The Magdalene Stones Murders

  Second in the Whistlers Peak Series

  J.M. Simpson

  Also by J.M. Simpson, available on Amazon or direct.

  The Castleby Series

  Sea State

  Sea Change

  Sea Shaken

  Sea Haven

  Sea Rift

  Christmas in Castleby

  The Whistlers Peak Series

  The Ophelia Murders

  The Magdalene Stones Murders

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  Copyright ©J M Simpson 2026

  The right of J. M. Simpson to be identified as the Author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, into any retrieval system, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organisations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design copyright ©J M Simpson 2026

  ISBN: 9798242826717

  Independently published.

  For my twisty twirlies – Molly & Evie.

  My loves. My heart. My queens.

  Your hands will always be in mine, wherever you are.

  My heart will always carry yours.

  Forever heart-burstingly proud to be your mum.

  (Except when you take things and never put them back. Except then, because that’s really annoying…I mean, really bloody annoying.)

  Author’s Note

  Ballamore and Whistlers Peak are fictional places in Scotland. They are, however, a combination of a number of lovely places in the Scottish Highlands such as Ballater, Inverdruie, Aviemore, Balmoral, Braemar, Loch an Eilein, Rothiemurchus, Glenmore Forest Park, Loch Morlich Beach and, obviously, the gorgeous Cairngorms. In my mind, I have combined elements of these places into one community.

  I will forever be eternally grateful for the advice that mountain rescue in the Cairngorms provided me with, as well as the wonderful help and advice obtained from Scottish Fire & Rescue. For the purposes of this series, I have taken a degree of literary licence by embellishing various aspects and fictionalising others to get the story right. Any mischaracterisations are fictional, and any procedural errors are mine, and mine alone.

  “There is no saint without a past, no sinner without a future.”

  —St Augustine.

  PROLOGUE

  This is the most sacred of places. My hands shake, my breath feels choppy, my heart flutters because she might come.

  Will she come?

  For years I have worshipped her, longed with everything I have to see her. To be the one she chooses. I want to know her. The secrets she hides, the mysteries she holds, the stories she could tell. She has fascinated people for centuries, but still, she remains elusive.

  How I long to have known her. To see the things she saw; to hear what she knew. What they said about her was never true. It was all lies. She was a saint, not a sinner. She would tell me her secrets, if she only knew me.

  But now. In this place, this sacred place, this is my way of worshipping her. My offering. It’s perfect. The placement, the light. Oh, the light… If only I could capture this moment. If only I had the time to.

  My offering is beautiful and thoughtfully laid out over the rock. Iridescent in the moonlight. The moon’s rays hit white alabaster skin and the light casts a sepia tone over the scene. The beautiful rich hair flows gloriously over the form: thick and wavy and so bright. Almost perfect. Exactly as she was portrayed in perpetuity.

  My mind takes a picture as the night settles gently around us. The ground is cold and the thick frost sparkles in the moonlight. Snowflakes float gently in the air, as though dancing.

  This is my sublime sacrifice. She has to come to me now.

  Mary, I worship you with all I have. Come to me.

  Chapter 1

  Gina Murray’s feet crunched on the snow that had settled overnight, covering the ground with a thin veneer of winter. The temperature was freezing but fairly typical for the month. As she tramped through the woods, she watched her three Border collies play. This was her daily habit: an early morning walk to wear the boys out and plan that day’s work. Then when she got back, the dogs would doze and she would be productive in the workshop.

  She laughed as the collies chased the old football, ceremoniously placing it in her path so she could kick it for them. The older collie, Tucker, carried it around, while the others, Scout and Merlin, fielded it for him until she kicked it and the whole process was repeated.

  The woods were deserted as usual. Only occasionally at the weekend would she see someone, and more often than not, it was an idiot going too fast on a mountain bike around her beloved dogs.

  Her nostrils twitched with a sudden, unfamiliar scent that was completely foreign to this environment. What is that? Then it came to her. It was TCP. The scent was unmistakable. Strong. A nostalgic reminder of her childhood, like smelling VICKS VapoRub again. She looked around, aware the smell had to come from somewhere, come from someone.

  The younger of the three collies sensed her unease and was by her side and barking loudly just as a tall man, with cropped grey hair and wearing dark clothes and heavy boots, stepped out from behind a tree.

  ‘Scout,’ she said quietly, holding out a hand to calm him as he growled. Tucker and Merlin formed a barrier between the man and her.

  ‘Hello,’ he said pleasantly, holding a hand out to the dogs, which they ignored.

  ‘Morning,’ she said dismissively, stepping sideways on the path to walk around him. Her heart thumped when he didn’t move. He held an arm out to stop her progress and she felt a rush of fear.

  ‘Gina,’ he murmured. ‘Gina, Gina, Gina. We’re getting tired of asking. What’s it going to take to get you to leave that house of yours?’

  Gina’s dream was troubled, but she was dragged out of a deep sleep by the sound of dogs barking and a high-pitched whirring noise she couldn’t place. It sounded like a drill. She fought to comprehend what she was hearing.

  And what is that smell? She struggled out of bed and wrenched open the bedroom door. Thick, acrid smoke poured in, surrounding her. She panicked over the dogs as she couldn’t place where their barking was coming from. Then, with relief, she realised they were outside. But how did they get out there? She walked over to the window, pushed aside the blind and saw the taillights of a vehicle disappearing down the long drive. The white tips of the collies’ tails bobbed and swayed as they gave chase.

  Choking and coughing, Gina struggled into her dressing gown. Her eyes streamed. After wrapping a scarf around her nose and mouth, she managed to get down the stairs, but the heat from the fire forced her sideways and into the kitchen. She ran to the back door, panicking because she wasn’t with her dogs. She tried the door. It was locked. She turned the key backwards and forwards and wrenched at the door again, coughing and struggling for air as the smoke filtered through the thin scarf.

  She yanked at the door for a third time, not understanding why it wouldn’t open, and then realised there was something stopping it. With rising alarm, she ran to the window. Planks had been screwed across it, preventing her from escaping. She screamed. The flames from the fire had reached the kitchen doorway and she could hardly see through the smoke. She staggered backwards, catching herself against the cooker that was jutting out at an unusual angle. It had been moved and the main hose had been sliced. Helpless tears poured down her face.

  There was no way out.

  She screamed again and heard her beloved dogs launching themselves at the back door to try to get to her.

  As the flames crept closer, she heard a whoosh and then nothing else.

  * * *

  In the dim morning light, Fire Chief Joe Ripley looked at the charred and smoking remains of the house before him. Joe was forty-two, just under six foot, well built with broad, strong shoulders, and had dark hair with the beginnings of a salt-and-pepper tinge at his temples. He had large, deep brown eyes and a disarming smile, complete with dimples. Locally, he was liked and respected, and for many women he was considered quite the heart-throb. But disappointingly for them, he wasn’t particularly sociable. He loved his job and had no desire to do anything else with his life, career-wise.

  His team moved around him, clearing space for the fire hose to run unencumbered. He walked around to the rear of the house and reviewed the thing that had bothered him so deeply on first arrival at the call. Shaking his head and muttering, he made his way over to the three Border collies who were curled up together. All three dogs were sooty, which told Joe they had been nearby for the duration of the fire. He crouched down next to them.

  ‘Hey, fellas,’ he said, stroking each one in turn. He examined their faces
. If tears could be rolling down their doggy cheeks, they would be. There was a body in the house by the kitchen door. He knew it was his friend Gina.

  There were deep grooves in the back door where the dogs had been trying to get to their owner. He noticed a couple of bloody paws where their nails had been ripped out in their desperation to get through the wood.

  What bothered Joe deeply were the planks fastened across the doors and windows that would have made the house impossible to escape from, as well as the evidence of an accelerant. He had been doing this long enough to recognise the signs of arson, and as far as he was concerned, this was murder.

  As he sat with the dogs, he spotted random bright screws lying around, suggesting the planks had been screwed on in haste. He left the collies and frowned as he looked around the property again. Why were the dogs outside? Someone must have lured them out but why had they done that? Why not leave them in the house with Gina? There was raw meat on the floor. Had they tried to poison the dogs or just sedate them? The dogs never ate anything left on the floor because Gina had taught them not to after a spate of vindictive dog killings about a year ago, when someone was baiting raw meat with rat poison. Joe recalled Gina’s fury and the time she spent training the ‘scavenger’ out of the collies.

  He strode over to the fire engine and reached in for a handful of disposable gloves. He carefully laid them next to the meat for the police SOCO team to look at. Joe then produced his phone and took as many photos as he could of the outside of the property to assist with the inevitable investigation. He carefully took pictures of anything of relevance, including the tyre tracks that zigzagged in the crisp snow. He dug out a five-pound note and laid it next to the tracks to give an indication of the size and scale, then carried on photographing his way around the building. He’d made the necessary calls and the police were on their way. The fire investigation team typically came in the day after the police and SOCO had worked the scene.

  Joe moved to the front of the property and ducked inside. The front porch and lounge had the telltale patterns of an accelerant catching fire and he made a note of the places where it had been used. It had most likely been tipped through the letter box. He watched the team dampen down what they could.

  ‘Boss, this was deliberate, wasn’t it?’ a trainee asked him.

  ‘Aye. I’d lay money on it,’ he replied.

  One of his crew commanders walked in from the kitchen. ‘Jesus, gaffer,’ he said, shaking his head as he approached Joe. ‘I reckon they cut the gas line to the cooker and she was trapped in the kitchen by the looks of it.’ He took off a glove and rubbed his face with his hand. ‘It would have been fairly instant though, if that’s a comfort. I know you knew her.’

  Joe eyed him. ‘Christ, it doesn’t get clearer cut, does it? Petrol through the front door, cutting off the escape. Barricading her in with planks of wood and cutting the gas line?’

  ‘She have a beef with anyone? Someone clearly wanted her dead,’ his crew commander mused as they walked through the house and out of the front door.

  ‘Don’t know. She didn’t really talk about things like that to me,’ Joe said.

  ‘Boss,’ one of the crew shouted over. ‘Can we move these dogs out of the way or get them picked up?’

  Joe nodded and walked over to the three collies who were still huddled together. He bent down to stroke them and they licked his hand. He felt instinctively that they knew their beloved owner had died.

  Joe had spent a lot of time with Tucker, Scout and Merlin. He’d been close enough to Gina to believe she would ask him to have them if she wasn’t able to. He’d looked after them a couple of times when she’d been away for a night or a long day, so they knew his place well.

  Three years previously, Joe had sold his small house in town and bought a property on the edge of Ballamore. It was a three-bedroom cottage with an acre of land and a number of outbuildings. It was a refurbishment project and amidst the mess and demolition work, he had discovered a love of working with wood. This was how he met Gina, who lived on the next smallholding over from him.

  Gina made beautiful wooden furniture that was McIntosh in its style, but with a contemporary twist. Joe had bought a table and chairs from her and fallen in love with her workshop, which was packed full of fascinating bits of kit, and he always felt like a kid in a sweetshop when he was there. He was completely drawn to it: the smells, the feel of the wood, and the way in which you could work it. Gina had patiently answered his questions and indulged him as best she could.

  During the renovations of his cottage, he had uncovered a very unique bannister but it was too riddled with woodworm to use, so he went to Gina with his plan to try and recreate it himself. Gina had agreed to let him use her lathe and had indulged him, teaching him how to use some of the machinery. Usually, whenever Joe was in the workshop using her tools, she would work quietly next to him, keeping a subtle eye on what he was doing. Occasionally, she would invite him to share an evening meal, and they would chat comfortably as they ate. Nearly twenty years Joe’s senior, she had a way of looking at the world that Joe really liked.

  They had become friends. Joe liked her for her straight-talking approach to life and her desire to be on her own. She wasn’t lonely. She liked to be alone. She maintained there was a difference. And she had Tucker, Scout and Merlin. In her view, they were her family, and they went almost everywhere with her.

  As he stood gazing at the house, he felt a presence beside him: the collies were sitting next to him. All three looked up at him and his heart melted. He couldn’t let them go as they’d probably be separated. They’d pine for each other. So, he’d take them. He had a big deer-fenced area, which meant nothing could get in or out. He had planned to get a load of chickens that he’d allow to run free, but decided this was probably the best option for the dogs instead. He also had a small barn they could shelter in when he was on shift. The arrangement had suited them perfectly when he’d had them before. Making the decision, he walked over to Gina’s truck, knowing the keys would still be in the ignition, and opened the back, whistling for the dogs. All three trotted over and jumped in.

  ‘Settle down, I’ll be back in a moment,’ he said, stroking each silky head in turn.

  Joe waited at Gina’s house for the police and SOCO, who he walked through the site and discussed his initial thoughts with. The team accepted his insights and got on with their analysis and collection of evidence. The fire investigation team were due in the next day.

  A Jeep came up the drive. It stopped a few feet short of him and a man of similar height to Joe emerged, bundled in a thick coat. He had unusually blue eyes and high cheekbones, all paired with a warm skin tone and dark hair that flopped over his forehead. He smiled, showing pointed incisors, and extended his hand to Joe.

  ‘Hi. Sorry I’m late. Bloody roadworks get me every time. Detective Scott Hansen.’

  Joe shook his hand. ‘Joe Ripley. Fire chief. Did the other detective leave?’

  Scott gave a half smile. ‘Who knows?’ he said ruefully. ‘Did he go or was he pushed? I’m here for the foreseeable though.’ He gestured towards the house. ‘Wanna tell me what we have here?’

  ‘Murder,’ Joe said shortly.

  Scott studied Joe as if he was making his initial assessment. ‘Did you know the victim?’ he asked quietly.

  Joe nodded. ‘We were friends.’

  Scott pulled his notebook out of his pocket. ‘Okay to walk me through the scene and your thoughts?’

  ‘We’ll start with the outside.’

  Joe left Scott and the team, and used Gina’s car to drop the dogs off at his place. He had found a sack of their food in Gina’s outbuilding and had taken it. At his house, he made sure they had water then headed back to work in her car. He figured he’d sort out the vehicle situation as soon as he was off shift. He had another six hours left so he needed to get back to the station as soon as he could.

  Chapter 2

  Forty-year-old Jack Mackay, leader of the local mountain rescue, tramped up the steep hillside that eventually led to Whistlers Peak – the tallest mountain locally – and cast a look to either side of him to check on the rest of his team. He squinted through the darkness, seeing head torches bobbing about. Conditions on the mountain were worsening, the incline was getting steeper, and the wind was picking up. He knew from the smell of the air that more snow was on the way.