The Slow Road to Hell

by Grant Atherton

  Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  e-Book Warning

  e-book Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  End Matter

  70,300 words.

  The Slow Road to Hell

  by Grant Atherton

  with grateful thanks to

  JAKOB PAULUSSEN

  for all his valuable help and advice

  Cover art by

  SelfPubBookCovers.com/BeeJavier

  Grant Atherton’s Website

  GrantAtherton.co.uk

  WARNING

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offencive to some readers.

  The Slow Road to Hell, Copyright (c) May, 2017 by Grant Atherton

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission for the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorised editions.

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  "She's lying. You see that?" I jabbed a finger at the image on the monitor screen. "You see how she reacted?"

  Inspector Denby squinted at the screen and scratched his chin. "You're going to have to talk me through that, Mikey. All I see is a young woman under a lot of stress."

  We were sitting around a desk in Denby's office in London's City Road Police Station. There were four of us; me, Denby, and two of his officers. They had been working this case for over two weeks and getting nowhere. That's when I'd been called in at the behest of Denby's Chief and much to the chagrin of Denby. I was the last resort. The witch doctor. I read people. And right then I was reading Lydia Carson, the wife - correction, widow - of Ray Carson, recently deceased, found lying in a pool of blood on his kitchen floor.

  Lydia Carson was the sole suspect. Exhaustive enquiries had disclosed no other viable suspects, and no possible motive. And that left just Lydia. The nearest and dearest. Always the top of any murder enquiry suspect list.

  Trouble was, there was nothing to suggest it was her either. By all accounts the Carsons were rarely seen out of each other's company in public and had never been known to quarrel or behave in any way that suggested anything other than a close loving relationship.

  But every move she made, every reaction, told me she was hiding something.

  "You have to know what to look for," I said. "Sure, she's stressed. You've been grilling her for nearly three hours. Who wouldn't be stressed? But you have to look past that. You have to look for those idiosyncrasies, those patterns of behaviour that tell us what's really going on."

  "I don't doubt you, Mikey. I just don't see what you see."

  Men like Denby were always slow to embrace new methods, methods like mine, always going to kick back against anything they didn't understand.

  "I'll show you." I leaned toward the microphone on the desk and said, "Dave, it's Mikey. I'm coming in."

  On the screen, Sgt David Brady, the interviewing officer, nodded imperceptibly, continuing to speak to the woman seated on the other side of his desk.

  I'd worked with Brady before when he was over at the Bethnal Green Station and we'd gotten to know each other well. He was one of the more forward-thinking officers, already a supporter of my techniques, and I knew he wouldn't mind my breaking into his interview.

  A few moments later, I opened the door of the interview room and stepped inside.

  Lydia Carson was in her early thirties, short dark hair with a fringe she constantly brushed from her face - a sign of her nervousness - and was dressed in a plain grey but well-cut trouser suit.

  I smiled at her. "Hello, Lydia. I'm Michael MacGregor and I'd like to ask you some questions if that's okay."

  She blinked up at me and then turned to face Dave Brady, her eyebrows knitted.

  He didn't respond.

  Turning back to me, she said, "I don't understand. I've just been through it all again. You keep asking me the same questions over and over and I don't know what else I can tell you."

  I drew back a chair and sat down, facing Lydia from the other side of the desk. "I'm not here to interview you, Lydia. I'm not a policeman. I leave the interviewing to people like Sgt Brady here."

  I gave a casual nod in his direction. Brady folded his arms and leaned back in his chair.

  "I'm a Forensic Psychologist," I continued. "And I'm here to ask for your help."

  Lydia's hand went to her throat. "A Psychologist? Why would I need to speak to a Psychologist?"

  "Let me explain." I spread my hands before me on the desk. "It's my job to build up a profile of the person who did this. Try to get some idea of what he's like. It helps us to focus in on the kind of person we're looking for."

  She swallowed hard and dropped her hand. "But I have no idea ... I don't know ..."

  I interrupted. "We start with what we do know, the information we already have. And what we have are the details of the crime scene."

  "I don't understand."

  "Well, for instance, we can assume with a safe degree of certainty that Ray either knew his killer, or it was someone he wouldn't feel threatened by. There was no forced entry so it would appear he was invited in. And from what we know of Ray, he was no weakling was he? He would have been able to handle himself if there had been some sort of immediate threat."

  Lydia lowered her gaze and stared down at the table. "Yes, I suppose so."

  "And if there had been a confrontation, it's more likely to have happened near the point of entry, in the hallway, and there would have been signs of disturbance. But Ray was attacked in the kitchen at the back of the house. So it's
reasonable to presume that the killer was allowed access. Again, this suggests there was no immediate conflict, that it was someone Ray would have no cause to feel threatened by. Okay so far?"

  Lydia looked up again.

  I said, "It's strange that a visitor would have been invited into the kitchen anyway. The domestic centre of the house. It would have been more usual to have been shown into the living room."

  I paused.

  She blinked and remained silent.

  "But no matter," I said. "We'll let that go for the moment. What concerns me more is the murder weapon, the knife."

  "They never found it," Lydia volunteered.

  "That's right. And that's where I'm going to need your help. You see, if the killer came into the house with a knife, it's a fairly safe bet he was expecting trouble, that maybe he intended to use the knife, to protect himself from a threat or to threaten Ray, or he may have intended from the start to harm Ray. If, on the other hand, the knife was already there, in the kitchen, that's a different matter. Do you see what I'm saying? It would show that this wasn't premeditated. That it may well have been a spur of the moment thing. It's important because it gives us some indication of the killer's original intention, his possible state of mind when he arrived at the house. So, if you could be absolutely certain about whether or not any knives are missing, it would be a great help."

  Lydia brushed the hair from her forehead. "I understand what you're asking but I don't think I can help. As far as I know, none of the kitchen knives are missing. But I can't be sure."

  "Okay. But you appreciate what I'm getting at here? How all these different aspects of the crime can help us build a picture of the killer?"

  "I understand. I just wish I could be more help."

  "And then there's Ray himself. The sort of man he was. That could have an effect on the killer's reaction to him. The way he would act in any given situation. Would he stay calm? Get agitated? Lose his temper? Maybe even become violent? His actions could affect the killer's response."

  "I see what you mean but I have no idea how he would have reacted."

  Again, Lydia's hand went to her throat. She stroked her neck and then averted her gaze and looked down at the table.

  I waited.

  She raised her eyes again.

  "Let me tell you a bit more about the kind of work I do. Do you understand the concept of body language?"

  Lydia furrowed her brows. "I've heard of it, yes. But I don't know much about it."

  "Well, when we communicate with others, less than fifty percent of what we pass on is verbal. Most of the messages we communicate to others are non-verbal. Through our bodies. And we all have our own little quirks that give away what we're thinking and feeling. Our own 'tells'. So, for instance, if you say something I don't agree with, I may well fold my arms in front of my chest, a sort of defencive barrier. It's something I would do to express my disagreement. But it's something I would do subconsciously, without realising it. You understand?"

  "I think so."

  "And because we do these things subconsciously, we don't have any control over them. So even if we tell a lie, our bodies still tell the truth." I leaned closer to emphasise my next point. "And this is the most interesting thing, Lydia. After years of studying other people's behaviour, you know what I've discovered?"

  She shook her head.

  "Everybody lies. Everybody. There's no such thing as a completely honest person." I leaned back in my chair. "Of course, we all lie for different reasons. So for instance, if we were interviewing someone we suspected of committing a crime, he may well lie to avoid being caught."

  "I suppose that's obvious."

  "Yes, but then there are the others. Innocent people lie too. Maybe out of fear, or shame or embarrassment. Are you still with me?"

  "I think so."

  "And I was wondering, Lydia, if that's why you've been lying. If maybe there's something you're frightened to admit or something you're embarrassed about."

  A gasp escaped her lips. "I don't know what you mean." Her voice trembled. "I've told you everything I can."

  I dismissed her claim with a wave of the hand. "I'll tell you how I know, shall I? You see, I've studied your previous taped interviews and I've been able to build up a picture of your personal 'tells', the way your body reacts. Shall I tell you what they are?"

  She didn't respond. Just stared at me, wide eyed.

  "There's this thing you do with your feet. When you tell a lie, you wrap them around the legs of the chair. It's something we call 'anchoring'. It's an innate subconscious attempt to cover something up, to hide it. And after you've done that, you immediately raise your hand and stroke your neck. That's something we call a 'pacifying' action. A soothing action. An attempt to calm yourself after doing something dishonest, such as telling a lie."

  Once again, Lydia raised a hand to her throat.

  I pointed to the hand. "See, you just did it. You didn't even think about it. It was a reflex action. That's how I know you've been lying. And this is the interesting part. These signs that give you away, your personal tells, mostly seem to be when you're talking about Ray, about the sort of person he was. And that's how I know Ray wasn't the kind, peaceable guy you like to claim he was. So why don't you tell us what he was really like, Lydia. What it is you're too afraid to tell?"

  She stared at me, mouth half open. And then she burst into tears, collapsed onto the table, and buried her face in her hands, crying openly. Her shoulders shook with each gasping sob.

  I leaned toward her and lowered my voice. "Let me tell you what I think happened, Lydia. I think you reached breaking point. I think you grew tired of pretending, of hoping that everything would be all right. I think you'd had enough."

  She raised her head, still sobbing, and wiped a hand across her eyes. "I couldn't take any more. I just couldn't. I'd only been gone half an hour. Only to the shops. But he was screaming at me. Calling me names. Wanting to know where I'd been. Calling me a liar. And then he came at me, raised his fists. And I just couldn't go through it again. Not again. And the knife was on the work top beside me. I didn't even stop to think. I just picked it up and lashed out. I just wanted to stop him. That's all. And the next moment, he was on the floor. And there was so much blood."

  "It's all right, Lydia," I said, trying to calm her. "No one is making any judgements here. Just tell Sgt Brady what happened and then we can start to put things right. Start at the beginning and the sergeant here will take it all down. Just take your time." I pushed back the chair. "Sgt Brady will take good care of you."

  I made my excuses, signalled farewell to Dave, and left Lydia to make her statement, sobbing as she did so.

  A little while later, I was on my way out of the station, having said my goodbyes to Denby and his men.

  There are times this work depresses me. This kind of case most of all. There were too many women like Lydia, living fearful secret lives. And now she would have to live through the nightmare ahead.

  As I made it out of the door, I checked my mobile. Four missed calls. All from Karen. Karen was one of my oldest friends and we often chatted on the 'phone. But four missed calls? Something had to be wrong, and I had a feeling I was about to get even more depressed.

  I called her back.

  She sounded distressed. "Mikey it's your father. I'm worried."

  CHAPTER TWO

  By the time the police arrived, I was nursing a painfully swollen shoulder. Breaking down doors had never been high on my list of skills and now I knew it never would be. Something I wish I'd known before I tried it.

  It's not like in the movies where the muscle-bound hero shoulders one a couple of times and sends it flying off its hinges. Not a chance. Not that I was without a few muscles myself but in the event, all I managed to do was badly bruise my shoulder and my ego, and make enough noise to send the neighbours scurrying for the phone to call the police.

  Which is why I was now standing outside the door of my father's vicarage in
the company of Sgt Richard Lowe of Elders Edge constabulary waiting for the local locksmith to let us in.

  "You sure he's inside?" asked Lowe. He blew into his cupped hands and then rubbed them together, clearly not too happy about standing around in the bitter cold of the open courtyard.

  "Where else would he be? I've tried everywhere I can think of." I looked at him askance. What did he think I was doing here? Did he think I threw myself at doors for fun?

  "Family?"

  "I'm all he has left."

  "And he couldn't be staying with friends?"

  Friends? My father? That was a joke. He'd alienated all the friends he'd had a long time ago. "Not that I know of." This guy was testing my patience. "Look Sergeant, I wasn't prepared to wait around on the off chance he turned up. He's not been in the best of health and I was worried."

  "Wouldn't he have called you if he'd been ill?"

  "No."

  "Oh?"

  "I've already explained. I no longer live locally."

  "You don't stay in touch?"

  "We haven't spoken for several months. We're not close."

  "Oh?"

  That was one 'oh' too many, and it irritated me. Sgt Lowe had shown way too much interest in my personal affairs since he'd arrived. "It's a long story," I said, and turned away, determined to avoid any further interrogation.

  I fixed my attention on Mr Dawson, the locksmith, as he loaded his drill and stepped into the shelter of the arched porch. I was eager for him to finish so I could get out of the chill February air. It was that dull dispiriting time of year when the festive season was a distant memory and it seemed like spring would never come. The constant drizzle of rain had stopped but a cold wind persisted, blowing in from over the coast road to the east. All sensation of warmth had long since drained from my limbs. I wrapped my arms around my chest and stamped my feet on the stone flags.

  "I'll soon be done," said Dawson, clearly interpreting my actions as a sign of impatience. Not that he was far wrong.