Isolation

by Jay Nadal

  Isolation

  A DI Scott Baker Novel

  Jay Nadal

  Published by Jay Nadal @ 282publishing.com

  Copyright @ Jay Nadal 2018

  All rights reserved.

  Jay Nadal has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction, names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Foreword

  Isolation

  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

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Also by

  You Saw Too Much

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Subscribe

  Stay in Touch

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Foreword

  Hi there, it’s Jay Nadal here. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to share my writing with you. My books are set in the coastal resort of Brighton on the south coast. For the Brightonians amongst you, you’ll recognise many familiar locations in my scenes.

  Brighton offers such a vivid and diverse landscape that it makes it a pleasure to incorporate lots of well-known settings that bring my writing alive.

  Isolation

  1

  He rubbed his eyes and stared at the luminous dials on his retro Lorus watch, a cheap and tacky thing he’d picked up a few weeks ago. This was his fourth watch in as many months. Forever breaking them, he and watches never seemed to stay coupled for long. He arched his back, desperate to relieve the burning hotspot of tension that sat deep in his shoulders.

  The long shadows of the evening had dissolved into the gathering darkness of night. The air cooled outside as winter knocked impatiently keen to spread its chill on those long, dark nights.

  With children safely tucked in and parents dozing in front of the TV, darkness brought the primal nature to the fore, a heady trance for a man like him.

  Outside the night-time belonged to the owls, foxes and other nocturnal creatures, but that same ebony cloak brought him alive. He moved in the shadows. He observed pried through the back windows of the houses he passed, families oblivious of the voyeur that lurked in the darkness.

  As he moved from one garden to another, he watched their every move with a perverse curiosity. Their every interaction and muted conversations, played out in front of him like a live soap drama. The kids played, as they raced from room to room. The amorous couple, tearing off their clothes and fucking against the kitchen units in a moment of carnal passion. And old Ronnie who religiously made a cuppa at seven-thirty p.m. every night before settling down to listen to the 15 Minute Drama show on Radio 4.

  He’d stood behind the bathroom door of the en-suite for several hours, waiting. He liked to plan everything with the finest detail since preparation was key. He’d studied their movements and habits for weeks now. She was too predictable. She’d return home at the same time five days a week, kicking off her heels inside the door, and flicking through the post that had been pushed behind the door. Her final act involved the clanging of a bunch of keys being tossed across the hallway table.

  Smiling to himself, he had eyed the keys as he’d peered through the letter box on a previous visit. She’d made it too easy.

  The husband’s arrival was less certain. He often returned at all hours, sometimes stopping in the pub for a few pints with one of the many associates he worked with, or following up leads.

  Extending his arms above his head, he stretched again. His mind played back his plans on a repeated loop. Each crystal-clear detail, each step executed with complete efficiency. A reassuring warmth spread across him as he heard the front door open. He could map her movements down to the last minute. Bag dropped to the floor, shoes kicked off and letters picked up in the first minute. Another two minutes spent flicking through the post. One minute as the keys are tossed on the hallway table. Then she climbs the stairs whispering to herself, thinking she’s all alone. “I need a pee. I need a pee.”

  For some reason, she always preferred to use the family bathroom, choosing to use the en-suite during the night when she woke between two p.m. and four p.m. for another pee.

  Her husband sauntered in about an hour later.

  It’s the earliest he’s been home this week.

  He stood in the shadows of the en-suite, sniffing her dressing gown that hung on the back of the door. Her familiar smell tinged with the fragrance of the body spray she applied, clinging deep to the fibres.

  The couple ate a cheap microwave meal, the familiar ping of the timer audible from downstairs. Not long after, the woman made her way upstairs where a long soak in the shower and her latest fiction paperback awaited her. Flicking on the light, she stepped into the en-suite and headed towards the shower cubicle. She would always let it run for a few minutes whilst she undressed.

  Reaching out, she froze as a hand reached out and pulled her back by her shoulder. Startled she spun on her heels expecting to see her husband. Her jaw dropped in horror as her breath caught in her throat. Desperate to scream, her voice remained trapped. With eyes fixed wide in terror, she glared at the shiny steel blade that hovered inches in front of her eyes.

  A pair of penetrating dark eyes peered back at her through the slits in the balaclava mask.

  2

  Sleep had eluded Scott through most of the night, a pattern that played out every few weeks. He found it easy to get to sleep most nights but when he didn’t manage his racing thoughts, he felt anxious, edgy and unsettled. The last few cases had taken up a significant amount of time and energy, leaving him drained.

  His break away with Cara felt like nothing more than a distant memory as the clock ticked down towards the end of the year. The warm autumn nights had been replaced by chilly evenings since the change in wind direction whipped in cold blasts off the sea.

  His breath left vapour trails as he ran along the seafront. Cold licked at his face, creeping under his clothes and spreading across his skin lik
e the icy tide that lapped the beach to his right. With purple lips tinged blue and chattering teeth, he picked up the pace. At four a.m. stillness wrapped around him, interrupted by the odd car that meandered past. The sheets of icy cold air battered his face. Even through narrowed eyes, teardrops squeezed from their edges, forcing Scott to clear them away with the back of his hand.

  He’d much rather be curled up under a warm duvet with Cara than pounding the streets at this ungodly hour. Despite his hardest efforts, he’d only grabbed a few hours of broken shut-eye. Having accepted that he would not get any more sleep, Scott had crept out of the bedroom, and tiptoed downstairs. One minute he was pouring himself a glass of Glenfiddich, thinking that it might help him to sleep. The next, toying with the idea of making coffee, but he knew that another caffeine hit would only worsen his insomnia.

  Frustrated and bored, he’d sat in front of the TV and channel-hopped, only finding late-night news bulletins, and crummy bingo shows. An old black-and-white movie did little to help. Realising that his attempts at returning to sleep were nothing more than a fruitless exercise, he decided to start his day early.

  Stopping at the Palace Pier, he gulped large lungfuls of air. His lungs stiffened as the icy air shocked his body. His mind felt clear, even if his body protested. He jumped up and down on the spot, landing on the balls of his feet, as he flapped his arms around his chest to keep warm. Trails of vapour escaped from his mouth, like the haze from a steam train. He would not let the lack of sleep spoil his day. Feeling energised, he turned and began his return run home. With luck, he’d be home in time to wake Cara up and drag her into the shower with him. He smiled as he sprinted back.

  With his erratic hours, he was often alone in his office. An endless stream of emails, internal memos and reports overwhelmed him with paperwork. He used the time to catch up with his team’s case files. A sucker for detail, he pored over every update in every file, adding his comments, and suggestions for how to progress each case. Not that he didn’t trust his officers, but a fresh pair of eyes could often see things that his officers may have overlooked.

  If he was honest, he spent more time reviewing every case file than many other detective inspectors. He did this for one reason only: the buck stopped with him. If another crime occurred, or a victim came to harm because of an oversight by his officers, then he would never forgive himself.

  He was just about to move on to the next case file when Detective Superintendent Meadows burst through his door causing Scott to jump. “Jesus, Sir, you nearly gave me a heart attack.” With his heart thumping his chest, Scott dropped back in his chair to compose himself.

  “You’re in early, Scott? But I’m glad you are,” he barked at the top of his voice, as he grabbed a chair and deposited himself in it in one move.

  Meadows rarely displayed such exuberance, which puzzled Scott.

  “Sir?”

  “Something has come up, that you need to look into straight away.”

  “I was just about to review a case file that Mike’s been having some difficulty with. It’s the robbery that occurred on the Upper Promenade, Kings Road, Brighton, opposite the Metropole Hotel. We’ve got new information on the suspects who attacked the male. We now believe that three people are suspected of carrying out the robbery.”

  “That’s the one where the poor sod sustained significant head and facial injuries?”

  “Yes, Sir. And his mobile phone, and some cash stolen.”

  “Well, you must park that one for the moment,” Meadows continued as he handed Scott the crime report.

  “Samuel Ashman. He’s a crime journalist, and former criminal lawyer.”

  Scott read the incident report as he listened to Meadows. He knew of the man but had never met him in person. From what he knew, Ashman was a hotshot criminal lawyer in a former life who returned to journalism later in his career. He moved to the south coast for what he described as “a quieter life” away from the organised crime gangs, and the numerous threats on his life that he had received during his career.

  “His wife has been found dead in suspicious circumstances, and I need you to get down there straight away. Uniform are on the scene awaiting your arrival. Look at these…”

  With all officers equipped with body cams as standard, officers could view a crime scene before arriving. He glanced through the photos.

  “That’s Janet Ashman, his wife, strapped to a chair in their living room.”

  Scott paused as he looked at the lifeless figure of Janet Ashman, head bowed, arms secured behind her, ankles tightly strapped to the front chair legs, and a large dark pooling of blood beneath the chair.

  “It’s not a pretty scene. She was tortured. She took a beating around her face, and her abdomen was cut which resulted in her bleeding out.”

  “Slow and painful then?”

  Meadows nodded as Scott paused on the final still print.

  “What’s that?” Scott asked, his eyes taking in every grim detail.

  “You mean that empty chair facing the victim? The killer forced Samuel Ashman to sit and watch whilst he brutally mutilated his wife.”

  3

  Onlookers peered from windows, some brave enough to hover in their front gardens speculating with neighbours over small garden walls, a mixture of curiosity and concern etched on their faces. The heavy police presence spawned a melee of confusion and commotion on this quiet residential street in Hove. Officers turned cars around as they maintained a cordon to accommodate several police vehicles, two white scientific services vans and a mortuary van.

  Scott eased his car through the mass of vehicles and stepped out. The cool air of the morning rattled through his suit jacket as he signed in with the scene guard.

  Abby weaved in and out of the officers milling around the property. Steam rose and swirled in the air from the hot drink she carried in her insulated holder. She yawned hard as she scrunched up her eyes and pulled her shoulders back. A plume of warm air crept from her open mouth. “Why the fuck do we always get called out when we’re so comfortable and warm in bed?” she protested, shoving her drink in Scott’s direction in order to sign in.

  “Maybe it’s because criminals know we love our jobs so much that we think sleep is for wimps.”

  Being jolted awake by an unwelcome call from the station sergeant had left her pissed off and tired. Abby had neither the energy nor the alertness to say anything as she followed Scott to the property, where they kitted up in white paper suits, latex gloves and blue shoe covers.

  Two SOCOs continued their analysis of the scene, collecting as much forensic evidence as possible. With the crime scene being contained to one room, the initial forensic investigation began there, but would spread out to the whole property. They searched for anything like hair, blood, clothing fibres and footprints that could be linked with the killer.

  Abby and Scott watched from the doorway as the SOCOs swept in arcs around the body before focusing solely on it. Flashlights lit up the room as they photographed and documented the corpse.

  Matt Allen, the crime scene manager, watched on as his officers picked away the bindings that held Janet immobile. He nodded at Scott’s presence before joining him in the doorway.

  “Bit of a messy one, mate,” Matt offered.

  “Are there any that aren’t?”

  Matt shrugged, before returning to his spot overseeing his team.

  Scott scanned the room. From his vantage point, his eyes kept getting drawn to the two chairs sat opposite each other. The positioning of them felt staged, deliberate, suggesting that a degree of planning had gone in to this attack.

  Ashman had been taken to hospital with minor facial injuries and shock. In the recording of the 999 call, Ashman’s voice sounded devoid of all emotion. No crying, no panic, or hysterics, no highs and lows in his voice. It was monotone, empty and lifeless. It was as if he was reporting on some random news where he knew nothing of the victim, or the circumstances. People handled tragic events like these in differe
nt ways. Scott put it down to shock in Ashman’s case.

  Janet Ashman’s body sat slumped in a chair that appeared to match the remaining four chairs tucked in around the dining table. Splatters of blood peppered the top half of her cream blouse. Her grey skirt took on a dark hue where she’d bled out. Her blonde hair hung matted over the front of her face, masking the many injuries inflicted upon her. From his initial observations, the attack had been brutal.

  “Hello, Scottie, fancy seeing you here.” Cara hurried along the hallway as she breezed past Scott and Abby.

  A mischievous twinkle in her eye brought a smirk from Abby and a warm smile from Scott. Regardless of where or when he saw her, Cara’s presence took Scott’s breath away. His feelings for the woman went deeper than words, straight to his soul. Those strong emotions grew with each passing day. He spent more time watching her than paying attention to her actions.

  Cara gave them the all-clear after she’d spent time examining the body. She’d already concluded that the cause of death was exsanguination, an extreme blood loss caused by traumatic injuries to her abdomen.