The Crimson Harvest – Cheryl Rees-Price

The Crimson Harvest is the ninth standalone novel in the DI Winter Meadows series. It is set against the beautiful backdrop of the Brecon Beacons. In this peaceful close knit community a serial killer is stalking  victims and killing them in a bizarre fashion.  Each victim is left with a calling card in the form of a creepy looking stick figure. DI Meadows and his team have to piece together the clues to stop the killings. The next victim is marked and time is running out.

Extract from the opening chapter

I’m so cold. I’ve been standing in this spot for what feels like hours. My fingers are numb, and my toes are curling in pain. I’m on a grassy bank looking down at the house. It’s in darkness apart from one downstairs window that has a weak light. Memories like shards of glass stab at my chest. They lodge in my throat so it feels like I can’t breathe. Fear has frozen me in time.

At the side of the house is an old oak tree. The winter winds have stolen the last of its leaves. Now its branches stretch out to the house like gnarly fingers waiting to pluck out the occupant. A giant stick doll. I don’t want to think about the stick dolls now. It’s not the trees I should be afraid of.

The wind ruffles my hair and stings my cheeks. Beyond the house and tree is inky darkness. The rest of the world is hidden. I pull up my hood and dig my hands into my pockets. I feel for the lighter and twist it around. At my feet is a petrol can. I’d like nothing more than to see flames chase away the darkness that surrounds me and the darkness within. It’s what I came here to do. To eradicate the place that haunts me.

I let the memories come now. At first, they overwhelm me, but I don’t fight the panic. Then a spark of anger ignites. I feed it until it grows and turns into a burning rage. No one is going to help me. I’m alone. I’ve always been alone. I know what I have to do.

I leave the petrol can and walk down the bank to the pitted track. Ice that has formed over puddles breaks beneath my boots and makes a satisfying crunching noise. I pause for a second to look at the broken fence that once stood proud and erect. Like the rest of the house, it has fallen into disrepair. I move through the gate. It creeks on its hinges. I stop again and listen. There’s no sound from within the house. I press on and, without hesitation, I open the door and step inside.

It’s funny that so many people in this area don’t lock their doors. They think they are safe here. Isolation has made them complacent. It never occurs to them that a stranger could walk in. Then again, I’m not a stranger.

I’m standing in the kitchen. There is no warmth here. The stove has gone out and damp clothes hang from a rack above. There was a time when this kitchen was the heart of the house. The aroma of stew and hot buttered bread would fill the air. There’s another memory here. It lurks like a ghostly shadow, and I can’t grasp it. Perhaps it’s because I don’t want to. A shiver runs through my body and it has nothing to do with the temperature. I turn away from the kitchen and push open the door that leads to the sitting room. There he is in the armchair. His face is illuminated in the lamplight. His legs stretched out. His head to one side, mouth open, and snoring. Revulsion crawls at my skin and shame burns a hollow in my stomach.

The air in here is pungent. It is a mix of stale sweat, alcohol, and smoke. Empty lager cans and an overflowing ashtray litters the table next to him. The carpet is worn and dirty, like the rest of the furniture.

I feel strangely removed from myself. It’s like I’m in a dream, but in a dream you have no control. I should turn away and run from the house, but this is my only chance to face him. I may never have the courage again. He looks harmless sleeping in the chair. I know different. I know the danger I am in if he wakes up. I am standing here, exposed and vulnerable. That much hasn’t changed. I wish I didn’t feel so weak and pathetic. I should have stuck to my plan.

I move slowly backwards and keep my eyes on him. I’m afraid to turn my back. In the kitchen, I let my eyes once again adjust to the darkness. Something pulls me towards the staircase. I know what it is. I want to know if it is still there. It’s strange what memories stay with you. If you asked me what I did a week ago, I’d struggle to remember, yet something from years ago can be so clear. All it needs is a trigger: a sound, a smell, or even a drawing.

I move up the stairs and wince at the creaking of the bare treads. I keep looking behind me, afraid he’ll appear. He doesn’t come. I make it to the bedroom. I know that this is his room. I can smell him. I get down on my hands and knees and crawl under the bed. I reach out my hand and my fingers touch the cold metal of a shotgun. Some people never change their habits. I pull out the shotgun then go back under to retrieve the box of cartridges.

I stand up and feel the weight of the gun. I run my hand down the smooth barrel. I pull on the end. It’s stiff and it takes all my strength to cock it. I feed in the cartridges and snap it back. Now I feel powerful. Now I can take care of myself.

From the book jacket

Putting his wedding plans on hold, Detective Winter Meadows resolves to unmask the serial killer on his patch.

The only connection between the victims is the stick dolls left by their bodies. That and the fact they don’t seem to have been particularly popular.

People are ruffled. Scared. Meadows must isolate the killer fast but the evidence is brittle.

The key to unravelling the mystery is in the stone church, in the creaking homes, and in the slowly thawing fields.
Only a detective who truly knows his world can unlock the identity of the killer.

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Website: https://www.cherylrees-price.co.uk/