With plot twists galore and an array of credible suspects, this traditional village mystery series will appeal to fans of M.C. Beaton and Midsomer Murders When Alex Duggins comes across a terrifying scene at the site of a new housing development, once again she is drawn into a case of brutal murder. A new year arrives and winter holds Britain’s Cotswold Hills in its icy grip once more. But it’s the construction of a new housing development that’s causing the residents of Folly-on-Weir most concern. As she passes the site late one afternoon, pub owner Alex Duggins is confronted by the terrifying scene of a construction trailer on fire and a man desperately trying to break the door down. Her efforts to help – and the subsequent findings of the police forensic pathologist – draw Alex and her friend Tony Harrison into a major murder investigation whose tentacles will reach right to the heart of the tight-knit Folly community – and into Alex’s own past … When Alex Duggins comes across a terrifying scene at the site of a new housing development, once again she is drawn into a case of brutal murder. Whisper the Dead An Alex Duggins Mystery By Stella Cameron Severn House Publishers Limited Copyright © 2017 Stella Cameron All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-78029-584-8 CHAPTER 1 He seized the neck of the open bottle and slid it to rest on his chest, cradled the cool glass, closed his eyes to the lullaby sound of the whisky inside the bottle gurgling to the top. A few drops hit his face and he reached for them with his tongue. 'Got you,' he whispered, sniggering, feeling the aromatic trickle on his lips. 'Waste not, want not.' And there it was within the subtle floral burst of scent, the soft, wood-smoke bite of eighteen-years-old Glenmorangie. Sweet, sweet oblivion come to me. He upended the bottle, used both hands to steady it. When his eyes slid open he couldn't see much. The lamp was off ... wasn't it? Glass scraped between his teeth, chuddered, screeched. He choked, scrunched backward onto the pillows, heard the door to the sleeping compartment slam, closing him inside. The door. It closed, yeah. Being alone now was what he needed. Alone to fly. Not enough room. Couldn't cough. Gagging – couldn't breathe. The bottle was too heavy for him to lift. It crammed down into his mouth, his throat. Too heavy to push away. He struggled to grab the bottle and found someone else's hands there. That hand – two hands – slapped his away. Cracking under his teeth. Let me go. Blood. It tastes sharp, sharp like the glass feels. Blood and glass. There was nothing to hold. Alex Duggins sniffed, and blinked at an acrid stench coming to her in the waning afternoon light. That was not smoke from the chimney of some isolated cottage or farm. The wipers pushed snow across the windshield of her Range Rover, packed in into a blinding sheet. Alex leaned forward, flinched away from flying mud. Hurtling at her, bouncing over ruts in the frozen ground, a small filth-covered utility vehicle didn't slow down. If the driver saw her Rover, he ignored it, speeded up even, shot forward as if he wanted a collision. She didn't see the driver, only got the impression of a camouflage paint job that might be used in a war. Alex yanked the wheel, steered onto the verge and pumped her brakes. Her tires were the best. They dug in and shuddered to a stop. She bowed her head and pressed a hand to her chest. Her heart thundered. Still shaken, she searched the heavy, grey skyline for a source of the filthy smell of burning. She parked and got out. Her boots crunched into frosty grass and bracken beside a wide track leading up a gentle incline. If there weren't mature, leafless trees lining the way, anyone standing beside the rutted construction access might have concluded the developers had cut out a path for convenience. But they had used a lane that had been there a long time. Perhaps she was getting a sign that she should have gone straight home from Stanton to Folly-on-Weir rather than deliberately taking a longer route. Darkness began to gather but Alex didn't want to go back yet. She carried on walking and watching. Ahead, wide utility gates stood open beneath a sign that stretched across the width of the track: Robert Hill. Just the name of the developer turning acres of perfect Cotswold land into a purportedly 'attractive' village. 'Luxury living at affordable prices.' That wasn't the scuttlebutt throughout the surrounding villages and towns. 'One more cover-up to get damn good Cotswold farmland gobbled up by the elite incomers who can afford it,' was the way Alex had heard it described, far too many times. On a whim, today she had decided to see the new village for herself. The final stretch was steeper, climbing to the top of a rise, and Alex leaned into the incline. It was Sunday, and that must account for the lack of traffic or the sound of any activity. This development was the talk of the Black Dog, the pub and i