Syn (The Merseyside Crime Series Book 2)

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  Syn

  Malcolm Hollingdrake

  This edition produced in Great Britain in 2021

  by Hobeck Books Limited, Unit 14, Sugnall Business Centre, Sugnall, Stafford, Staffordshire, ST21 6NF

  www.hobeck.net

  Copyright © Malcolm Hollingdrake 2021

  This book is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in this novel are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Malcolm Hollingdrake has asserted his right under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the copyright holder.

  A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-913-793-29-6 (pbk)

  ISBN 978-1-913-793-28-9 (ebook)

  Cover design by Jem Butcher

  www.jembutcherdesign.co.uk

  Printed and bound in Great Britain

  Created with Vellum

  Are you a thriller seeker?

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  Dedicated to

  Barbara and Don Hackworth and family

  Remember you chose to seek out a different place.

  The Wizard of Oz

  Prologue

  Yet again sleep is a ghost as the thoughts of a previous late evening refuse to leave my mind; they replayed like a short horror film and I felt the same flutter of fear at each rerun. The memories tumble like angry surf on a shingle shore, disturbing any chance of relaxation or sleep. It was as if all else had rolled away, like those moving pebbles that seemed to create a cacophony.

  The more these thoughts prevail, the more the anger and a deep, deep, resentment are stirred. There had been no need for the rudeness and certainly not the aggression. I had not been eager to get into the bar, nor was I aware of the people to my right who had congregated to the far side of the pavement. The group was loud but the noise seemed to demonstrate their seemingly drunken good spirits. An obvious joke was followed by immediate and intense laughter. One particular female’s laugh broke above the rest, high-pitched and scream-like. As she stepped backwards, she collided before finally stepping on my foot. I can still feel the pain the sharp heel inflicted. When I looked at my shoe there seemed to be no obvious harm done, apart from the deep scuff on the brogue’s leather. The accidental contact brought an instant turn of her head and her laughter quelled immediately, her hand moving to her mouth in surprise and apology.

  ‘Sorry,’ she giggled before stepping and swaying drunkenly back towards the group. A helping hand reached out drawing her within the fold.

  I remember her words perfectly. In the next frame of the memory things seemed to slow down, like the images in an old stuttering movie. Each face became crystal clear, each word carved into stone, accompanied by the sound of a fairground organ. Its haunting tones had been barely audible. Then I had felt the firm hand against my shoulder and the strength of the grip that seemed to pull me off balance.

  ‘Fucking hell. Watch where you’re bloody going, you clumsy sod! Are you all right love?’

  The large, intimidating young man glared at me as he collected the woman and pulled her to one side. His words slurred, and were filled with aggression. Flecks of saliva raced from his lips with every expletive.

  She spoke immediately, a referee of sorts. ‘It was my fault, Bill. Leave it.’ Her voice was commanding, sharp and direct.

  The group had gone quiet and the atmosphere became immediately charged by the man’s vicious actions and tone. It was as if it were a signal to draw all of the group’s attention onto the one man, the stranger, the new victim – me. I know my face showed my anxiety, fear and confusion. But what was on my face was the tip of the anguish that went much deeper within me. My situation was suddenly exacerbated as I saw elbows nudge others. Those within the group seemed to know the script by heart, knew just what was coming next, as if it had happened before, and frequently. Each was preparing for the coming storm.

  ‘Oh fuck! Here we go again. Hold tight!’ someone chuckled before giving the man called Bill more room.

  Bill pushed forward towards me but the woman’s hand moved equally as quickly. ‘Leave it! It was my fault and you lot, keep it shut!’

  In this dream I am now hovering and looking down on the same scene. I remember clearly that at this point a sudden fear flushed through my stomach, bilious and muscle-numbing bringing a burning, tingling sensation to my neck. I am not a fighting man and at that key moment the woman turned and smiled at me. Her expression was not the sarcastic, demeaning grin of the other woman in the group who raised her little finger and waggled it tauntingly. There was concern and kindness within that smile; a tenderness and an apology.

  ‘Sorry. Please go. He’ll not touch you.’

  She moved her body between us, forcing away his arm and the threatening link that bound us. I remember the sudden silence that hung like a foul stench, and then out of the blue someone repeated the joke’s punchline that had started the altercation. Laughter broke out again immediately ridding the atmosphere of tension and anger as if he had come full circle. The woman, one hand on Bill’s chest, laughed but not with the same intensity as before. She swiftly raised herself on tiptoe and pushed her face into his before planting a kiss on his lips. It was as if she were sucking the anger from his extended chest and his posture and bravado were immediately deflated. I remember the laughter increasing, and all eyes suddenly moved away. I was no longer the centre of their unwanted attention. The memory went back to real time along with the decreasing nervousness within my stomach as the music faded to a whisper and then was gone. Yet the dream continued. I knew it by heart. Just a different location.

  Inside the bar it was busy but I remember finding the only quiet corner. I took my drink and sat. My nerves were still unsettled.

  I had never been one for confrontation. I could never fight, never wanted to, never saw the point. I would flee rather than fight. I had always been like that – cowardly, some might say.

  I can remember the cold bitter taste of my beer, which was not one of my favourites. The noise around me was a cocktail of music and human conversation which grew more inaudible as I sat with my own thoughts for company.

  I remember throughout my school life I would seek out the meek and the quiet, often finding friendship more acceptable with the girls than the boys within the classes. The move from primary to secondary school, I recall, had been particularly traumatic. It had brought with it sleep deprivation and severe anxiety. The stories I had heard seemed so real. ‘Initiation’ was a word I was unfamiliar with one day, but it filled my imagination the next and tormented me throughout the summer holidays before secondary school began. ‘They’ will put your head down a used toilet before flushing it, I was told. ‘They’ will get you in a quiet corner, remove your trousers and paint your dick green before putting your clothes in another area of the school.

  Who were these people? Who were those known as ‘They’, the aggressors, the faceles
s and yet soon to be the familiar. After all, they would be dressed the same as me: same trousers, same blazer, same tie – just bigger, stronger and more cruel. I had heard that it was nothing to do with who you were but purely because you were new. It was nothing personal and when it happened the crowd yelled, ‘Just do it, go on, do it!’ It was not a judgement, purely a rite of passage.

  That summer the words, ‘nothing personal’, were written large on a piece of red card and added to my bedroom wall beneath my poster of Jean-Claude Van Damme. As I stared into the eyes of the man in the poster, I was determined to fight back. If they were to hurt me, then I would hurt them. If they embarrassed me, I would do the same to them. I, however, would do it in a more subtle way, using not brawn but brains. I recalled the exact moment when I realised that I knew I would always be intimidated and frightened by such people. It was also the time I vowed I would chase them down, flush them out from whichever class, group or gang to which they belonged. Being different, I was aware that I would always be the mouse to their cat but I would, in time, also be the phoenix and rise up for revenge. The mouse would turn and it would roar … quietly! When I sought revenge, I would add the name to the wall and follow it with a tick.

  On that night, in the pub a female’s laughter had broken my reminiscing. It was familiar. I looked across the bar, my face flushed and my heart rate increased as the group I had encountered outside moved en masse towards the bar. Lifting my mobile phone from the table I set it on video before lowering my face. A few moments, that is all I would need until all of the faces were captured.

  The images in my mind began to fade before turning to black. The whole memory went back to the start only to begin again. I awoke with a start. Sweat bathed my body. The light of the early morning barely penetrated the blinds and I knew for certain that sleep would now be impossible. Climbing out of bed I went to the kitchen. I needed tea.

  Contents

  Are you a thriller seeker?

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  The Golden Gallopers

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  Hobeck Books – the home of great stories

  Chapter 1

  The high-pitched wail seemed almost smothered, trapped like her arms as the noise grew in volume and intensity. In that moment she had lost all sense of time and place. It was real and confusing and she continued to struggle before realising the truth.

  In all humans, the critical moments between sleep and consciousness vary, those precious seconds affect us each in different ways as a dream or nightmare is interrupted by the screaming alarm. Skeeter was no different. Often, these moments are a juxtaposition of dark and light, catalepsy, and a sudden, physical movement of extending an arm from under cover to grope, locate and kill the intrusive noise. That very moment when fingers search and the offending article is found, questions are asked, nay demanded … Why now? Why me?

  It was at this precise moment that Skeeter Warlock brought memory and experience into focus to overcome the serious desire to close her eyes, if only for another second. She knew the end result of that. It was sheer willpower that forced her to drag her reluctant frame from the warm sanctuary of her bed.

  She believed that five in the morning in May had some benefits. It was light at least, and there was only a slight chill in the air. Possibly a light frost would coat grassy areas in hidden hollows, but in general, the hour was acceptable. However, the warmth of, and the inviting smell from the bedsheets, that recent nest of security, still seemed the better option.

  Shift your body, Wicca, you lazy arsed good-for-nothing, and get into your running gear … now! The instruction, inaudible to the real world, was as clear as the alarm call that had shocked her into consciousness but a few moments before. She was ready to accept the start of her day.

  It had been said by many that she was a bit of a machine when it came to the art of physical exercise. Her body was fine toned, sinewy like a bowstring pulled taut. There was no fat on her, only muscle. Her movements exhibited a general aura of health, as seen in her face and eyes. The fact they were so visibly different distracted the onlooker from staring for too long. One was almost black, the other was the most vivid of blue, like that of a robin’s egg. This made for a disconcerting contrast.

  To place a finger on her wrist and read her resting heart rate would verify the fact that here was a woman in peak physical condition. She strapped on the heart monitor just below her sports bra and checked it against her watch. Moving to the kitchen, she drank a small amount of water. She knew the route she would take. They were planned by the days of the week. The diary chart showed her run the previous Tuesday, along with the weather and her time. There was often an expletive-filled note at the end of every entry: Bugger the wind! Poxy rain!

  Running down Bank Brow was particularly slow as her cold muscles made a brief but angry protest. Once into her stride and on the level, she began to find her pace.

  The western sky was still deep navy, smudging and blending invisibly with the horizon, beyond his ability to comprehend it as a visual reference. The sky, to the east, by contrast, high above the flat, sandy sea grass broke into ultramarine and orange; the occasional cut, sliced blood red. The breeze was a whisper. Mist hung in the dip to the side of the road, a grey, cottony veil stretching towards Southport’s Pier in one direction and the man-made mounds in the other. The vapour seemed languorous and settled, wanting to remain and defend those artificial barricades. That would be false hope. The advent of the sun would bring warmth, to rip and slough the grey mist’s skin from hollows, cracks and crevices. Only night’s calling card of heavy dew on a salt-laden land would be left. This daily act of natural destruction – nature’s creative hand – would go largely unnoticed.

  The sea at Southport was some distance from the coastal road, leaving acres of flat, grey-green sand patched with a camouflage of coastal flora and fauna. It was a bird watcher’s paradise and for the next hour it was Trevor’s – alone and unseen.

  Unzipping the box, Trevor removed the drone, unfolded the legs methodically as he always did before checking each rotor was free. There were eight blades in all, two to each leg. To him, it always looked like a crouching dog. After slotting in the battery, he pressed the button on the belly of the craft – once, twice before the five LED lights flashed in turn. The machine twitched, energised and resurrected. The control pad was connected to a small iPad and with the starting of the app, it synchronised the two. This part of the process he liked. It was clean and ordered. There was no rushing or fuss. It was clinical and effortless; in some ways professional.

  At this stage, the drone was learning where it was on the earth, calibrating its compass and preparing for flight. When it was ready it would announce the fact to Trevor that ‘the home point had been updated’ clearly and precisely. The drone was now ready. Checking a full 360 degrees he ensured the area was safe to fly and that he was alone amidst a huge expanse of flat nothingness. He was ready for the drone to take to the air for the first time that morning. As it lifted, the whine of the rotors chopped the co
ol air, the new noise flushing a flock of gulls from an area closer to the distant water, to take flight as if in competition.

  The small white box printed with a coronet sat on the table, the lid open revealing the contents. The blades, individually wrapped in transparent bags, held a dull sheen but an extremely sharp edge. I carefully brought one out and held it up to catch the light, the curved edge facing uppermost. Sliding it from the packet I inserted the blade into the craft knife handle. I held the old car mat and lowered the blade to meet the edge. One slow pull down saw the carpet begin to separate. I sliced each tough strand, the warp and the weft surrendering to my touch, separating in one clean, slicing motion. The carpet fell in two pieces to the floor and I quickly changed the blade.

  I had stuck the large watermelon onto the section of broom handle which I then trapped in the vice. It looked like a head on a pole – I had given it eyes, ears and a mouth using black felt pen. Holding the new blade inches away from the right ear, I plunged it in as deep as possible before dragging it forward, slicing a clean gash in the fruit’s flesh. Juice dribbled from the cut. In the satisfaction of the moment, I lowered my head and ran my tongue along the oozing gash.