All My Enemies: A Brock and Kolla Mystery (Brock and Kolla Mysteries)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
In one of the finest and most pivotal books in this critically acclaimed series, never before published in the U.S., D.S. Kathy Kolla reports to New Scotland Yard and to D.C.I. David Brock's Serious Crime Division.
Just before Kolla is to start her new job, a young woman is found viscously murdered in a leafy, well-heeled suburb, and the grotesque details of the slaughter appear to be well-rehearsed, even theatrical. Assigned to the case, Kolla's only improbable lead draws her to a local amateur drama group. Once in their orbit, she is lured into a piece of theatre over which, increasingly, she has little control. In All My Enemies, Brock and Kolla find themselves in a tangled web of deceptions in a case wherein a corpus of plays becomes a template for murder.
Edinburgh.” There was a murmur of surprise at the geographical leap four hundred miles to the north. The photograph showed a peroxide blonde with heavy eye make-up. “The connection here is a footprint at the murder scene, a size nine Doc Martens, and the only correlation we’ve been able to make from DS Desai’s discovery. We haven’t been able to establish that it’s the same shoe, only that it’s the same pattern and a similar size to what Angela’s attacker is thought to have worn. The other
photographer, who blushed, bobbed his head, and shuffled forward. His obvious shyness at having to address the group was engaging in someone who was probably the most senior man in the room, apart from Brock, and it provoked a number of remarks, generally intended to be encouraging. “Well, what ’appens,” he began, adjusting his thick glasses and scratching his nose, “when a body ’eals itself after an injury, there are a number of biochemical compounds introduced into the flesh as part of the
frowned. “Only . . . only that Angela didn’t come to the door. She’d have heard the car arrive, if she’d been at home.” “What did you think?” “Thought she must still be at church. The service runs from 11:00 to 12:00.” “Would she have gone to that in her own car?” “Doesn’t have a car. It’s a ten-minute walk to St. George’s.” “So there was nothing to alarm you at that point?” “No. I went to the front door, to open it before I got the bags out of the boot.” The expression on his face
confessed all to me, Kathy. She has told me that you have recently been recruited to the top murder investigation unit in Scotland Yard—indeed, are practically running it! So you see, there is no need to hide your light under a bushel where I am concerned. Tell me the truth, what are you seeking tonight? Let me assist you.” Kathy shook her head, exasperated, by her aunt and by this rather pathetic old ham. She was aware of the others looking in their direction, waiting for the producer to start
and so . . . theatrical. When he told me about it, I realized then how important we are to him. I suppose we are part of a sort of dream that he’s had all his life, and has never really fulfilled, quite.” They spoke to Edward Quinn next. “You were part of the group that went up to see Macbeth at the National Theatre three weeks ago, Mr. Quinn,” Brock said. “Yes, that’s right. There were eight or nine of us, I suppose. Pretty much the people who are here tonight. Ruth organized it—she must have