggestions via email georgeianstuart@gmail.com