WHO IS IN 242?
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SYNOPSIS 
When Gravediggers open up a supposedly empty lair, with ground that hasn’t been disturbed for over fifty years, they discover a skeleton buried in the plot. Suspecting a possible cold case murder Detective George Caldwell is brought in to investigate. Whilst waiting on reconstruction of the skull to attempt identification, the detective decides to take matters into his own hands and begins a solo undercover investigation in the tiny village of Springnoll. As he delves deeper into the ancient mysteries surrounding the village he uncovers a shocking secret, a secret that brings to life horrific repercussions in this world and the world of the supernatural.
This is pending release.
FIRST CHAPTER
CHAPTER ONE
Dark red ichor wept from the fatal wound as the chainsaw blade bit deep, slicing its way through its victim. With a final groan the young yew tree toppled, the scent of pine needles filling the air. Jock Earnshaw flicked the machine off, raising his visor and viewed the carnage with sad eyes. The dark red of exposed heartwood of the trunk contrasted with almost white sapwood, like blood on white skin.
He hated cutting down trees, but sadly that was part of his job as grounds man and gravedigger for the small local cemetery of Springnoll. A village nestled in a valley, tucked away amongst rich pasturelands that were brooded over by the dark and ominous Lead Hills of Southern Scotland.
Jock took out his worn pipe from the top pocket of his overalls and made strolled to a mini-digger crouching on the pathway. He took a moment to catch his breath and admire the view. Skylarks filled the air with their songs as they competed for territory across the rolling fields. Droning bumblebees laboured through the wildflowers that adorned the verges of the single-track road that led past the ancient stone walls bordering the cemetery. No kirk stood on this ground, yet it was hallowed just the same. Graves dating back several hundred years peppered the rich grass, kept dutifully short and trim by Jock.
The hardworking bees would heave themselves over the walls like striped Lancaster Bombers eager to investigate the graveyard, hoping to find some fresh flowers laid out to feast on. They skipped across the gossamer threads of spider silk festooned between the blades of grass and older gravestones, their shimmering strands glistening in the sun’s rays.
As he watched, a spring mist crept across the fields, rolled over the walls of the graveyard and caressed the gravestones. A chill crawled down his spine. “I’ll make you something from the wood.” he said, clenching the pipe stem in his teeth. Ah cannae take and nae gie back, Ah debt can make the strongest crack, Ah swear tae ye by all that’s blest, I’ll gie ye back ma very best. Jock said the old rhyme in his head, knowing it would be heard.
He sighed and shook off the uneasy feeling as he watched the mist roll on, over the far wall, and disappear in the morning light. Jock loved his job, loved the peace and tranquillity, but sometimes, somethings gave him the creeps. He climbed into the digger and turned the key, starting the engine, which coughed into life. The exhaust spat out a customary dark puff of smoke that billowed into the air and joined the blue smoke from Jock’s pipe. He inched across the turf, pushing the remains of the tree out of the way. He checked his grid map of allocated plots in the still spacious grounds. Plot 242 had been purchased almost ten years ago and now, sadly, it was ready to receive its resident.
This land had been the resting place for the local families of Springnoll since the 15th century, when the village first established itself from a group of individual small holdings into a community. Despite nearly six hundred years of existence, it had not grown much. No new housing estates had sprung up as there was no influx of outsiders demanding social housing. The whole village was a bit of a heritage site, attracting tourists in the summer months eager to immerse themselves in a traditional Scottish experience.
The cottages were low set and thick walled, and some still burned peat for heating. They were laid out in neat rows on either side of the main road, which carried traffic through to the larger towns. Behind each house there still lay a traditional acre of land that many households continued to use to grow their own vegetables and raise chickens.
The owners of the cottages received grants and support to maintain their homes in the traditional way, in return they had to have an “open house” policy for tourists wanting to see inside the old buildings. Most cottages had an extension at the back, inaccessible to tourists, where all the luxuries of modern-day living kept the families warm and comfortable in the cold harsh winter months.
Taking his faithful turfing spade out of the cab of the mini-digger, he carefully and expertly removed the top layer of verdant grass, setting it to one side to be re-laid after the funeral. Satisfied that he had completed a neat job, he returned to the cab of his faithful old machine, which ticked over with a low, slow, growl.
Carefully, Jock directed the mechanical arm as it clanked its way across the now-exposed ground, driving its forked bucket into the black soil beneath. Jock was a master at his job. In one scrape he exposed an almost perfect sized hole and neatly deposited the spoil to one side, ready to be used as back fill. Another scrape pushed the depth another foot or so. It only needed to be six feet down on this new gravesite. Another couple of scrapes, and it would be ready for him to finish off the sides in preparation for the burial tomorrow. Three feet down and he swung the bucket over the growing spoil pile, but this time a ragged strip of canvas dangling from the blades startled Jock.
Stopping the machine, he climbed out and frowned, puzzled by the rotting canvas swinging in the light breeze. He couldn’t fathom what it was. To his knowledge, this ground had never been disturbed, so how had this been buried here? He looked again at the yew tree he had cut down; it was at least fifty years old and had been growing right on top of the plot.
A niggling feeling grew in his gut. Jock didn’t know why, but he was drawn to the edge of the grave and that niggle turned into a lurch. There, jutting from the ground, surrounded by the remains of more canvas, was the unmistakable bones of a human arm. “Shit” He rushed back to his cab to check once more the site plan. This was definitely the right plot; he hadn’t made a mistake; this ground was supposedly untouched. Jock picked up his mobile. This wasn’t right. Who was in 242?