The Missing And The Dead: A tense crime thriller with a shocking twist

by J. F. Burgess

  THE MISSING

  AND THE

  DEAD

  ALSO BY J.F.BURGESS

  Detective Tom Blake Series:

  The Killer Shadow Thieves

  A Place of Reckoning

  Copyright © 2021 J.F. Burgess All rights reserved

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidence.

  Printed by GRIPPING CRIME in the United Kingdom

  First Printing, 2021

  I'm passionate about building a relationship with my readers, and you can join my VIP readers’ newsletter here www.jfburgess.co.uk/home or chat with me on Facebook @CrimeWriterBurgess

  Dedication

  Dedicated to the memory of my wonderful dad, Francis Burgess; who we miss dearly. A great family man who loved to read thrillers.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Present day, forty-two years later

  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

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  One month later

  A LETTER FROM J.F.BURGESS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Prologue

  Stoke, England 1978

  It started with a match, struck and dropped onto a small pool of lighter fluid that had been squirted onto the floral carpet. It quickly escalated into a fire-ball that engulfed the front bedroom of the post-war suburban house.

  The dense black smoke crept over a couple in their mid-thirties, as they slept. Forty seconds was all it took before they were unconscious, teetering on the edge of death.

  In the other room, their six-year-old daughter felt the intense heat on her adjoining bedroom wall. Scared stiff, she slipped out of bed and peered through her partially open door. The intense orange glow of flames filtered under the gap of her parents’ bedroom door.

  Edging toward it, she knew something was very wrong. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead. Her eyes focused on the black circle now forming on the white hardboard panel. It looked like when her daddy had shown her what the blistering mid-day sun could do to paper through a magnifying glass.

  She held her hand in front of her face as thick smoke leached under the door. She felt her breath catch as the vile acrid smog invaded her lungs. She darted back to the safety of her bedroom. Inside, she grabbed her soft pink bear and comfort blanket and grasped them in a protective huddle, knees raised, head down against the cooler outside wall.

  A leather-gloved hand came out of the darkness. Her survival instinct kicked in. Reaching out, she took it. The shadowy figure knelt, covered her with the blanket and lifted her.

  Swiftly, they crossed the landing, and exited down the stairs, through the thick black smoke and burning heat now ravaging the artexed ceiling and walls. In the back garden, the little girl stared over her rescuer’s shoulder at her once-happy home. It was engulfed by violent orange flames. Roof tiles imploded, revealing glimpses of charred beams through the inferno. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She just wanted to hear her mummy’s voice and feel the comfort of her loving hugs. As they approached the back gate, she dropped her charred blanket, the one her Gran knitted. She tried hard to cling onto Bear, but couldn’t, and he dropped onto the damp concrete slabs.

  The rescuer and child disappeared down the dark alleyway toward a car parked in the shadows. Sirens wailed nearby.

  Present day, forty-two years later

  Hidden from sight it shall be revealed

  and bring them into a storm.

  CHAPTER 1

  George Rills watched the heavy JCB smash into the sixties reinforced concrete. The heavy bucket’s teeth clawed, revealing tendrils of rusty steel wires. It made him think of dinosaurs ripping up trees.

  Unlike most locals, he didn’t see the demolition of the once-thriving bus station and shopping complex as progress. Wonderful teenage memories of shopping on Saturdays with his gran, all reduced to a pile of meaningless rubble covered in graffiti.

  Towns and cities changed, but thirty-years of neglect and lack of investment by the council were, in his opinion, responsible for this carnage. The place looked like Beirut in the early eighties: bloody shameful.

  They’d replace it with what, soulless businesses? Like so many other old buildings, this would be another piece of the town’s proud legacy resigned to the local history books.

  ****

  ‘A latte and a cappuccino, both extra hot, please,' Detective Inspector Tom Blake said to the barista behind the counter of The Grind House coffee shop in Parliament Row, Hanley city centre. He turned to his Detective Sergeant, John Murphy, who was standing behind him, ‘Flapjack?'

  'Please, the yogurt-topped one.'

  As Blake swiped his card over the contact-less reader, a grimy-looking homeless man in his mid-thirties, appeared and ran frantically up and down the pedestrianised area outside, shouting, 'He's going jump! Someone call the police!'

  'Hold the coffee,’ Blake said to the barista.

  He shot Murphy a worried look, 'Not again!'

  He slipped his card into his wallet, as they left the café. He called over to the agitated man, holding his warrant card up, 'Police. Where's the jumper?'

  'Up there.’ The man pointed to the top floor of the disused multi-storey car park opposite the East-West Precinct demolition site. 'His head's fucked. Smoked a load of Dust.'

  The man was pacing back and forth erratically. He had on a filthy parka zipped all the way up to his chin. Judging by his animated behaviour, they’d both been smoking Monkey Dust and their brains were addled. This vile synthetic drug had plagued Stoke-on-Trent ever since it first emerged in 2012. Emergency services were stretched to the limit dealing with the increasing number of users who became psychotic and violently unpredictable after smoking the stuff. The fact it could be bought for around £2 a bag made things considerably worse.

&nb
sp; ‘Why’s he threatening to jump?’ Blake asked, looking up at a pair of legs dangling over the edge of the rooftop’s concrete façade.

  'He conna take being on the streets any more. Says he just wants to end

  it all.’

  ‘What’s your mate’s name?’ Blake asked.

  ‘We call him Matho, but his real name is Craig.'

  Blake nodded at DS Murphy, 'Let's head on up there. I'm presuming

  he used the fire exit around the side.'

  'I thought the council had boarded that up after the last jumper?'

  'Probably, but the homeless seem to have a knack of getting in anywhere these days. It’s getting worse with all the empty shops and derelict buildings. '

  'I'll call an ambulance in case we don't make it in time,' Murphy said, gloomily.

  'I don't think it will come to that,' Blake said, as they paced along Cleveland Street toward the fire escape.

  The graffiti-covered door was ajar. The two detectives entered the building and bounded up the winding, urine-stinking concrete stairs. They exited another fire door onto the rooftop, Murphy's complexion ruddy from exertion.

  'You go on, Tom. I'm knackered. I'll catch you up.'

  'OK’, Blake said, cautiously moving across the faded lines of the once-busy car park.

  The jumper appeared not to sense their presence, but standard procedure dictated that officers must keep their distance until they’d established a non-threatening approach toward vulnerable victims. Blake was around twenty yards away from him.

  Clutching onto the concrete, the man craned his neck and shouted, ‘Don’t come any closer or I'll do it! I swear, man.'

  ‘Is it alright if I call you Matho? Your mate down on the street is worried sick about you. I promise, I only want to help you.'

  ‘Are you police?'

  ‘Yes, my name’s Tom, DI Blake from the Hanley station. If you come off the edge, we can talk?'

  ‘I’m done talking, me head’s fucked. I'm better off out of it. At least this torment will be over.'

  ‘I know you’re desperate, mate, but we can get you some help and a place to stay for a while. Give you time to think about turning your life around,' Blake said.

  Matho looked over Blake’s shoulder. 'Who's that behind you?' he said, glaring at DS Murphy.

  'That's my sergeant. We both want to help you. Come off the edge, you’re not in any trouble.'

  He seemed about to turn around when sirens echoed in the street below. Blue lights flashed and reflected off the billboards that hid the rubble of the old shopping precinct opposite.

  He shouted, 'Why did you call the cavalry?'

  'They are only here to protect you; it’s standard procedure. Come on, let's get you off there and a warm cup of tea inside you. Your mate can come with you, if you like?'

  DS Murphy sat down in a non-threatening manner a few yards behind Blake.

  Blake persisted. ‘Can I come over to you?'

  'What for?'

  'To talk.'

  'We're already talking.'

  'I know, but I'm shouting. I prefer to come over. Is that OK?'

  Matho thought about that for a few seconds, 'OK, but no funny business?'

  'I promise, all I want to do is talk.'

  Blake cautiously moved toward him. He had a flashback of another homeless man who'd actually jumped from a bridge over the busy A500 a month before. Another officer had tried and failed to talk him down. The man was declared dead on impact with the cold hard tarmac below, despite all Blake’s colleague's efforts. Blake was determined not to let it happen again.

  Nervously, he moved toward Matho, and sat on the twelve-inch concrete edge about six feet away from him. The second he looked down, Blake realised his calm resolve was turning into nervous anxiety. Everything looked so disproportionately small on the ground below. His palms became clammy with sweat. Taking a deep breath, he turned to Matho and gave him a less than reassuring look.

  DS Murphy looked on, apprehensively.

  'You've got some balls, man!' Matho said.

  'Not really, I'm just as scared as you. It's bloody petrifying up here. I'm shitting it. Come on, let's get off here and go for a drink?'

  'I can't. The Dust’s mashed my head up. Can't live without it, though,' he said, despairingly.

  'As I said earlier, we can get you some professional help.'

  'I've tried before. Fucking talking dunna work. After my Nan died, the council chucked us out and my little lad’s been taken into care. My head’s battered.' He smacked the side of his skull with his right hand.

  Blake watched in horror as Matho wobbled precariously. 'You've taken the first step by talking to me. You can do it. Seems to me people need you. Just think of that little boy growing up without a dad. Surely you don't want that? He needs you, mate. He will give you something to live for. What's his name? How old is he?'

  'Kyle. He's eight.'

  'When was the last time you saw him?'

  Matho sobbed, 'They won't let me see him no more. He's better off without a loser like me.'

  Blake realised he'd hit a nerve trying to connect with the desperate man. The situation could now go either way. 'Listen mate, I promise, if you come down with me now, I'll arrange for you to see Kyle very soon.'

  'Yeah, right. Fucking heard it all before. That bitch at social services said that. She never delivered.'

  'I can't comment on that, but I give you my word, I'll sort out a visit for you.'

  'Deffo?'

  'Yeah, deffo.'

  Matho turned and slowly eased himself off the edge.

  'Thank god for that,' Blake said, doing the same. The rolling feeling in his stomach subsided.

  Matho shot him a wry smile, 'For a copper, you're alright.'

  'I do my best.'

  Matho approached him, dragging his sorry bones every step.

  As he stood by the side of him, Blake held out his hand. Matho's dirt-ingrained palm connected and they shook hands. The pain on his face, prematurely aged by a life of drugs and rough sleeping, was clear. He could be anything between forty and fifty. That’s what Monkey Dust does to the body. 'Come on, mate, let's get a cup of tea and give your son a call. I’m sure he’s missed his dad.'

  They exited the rooftop and made their way down the concrete steps. But, before Blake could usher Matho into the waiting patrol car, one of his officers, standing in front of the East-West Precinct demolition site, called him over.

  ****

  With his back slightly hunched, George Rills slouched along, spinal pain giving him jip. Clasping his faithful walking stick, he turned and saw the police car and ambulance blocking off the road. What was going on now? Seemed there was some kind of incident every week. The bloody Sentinel was full of druggies and burglaries all the time. Craning his neck, he stared at two official-looking men in macs heading toward the demolition site entrance gates.

  He hobbled to the pedestrianised zone in front of the Victorian town hall, heading to the bus station: a space-age domed structure, he hated to admit he liked. Unlike its sixties predecessor, there was plenty of seating, it was warm and dry, and there was no fear of being mugged in the toilets, as it even had security guards patrolling the place. One thing this belligerent council had got right in recent years.

  The number 25 down to Stoke was on time. He sat at the back of the almost empty bus and gazed out of the window at rows of terraced student rentals and fast-food joints lining the road toward Shelton, an area that had become diversely ethnic since the early 1970s. Maybe it was just him, but there didn't seem to be any real neighbourhoods any more: just a whole bunch of people who muddled along doing their own thing with little regard for others.

  CHAPTER 2

  DI Blake, DS Murphy and CSI Jeff Foxhall were permitted entrance to the demolition site of the East-West Precinct by the site manager, Owen Marshall. He'd sent all his men home and the JCB diggers lay dormant, with their hydraulic arms at right angles, leaving their hefty buckets firmly
on the earth. Huge pieces of concrete and rubble lay strategically around the ten-acre site, awaiting removal.

  'Those old bones gave the lads a right shock,' Marshall said, in a distinct Brummie accent.

  'What time was this?' Blake asked.

  'About half an hour ago.’

  'And no one else has accessed the site since you cordoned it off?'

  'No. Everyone's been sent home. There's just me and my deputy, Carl, up in there,' he said, pointing to a white Portakabin, splashed with dirt and sludge, at the other end of the site.

  'OK, let's take a look at what we're dealing with.'

  The three officers followed Marshall over to an area separated from the main site by rusting steel rods hammered into the ground with pale blue rope looped between each one.

  'Down there. It's a deep drain, from the 1920s when there was a factory on the site.'

  'How do you know that?' Murphy asked.

  'The original site survey takes into account everything from mining reports to previous buildings. We often come across stuff like this.'

  Blake was surprised, 'What, human remains?'

  'No. Drains, old cellars, things like that.'

  'I see. And this hole is a 1920s drain, in your opinion?' Blake asked him.

  'Judging by the design and bricks used to construct it, I'd say so. We've left a telescopic ladder for you to use,' he said, pointing to the top two rungs sticking above the drain entrance.

  Jeff Foxhall looked apprehensive at the thought of descending into God knows what. 'I take it health and safety have checked it over?’ he asked the site manager.

  'Yeah. Our health and safety bloke on site checked it over straightaway. It’s pretty solid, considering its age. I've been down myself. It's gruesome. Bones in boots and a leather jacket.’

  'No one has disturbed the body, have they?'

  'No, we've got rules in place for this kind of thing. The lads like a laugh and a joke, but they know when to draw the line.'

  Seeing Foxhall was nervous, Blake opted to go down first. Besides, it was debatable whether Murphy's lardy arse would fit through the hole, he thought, cracking a slightly inappropriate smile.