Copyright © 2020 Tony Forder
The right of Tony Forder to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2020 by Spare Nib Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Also by Tony J Forder
The DI Bliss Series
Bad to the Bone
The Scent of Guilt
If Fear Wins
The Reach of Shadows
The Death of Justice
Endless Silent Scream
The Mike Lynch Series
Scream Blue Murder
Cold Winter Sun
Standalone
Degrees of Darkness
To all our key workers…
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Landmarks
Cover
One
It was impossible for him to decide which he feared most of all: enduring the constant pain gnawing its way through to the centre of his being, or the stomach-convulsing dread of how the man in the ragged mask would inflict it upon him next time.
For the most part, his current existence was intolerable – a raging miasma of terror and suffering no sentient being should ever have to withstand. Squirts of adrenaline coursing through his system no longer held any positive effect, his shredded nerve endings responding as if shards of glass raced through his bloodstream, nicking vital veins and arteries as they decimated him from the inside out. The agonising intensity of the pain wore away at him, physically and emotionally, worsening his decline and devouring what little reservoir of strength remained.
Arguably, the worst aspect of each passing intolerable minute was having no option but to tolerate it.
Merely thinking about the persistent discomfort somehow led to a resurgence of physical sensation, and though by no means as sharp or penetrating, the violent throbbing caused a variety of muscles to spasm. His jaw clenched and both rows of teeth clashed against each other, adding to his overall suffering. In these moments, his head flew back as far as it was able, the cords in his neck extended, eventually becoming so taut he imagined they were about to snap. The expectation of further misery tore gaping wounds inside his mind, as if burrowing into his brain in an effort to conceal itself from what lay ahead.
Contemplating the next dose of unrelenting torment and despair left him drooling and gibbering like an asylum patient after a round of electroconvulsive treatment.
It was not only the awful, gut-wrenching dread of the blade causing him to react this way, nor the horror associated with the attention his fresh wounds would receive immediately afterwards. For by now, even the subtlest whisper of dry leaves, a rustle of undergrowth, or the skittering of claws on hard-baked soil made him writhe and weep in fearful anticipation of the creatures whose thirst for blood and appetite for warm meat marked him down as easy prey.
He did not know for certain how long he had been naked and exposed to the elements, strung up between wooden posts driven deep into the earth, lengths of twine binding him by his neck, chest, waist, thighs, shins and ankles. The design of the structure to which he was bound left him angled forward, and he constantly felt as if he were on the point of tipping over onto his face. It left him in a permanent state of disequilibrium, which he had swiftly come to appreciate was the least of his concerns.
His bindings forced his naked body into a human X shape, the vulnerability of which became apparent to him early on. When rodents came calling, they did so via every soft, exposed route giving off heat, and the horrific nature of their initial penetrations had left him begging for swift release.
A number of days and nights had passed since he’d been strung up this way; were it not for the sultry weather, his exposure might already have cost him his life. Not a moment in recent memory had slipped by without him longing to welcome the cold embrace of death. During rare moments of lucidity, he assessed his deterioration, and believed himself to be clinging to life by the faintest of threads.
The tortuous existence he had experienced was enough to break him, psychologically and physically – but not spiritually. Quite the opposite, in fact. He was not a man of God, yet still he prayed for blissful release, the severing of that mortal strand currently preventing him from moving into the great unknown. How he had not succumbed to his multiple wounds was a mystery he had no inclination to solve; how he had withstood it mentally was incomprehensible to him.
Torture, he now knew with absolute certainty, broke the psyche along with the mind and body, overcoming the most basic human will to survive. Yet his was by no means the classic method of destroying a person’s resolve, because for many the end could be bought with a confession, with information. For him there was no price to pay, because so far none had been sought. For him the nightmare continued unabated, a ritual of punishment meting out unimaginable cruelty upon him.
His left eye hung heavy in its socket, compressed by the weight of the scab-encrusted lid. It oozed, stung like paper cuts, and itched so badly he wanted to scratch at it until it was as raw as the lid had been. The scratches and bite marks that had torn into the cornea now hampered his vision through the gelatinous leakage.
Only it still saw things.
Terrible things.
Things approaching noisily through the undergrowth in a swarm of matted hair and grim determination; grey and vague in shape, but seen for all that. When he snapped his eye shut, his mind continued to recreate the images for him, and the horror of imagination was almost always worse than the reality, resulting in him opening it back up again.
But what it saw terrified him.
Every. Single. Time.
So much so, it practically came as a relief when his tormentor happened to return before the hungry scavengers had scampered up his legs in search of any nourishment unleashed by the previous visit. The sound of an ap
proach lacking stealth in dense woodland caused the creatures to scatter in all directions, for which he was so thankful it forced a fresh welling of scalding hot tears to pulse from his eye. The bloody pulp of socket no longer encasing his right eye seemed to weep in sympathy, yet all it did was dribble pus onto his cheek.
It did not matter if pain was approaching in the form of a demented mind and a sharpened blade. Because at least this time he would not feel the warm breath of vermin – made fetid by the rotting particles of his own tissue caught between their teeth – upon his flesh. For the moment, the gnawing mouths and lapping tongues as rough as sandpaper would be denied.
He looked up as the man moved to stand before him. As usual he had a rucksack over one shoulder, inside which he carried fresh water and food. And, of course, a variety of tools and devices. Behind the terrifying figure, a sturdy thicket of trees coalesced into an amorphous blur; a solid and impenetrable wall barring his escape. A wall with skeletal limbs reaching out to either fend him off or wrap him up in their unforgiving embrace, prolonging his captivity either way.
‘Kill me,’ he pleaded for what must have been the dozenth time, his eye now focussed on the man whose most awful trait appeared to be his merciless patience.
As on every previous occasion, the man remained silent. His face unrecognisable behind a mask of thick material with holes allowing him to both see and speak if he chose, the figure regarded his captive without a flicker of sympathy or regret in those dull, emotionless eyes.
After allowing him to hungrily devour a tasteless turkey sandwich and gulp down half a bottle of tepid water, the man in the mask reached out to pinch the flesh of his shrinking stomach and raised a sharpened steel blade. His prey submitted this time with little more than a whimper. Today the surrounding woods would not echo with the sound of his cries for help or pleas for mercy. Today, they would reverberate to his agony and horror being given voice.
Two
The bistro offered stunning views overlooking Torquay Marina on the beautiful English Riviera. At a table for two out on the patio, Bliss leaned back in his chair, basking beneath glorious sunshine in eighty-degree heat. The polo shirt and light grey chinos he wore made him comfortable and relaxed. His eyes, however, were fixed in a tight squint, since he had chosen not to wear sunglasses. Every so often he took a sip of lager from his pint glass, reminding himself to eke it out as he had a long drive ahead of him later in the afternoon.
Boats bobbed gently on the water within the compound of the sea walls, tugging at their moorings; bowriders, motor yachts, sailing boats, and skiffs. Nothing as ramshackle as his cruiser back home in Peterborough, but still Bliss found pleasure in their rhythmic fall and rise. Beyond the curving grey wall of the marina, the sea out in the bay was calm, deep blue, glittering as if strewn with shards of broken mirror.
‘Hey, where’d you go to, Jimbo?’
His wandering gaze shifted across to the owner of the voice and fingers snapping him from his contemplation. ‘You remember what I once said I’d do to you if you called me Jimbo again?’ Bliss asked, smiling as he shook his head.
Her eyes sparkled. ‘You said you’d throw me off the roof. I wouldn’t mind, but I was already about to jump. You won’t be threatening me with that this time, I don’t suppose.’
‘Don’t tempt me.’
‘Aw, you’d never have done such a horrible thing to little old me. Spanked me, maybe. I can imagine you doing that.’
‘At the time, yeah, so could I.’
Molly laughed and clapped her hands together. ‘I was only a kid. Now I’m seventeen, so it’d be, like, assault or something.’
‘Rather than the child abuse it would’ve been.’
‘Yeah.’ She paused to take a hit of her lemonade. Belched out loud. Giggled as she used the back of her hand to wipe her lips. ‘We’ve come a long way since then.’ She sounded wistful.
‘You certainly have,’ Bliss said. The many years of abuse she had suffered seemed not to register any longer, and he was glad of it. ‘You’re looking great, Molly. You’ve put on a bit of weight – believe me, you needed to. But you also look toned, and your skin has a healthy glow to it.’
‘What are you doing checking out my skin, you perv?’
He groaned and rolled his eyes. ‘You’re relentless. Tell me again why I drove all the way down here to see you?’
‘Because you loooove me,’ she said in a sing-song voice, hugging herself as she twisted from side to side in her seat.
Her laughter was infectious; Bliss couldn’t be happier to hear it, despite bearing the brunt of her childishly humorous remarks. It was all a far cry from the first time he’d laid eyes on her one bitterly cold, wet December morning, a few minutes before he’d pulled her back from the edge of the roof she was about to jump from. Molly’s involvement as a county lines drugs courier had later led Bliss and his Major Crimes team to protect her from a pair of ruthless men – one a supplier, the other a dealer. Eventually, with his help and encouragement, she had been sent around the country to couples offering emergency foster care, until she wound up in Torquay with a family by the name of Berry, who had decided they wanted her to remain with them provided she was happy to stay.
By this stage, Molly had revealed her full name and family details to the authorities, having initially refused to do so. Following a thorough investigation, social services decided she should remain in their care until she turned sixteen, at which point she’d be able to choose to leave the system or continue to live with Adam and Fiona Berry and their own eight-year-old daughter. Molly opted to stay, and her documented pathway plan meant she could do so now until her eighteenth birthday, with the possibility of extending her care order until she reached twenty-one.
But Bliss had come bearing news he knew would change everything, and he was becoming increasingly concerned about how Molly would take it. The changes he saw in her were dramatic and positive, but no matter how deep a person buried fifteen years’ worth of memories, preventing them from ever resurfacing was an impossible task.
For security reasons, Bliss hadn’t been able to see Molly after she left his reach until a couple of months ago, by which time her transformation had astonished him. From her carefree attitude to the way she carried herself with a straight back and firm shoulders, he guessed her life was better now than she had ever dreamed was possible. Her taking up the option to remain with her foster parents until she turned eighteen reinforced his opinion. Curiously, she looked younger today than she had when he’d first encountered her. She had worn her situation like a second, thicker skin, impervious to the mistreatment she suffered at the hands of wicked men. Having successfully sloughed it off, a new and shiny version of Molly had emerged.
‘How are things at home?’ he asked.
‘Brilliant,’ she replied quickly, turning her head to face the sea beyond the marina walls. ‘Couldn’t be better.’
From her physical reaction and the way she answered him, Bliss knew the girl still feared having her happiness snatched away at any moment. Only, he knew something Molly did not; something Fiona Berry had asked him to share with the girl during his visit. The request had taken him by surprise, but it was Fiona who had reminded him how close he and Molly had become during the short time they were thrust together. Apparently, barely a day went by when she did not mention him, and the Berrys insisted he should be the one to tell her what they hoped would be welcome news.
Bliss drained his glass and cleared his throat before launching into his prepared speech. ‘Molly, how would you feel about being adopted by Adam and Fiona?’
The girl turned to face him, a puzzled frown creasing her forehead. ‘For real?’ she asked.
Bliss nodded. ‘It came up a while ago, and social services have since cleared the way with your biological mother. The men who were after you are no longer interested in either you or those taking care of you. With the shee
r volume of people willing to make statements against them, and prison sentences handed down to all the main players, you are well and truly off their radar. You’d be wise to steer clear of London and Peterborough for the time being, but otherwise you’re safe and not considered a threat to their organisations – which means your foster parents are also safe. With no possibility of you being ripped from their care and placed elsewhere, they broached the subject of adoption with social care. When they got the go-ahead, I was given the honour of discussing it with you first. Testing the water, if you like. So… what do you think?’
For a second or two, Molly failed to react. Bliss watched her process everything he’d told her. Her shoulder-length, dark brown hair flapped with abandon in the breeze that whipped in off the sea. With the added weight filling out hollows in her cheeks, she was a great-looking kid, who wore surprisingly little makeup. She blinked rapidly, and Bliss thought maybe the wind wasn’t the only thing bringing tears to her eyes. When she finally spoke, her features became a curious mask of both delight and bewilderment.
‘You mean they want me to carry on living with them? Even after they stop getting paid to keep me?’
Bliss shoved his glass to one side and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the beaten copper tabletop. ‘Molly, I’m saying they want to adopt you now. I’m telling you the money means nothing to them, but you do. Adam and Fiona don’t want to be your foster parents any longer. They want to be your parents. They want you to be their child.’
‘Seriously?’ The girl was incredulous. Bliss understood all she had endured at the hands of her mother, the only parent she had ever known. The thought of somebody else wanting her in their life was something she was having difficulty with.
‘Molly, it’s been almost twenty months since I found you on that rooftop, but things have changed for you so dramatically that it might as well be decades. You’ve been fortunate enough to find a couple who love you so much they want to give up fostering you and legally make you their own child. In turn, they have been fortunate enough to find a vulnerable girl who just needed somebody to care for her and make her realise she was no longer on her own. Now you have the opportunity to become the woman you were always destined to be.’
Slow Slicing (DI Bliss Book 7) Page 1