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

by J. F. Burgess

  Foxhall seemed relieved he'd be tagging on behind, 'If you're sure, Tom?’

  'No probs.’

  Blake took his jacket off, slipped on a protection suit, and carefully started to climb down, 'Wish me luck.'

  'You'll be OK, Boss. Watch out for sewer rats,’ DS Murphy said.

  Foxhall gathered up his shoulder bag and handed it to DS Murphy. 'Pass me this down, please, John?'

  'Is your camera in there? Looks small.'

  'Everything I need’s in the bag.’

  Underground, the damp musty smell assaulted Blake's nostrils. He crouched slightly in the tunnel, which was lit by arc lights on a yellow wire hooked to the arched roof of the drain. Clusters of lichen and algae encrusted the damp engineering bricks.

  'You OK, Jeff?'

  'It's not too bad once you're down here. Where's our man, then?' Jeff said, opening his bag and retrieving his camera. ‘Let's hope the goons haven't trampled their muddy size ten boots over my crime scene.'

  'Over there.' Blake pointed up the drain, about twelve feet along.

  They swapped places and the CSI edged along the slimy brickwork, apprehensively. Blake watched as he took photos, from every angle, of the curled-up skeleton in a jacket. The camera’s flash lit up the drain with every shot, hurting his eyes, and casting sinister shadows across the brickwork.

  'How long ago do you think the body, if we can call it that, got in here?'

  'Judging by his brogue boots and the leather jacket, he certainly wasn't dressed for sewage maintenance work. I'd hazard a guess someone put him down here, a long time ago. Nature’s taken its course, and the rats have eaten all the meat away. Maggots would have devoured what was left. Bodily fluids dried up, leaving only the bones, boots and jacket. Leather is surprisingly resilient, especially if it’s been tanned. The chemicals used in that process slow down decomposition. We'll know more once the anthropologist performs tests at the lab, to confirm the age of the bones.'

  'So, we could be dealing with a murderer.'

  Foxhall knelt and examined the skull. He fished a powerful torch out his bag and shone it directly onto the aged ivory texture. 'Good God, there's a large crack around the rear of the parietal area.'

  'Like he's been smashed over the head with something?'

  'Certainly looks that way; something heavy, as well.'

  Blake turned his phone torch on and scanned around the tunnel. He stepped carefully toward the CSI, lifted his phone and aimed it down a deep shaft.

  'Look, there’s a large object laying diagonally about twenty-feet down there. Pass me your torch?' He climbed over the skeleton, ducked his head slightly, and edged along the tunnel where the arc lights didn’t reach. He scanned the LED light down onto the object.'

  ‘Looks like a fire-extinguisher to me: an old one at that. Could be the instrument used to cave his skull in?'

  Before the CSI could reply, DS Murphy popped his head down the entrance hole. 'You fellas OK? You’ve been down there twenty minutes.'

  'We're coming up once this skeleton's been bagged up,' Foxhall replied.

  CHAPTER 3

  The two detectives stood staring at the familiar site of Jim Roachford's camel coat flapping as he eagerly approached them across the muddy ground. Blake had wondered how long it would be before the hack got wind of the crime scene. On this occasion, his arrival was much quicker than normal. He must have been sat at his desk in the Evening Sentinel’s office, a stone's throw away in Bethesda Street, when some unscrupulous sod leaked the info. The private ambulance had only just left the site.

  'I heard a rumour workers have found a body. Can you give our readers a statement, Inspector?' Roachford said, like a rubbernecking neighbour hell-bent on the latest gossip.

  Blake knew, if he didn't give him something, he'd run the story with whatever tit-bits he already had. 'Human remains have been discovered in a disused drain.'

  'And these would be a man, woman or child?'

  'Forensics have identified them as belonging to a male.'

  'I'm presuming they've been down there a while?' the reporter continued.

  'Given what we've seen, we believe it could be decades, rather than years,' Blake admitted, reluctantly.

  'Fascinating: anything else to add to that?'

  'I've said all I'm prepared to at this time. You know how this works. Once the forensics are back in, we'll be able to give you more details. Until then, I suggest you leave our crime scene, Jim?' Blake insisted.'

  'I'll show you off the site,' DS Murphy quipped. They'd crossed paths several times in the past, and he had very little time for this reporter, who’d been a constant thorn in their sides during the high profile Staffordshire Hoard theft case.

  'It's OK. I know where the exit is, Sergeant,' he said, snapping a sarcastic salute.

  CHAPTER 4

  He loved this place. There was no one to disturb his thoughts. It was so quiet and peaceful, away from the congestion and traffic pollution afflicting the five towns. He loved to watch the elm trees gently sway, bathing his tortured soul in nature’s calming effects, as he wandered freely, uninterrupted, in the pastures and woodland surrounding this sacred place where their lives had been shaped. They were still here with him, their innocent faces drifting in the soft, gentle whiteness above. But the unearthing of the bones on the East-West demolition site could lead to his discovery. His liberty must be protected at all costs. He thought.

  Ah, there she is: a wondrous sight. He moved stealthily to see all her glory as she flitted on the wing from grassland to hedgerow and woodland; hovering delicately on the edges of existence, as he had for a lifetime. Large orange patches in the middle of each wing, speckled with eye-spots on the fore-wing. The Hedge Brown's innocence was like their warm unspoilt skin. She would not live to see old age, as they would not. He would bathe his tortured soul in her glory as he did in theirs, now it had begun. The police’s raking and dredging would uncover the past and force them to oppress him: their rules demanded he be shackled.

  A dog walker approached. He must leave this sacred place.

  ‘The elm will protect you from them; our secret is safe for now,’ he whispered.

  CHAPTER 5

  Sixty-two-year-old Valletta Lombardi was mopping her kitchen floor listening to the Mix-Tape on Radio Stoke. She loved the seventies disco tunes. They brought back some great memories - and a few troubling ones, as well.

  There was a break in the music and the news came on. Squeezing the mop head into the bucket’s drainer, she glanced out of the patio doors at two sparrows feeding on the fat-balls her husband had hung onto one of the fence posts.

  She froze: the reporter was saying human remains had been discovered in a disused drain at the East-West demolition site in Hanley. She let the mop slip sideways, its pole resting on the worktop, as her mind travelled back to the arcade: the flashing lights and clacking of pinball and slot machines echoed in her head. That pink neon above the front door would cast a pool of light onto the slabs below it, cutting through the dark precinct on cold winter nights, beckoning punters to part with their hard-earned. And that creep, George Rills, would hover behind her, his eyes lecherously tracing up and down her curves.

  CHAPTER 6

  A sudden coldness spread over Margot Matheson as she sat in the window of a café in Longton town, reading Stoke-on-Trent Live on her phone. She pushed her plate to one side and clicked the link:

  Human remains discovered on East-West Precinct demolition site.

  Earlier this morning contractors from the H&R demolition company discovered human remains in a disused drain that had been concealed for decades by concrete and a cast-iron man-hole cover. All work has stopped while a police forensics team process the site.

  Since her husband died twelve months ago, it was hard to imagine a future, so she found herself living in the past. This news reminded her of the café on the old precinct. All the young men used to sit nursing cups of tea while she waited tables. She was such a looker back
then: long, dark, wavy hair in the Charlie's Angels style that was hugely popular in the seventies. The day Stan asked her out came flooding back. He'd been coming in the café for weeks, always giving her some chat about taking her out. Given his reputation as a wide boy, working for a local gangster, she turned him down; that and because her mum and dad definitely wouldn't approve of his rough and ready attitude. They'd always gone on about nice boys with apprenticeships at Dawson's engineers. Despite his past, Stan had treated her well over the years, even though they never had any money because he'd never been to college or polytechnic. Can't be bothered with education, it's a waste of time, he always used to say. Instead, he'd spent his life doing unskilled manual work wherever he could find it.

  She closed the news page on her phone and skimmed her contacts for her son’s number. Ever since her mum died, he'd gone off the rails, spiralling into addiction and homelessness. She worried terribly about him now he was on the streets using all kinds of drugs. He'd lived with her for two years, but brought too much trouble to the house. After the drug squad caved the front door in at 5 a.m. one morning, that was the final straw.

  Even though she paid his mobile contract, he rarely answered her calls. Today was no different, as the device went straight to voice-mail. Maybe she should get custody of her grandson, after all. The boy's mother had died of a heroin overdose when he was just a baby, and the thought of that beautiful little child spending his life in care mortified her. She swore to do everything in her power to stop that.

  CHAPTER 7

  Johnny Wilder had done some bad things over the years, but since his heart attack back in 2000 he'd turned over a new leaf. God had given him a second chance and he wasn't going to waste it hustling scams any more. He’d made his money long ago; now it was just a pension top-up. Besides, five years inside had really made him appreciate his liberty.

  Sat in his black S-Class series Mercedes, he stared at Featherstone Prison’s twelve-foot-high gates. Albert Carmelo was due to come through them any minute. He was a fellow ex-con and mate of Johnny’s from the seventies and eighties, who’d managed to stay free until he got fifteen years for armed robbery in 2009. Stupid old sod should have come to him if he was struggling to pay for his daughter’s wedding: but no, the proud Cypriot always had to pay his own way. Luckily, his early guilty plea knocked four years off his sentence.

  Johnny would never abandon the man who’d saved his life on more than one occasion over the years, the most memorable being when a group of drunks almost kicked him to death outside their old arcade. If Albert hadn’t waded into them with a lead-tipped pick shaft, he'd have been in a wheelchair years ago.

  A knock on the window brought his mind back to the present. He smiled at Albert, standing there with a holdall, containing his worldly belongings, slung over his right shoulder. He was looking all of his sixty-five years, and more.

  Wilder pressed the central locking door release button.

  ‘Appreciate this, mate,' Carmelo said, opening the passenger rear door and slinging his bag onto the seats.

  'Been a long time coming.'

  'Yeah, I won't miss that shit-hole. Any chance of calling in the nearest pub? I've been dreaming of my first pint ever since I got a release date.'

  'No problem, mate. I think you getting out calls for a little celebration before your bash down the club tonight.'

  'Too right,' Carmelo said, fastening his seat belt.

  CHAPTER 8

  After a cup of tea and a much needed rest, George Rills wanted the comforting surrounds of his church. He slipped on his coat, lifted his walking stick off one of the hooks in his dark hallway, and slowly made his way over to Stoke Minster, his back pain easing ever so slightly.

  Ten minutes later, he entered the church graveyard where several famous Staffordshire luminaries were interred: Josiah Wedgwood and the Spode family among them. The large oak doors were open and he welcomed the comfort his faith gave him. Inside, a solitary woman sat on the front row as the votive tea lights sparkled and fluttered in the draughty house of God. He slipped into a pew and sat with his foot resting on the oak plinth.

  Reverend Johnson moved quietly along the Minton tiles between the two rows of seats and stopped to greet him.

  'Hello, George, how are you?' the reverend said, in a north London accent.

  'Not too bad, Father. You?'

  'All is well.'

  'Unlike the destruction of Hanley.'

  'Destruction?'

  'Yeah, they’re pulling it down, the old East-West Precinct and the buildings in the street. Awful, it is.'

  'Yes, dreadful. Have you heard the news? They found human remains in the rubble this morning.'

  'Human remains?'

  'It's been on Radio Stoke. A skeleton, to be precise. Apparently, on the old precinct site.'

  Suddenly, Rills felt nauseous, like a heavy stone had dropped into the pit of his stomach. A flashback to his working life hit him like a thunderbolt. Flashing lights, garish neon, and that tacky Teddy-Boy, Tommy Tinsel, wearing his silver sequin drape coat like a badge of honour, played out in his mind like old grainy video footage on repeat.

  ****

  Back at home, Rills dropped his keys on the kitchen table, made his way into the hall, and sat on pealing plastic covering the yellow foam of his father’s old telephone seat. He dialled a number he'd not called in over thirty years. Would it still work? Would she still live there or was she long gone?

  Nervously, he listened to the dial tone, irrational thoughts running through his head. Eventually, a voice answered, 'Hello?'

  'Is Margot there, please?' Rills asked.

  'Who's calling, please?' the woman said.

  'Rills hesitated, 'Tell her it's Georgie Rills.'

  'Can you hold on a minute, she’s popped in the garden?'

  Rills heard the handset clank as the woman dropped it down on a hard surface. After a few seconds, he considered ending the call, but it was too late.

  'Hello, is that Georgie? I'm shocked. It's been a very long time. What can I do for you?

  CHAPTER 9

  The old days were a riot. None of this politically correct shit existed. As his old man used to say: men were men and women loved them all the more for their faults. OK, it was a bit like the Wild West at times, but that's just the way it was back in the 1970s. Everything had a price, and anyone could be bought; it was all bent. He couldn't shrug off how he was brought up, he thought, perusing the pictures again.

  But, hey, he could be poetic, gentle. He was no hick. He was a well-read lover of the classics: Shakespeare, Dickens, Hemingway. Now there was a writer who lived a full and exciting life, smoked, travelled the world, joined in the Spanish Civil War, whored and drank till he dropped! These days, so many people could only be one thing. They were controlled by Facebook and believed everything they were spoon-fed by the government. Frigging sheeple, that’s what they were. He thought.

  The clubs, the parties, the girls; and they were girls. Clean and fresh, unspoilt by another. Used to act older, but he always knew once they were alone. He examined the pictures of their innocent silken flesh again. Each time the need stirred within him, it was like trying to contain a raging bull. He slipped the pictures back in the box and locked it, knowing he didn't have time for distractions; there were important things to do.

  Closing his eyes, he visualised the old towns. They’d had so much vibrancy: everyone worked in the Potteries. The pubs had such history, real places full of characters. Real men who'd fought in the war, men who'd seen death and destruction on an unprecedented scale, women who'd stood by them and still managed to bring up a family of nine kids on a shoestring: not like this absurd snowflake millennial lot, who were offended by everything.

  His old boss used to say, Fuck em, if they can't follow the rules we'll sort them out. Stupid people with no balls are easily dispensed with.” God, he was such a tiresome bastard, always liked his own way; a real arrogant prick. It was only a matter of time before s
omething happened to him. The authorities thought he'd legged it, but deep down they all knew.

  CHAPTER 10

  The naked skeleton was laid out on the post mortem table like a macabre jigsaw puzzle finally pieced back together.

  'What timeline have the lab given us on the DNA results?' Blake asked the pathologist, Felix Wimberly Smithson.

  'These tests take longer than straightforward DNA mouth swabbing and tissue analysis. With bones, the DNA is best preserved in the teeth and femur. I've put a rush on them, but the lab could take a couple of weeks. I'd say he was about twenty-five to thirty-five when he was killed.

  Blake tutted his disappointment, 'Anything on the jacket and boots?'

  'Yes, as you've probably guessed, they're from the 1970s. A heavy leather designer sports jacket and a pair of bespoke brogue boots, what's left of them, anyway. I found some old bank notes and loose change in a stainless steel cigarette case in the inside pocket. Lucky for us, the case’s tight clasp and rubber seal have kept the notes intact. We've checked the serial numbers with the Bank of England. They were issued in 1973 and in circulation for around five years.’

  'That confirms our man's from that era, then.'

  'Quite. Almost forgot: this was in the cigarette case, as well.’ Smithson passed Blake a clear evidence bag containing a dog-eared book of matches; the sulphur from the match heads had bled a pinkish stain into the thick cardboard. Blake turned it over and read the faded red print on the front - Bates Café, East-West Precinct, Hanley.

  'Hmm, this may help us trace his last movements before he was killed. All depends if we can get hold of anyone who worked at or used this Bates Café in the late seventies.