THE FINAL COUNTDOWN
Sheila Quigley
eBook published in 2013 by Burgess Books
Copyright © Sheila Quigley 2013
All rights reserved
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
ISBN-13:
9780956654687
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or any means without written permission from the copyright holder, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in connection with a review for insertion in a newspaper, magazine, website, or broadcast
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data:
A catalogue record for this book is available from
the British Library
Print book printed & bound in Great Britain
by MacKay’s of Chatham
Burgess Books
1 Cellar Hill Terrace
Houghton le Spring
Tyne and Wear
DH4 4EB
PROLOGUE
NORFOLK
60 AD
Fresh from the battle of Camulodunum, a woman strode into the crowd at dusk. She paused for a moment and looked around, before mounting the small hill so that she could be seen by all. The setting sun picked out the red strands in her waist-length brown hair as the wind whipped it around her face. She was a tall woman and wore a many coloured shawl around her shoulders, held together at the front with a large brooch. Around her neck there was a golden torc. Her bearing was regal, as suited a queen. Her name was Boudicca.
The Iceni tribe belonged in what is now Norfolk. They had just lost their king, Boudicca’s husband. Her daughters had been raped, and Boudicca’s body held the marks of the beatings she had endured. The land had reverted to the Romans on the death of the king. And the Iceni were in revolt.
They were now on their way to Londinium, but as she urged her countrymen on, Boudicca had a hidden agenda. She held a secret title, that of Keeper of the Book. A book that had been stolen from her, a book that held the names of an elite set of families. A book that she must take possession of at all costs.
A few hours later Boudicca lay down her sword. From her chariot she looked around. Four men had been sent out to search the four corners of Londinium. The dust of battle was settling but of the men there was no sign.
Anxiously she spun round full circle, then out of the dust they came. One of the men, the third that she checked out, was carrying something. The others were empty handed.
‘Could it be?’ she muttered, hope rising in her heart as she jumped down from her chariot.
The soldier reached her and handed over the parcel. It was wrapped and bound tightly in a blanket of woven horsehair. Slowly, with trembling hands, Boudicca unwrapped it.
A moment later she held it against her chest, and smiled as she said, ‘ Thank God… It is the book.’
The soldiers bowed their heads
‘One day, a man born here and yet to be a saint will come home from his journeys. Then he will set off once more and take the book to an Island in the North East of this land, where it will be safe, until it is needed. We are charged with the safe keeping of the book, but,’ she looked up from the book, ‘first give the order that Londinium is to be razed to the ground.’
Boudicca and her army went on to sack Verulamium. However, the Iceni were to be defeated by Suetonius in the battle of Watling Street. After fighting bravely for hours, and seeing what was about to happen, Boudicca called her four trusted guards.
‘We must go now, the book is too precious to be taken from us again. It must be saved so that our future generations do not live by the yoke.’
Together they left the battlefield.
Boudicca was never seen again.
PART ONE
NORTHUMBERLAND
Present Day
CHAPTER ONE
‘OK... That’s it, enough. I need rest, the whole world's gone fucking crazy today,’ Detective Kristina Clancy said to the blonde police driver, Susan Cleverly. Her own car was in the garage again, and she had to use Susan, whom she had come to like. She found the woman quite friendly, if a trifle nosy at times, but she put it down to wanting to know more about how detecting really worked.
‘You can say that again.’ Cleverly took her keys out of her pocket and jingled them, hoping that Kristina would get the hint.
‘You’ll be worn out as well.’
Cleverly nodded, and stifled a yawn.
‘Right. Seeing as there’s nothing more we can do here, time for home.’ Together they turned and headed for the police car.
And it had been a long day for them all, a day in which they had dealt with a gruesome double murder, where the victims, two young men, had been found near the river Tweed in the early hours by a couple on their way home from the local night club.
Kristina suspected that they weren’t really a couple as such, seeing as they hardly seemed to even know each other’s names, but were wondering down by the river for something much more than an early morning stroll.
They had both been let go after a few hours. Kristina was convinced they had nothing to do with the murders, they had just been the unlucky ones to find them. Basically they had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and they had both been seriously traumatised by the state of the bodies. She’d also rejected the thought that the murders could have something to do with the Families, a group of people that Mike Yorke was out to prove ruled the world and had done for centuries, keeping the world and its people under a ruling class they did not even know existed.
Kristina pictured the bodies and shuddered. Both of them had been horrifically tortured to death, their faces unrecognisable, and then their tongues had been cut out and placed on their chests - probably while they were still alive, the pathologist had informed her. There was no apparent motive as yet, though Kristina had mulled over the thought that it seemed to be a warning of sorts, and one which the news sources would have a field day with, when-if- they found out.
But Kristina was trying her best to keep a tight lid on everything, telling her superiors that this was exactly what the murderer wanted, the warning out there.
But who he was warning was up for grabs.
She guessed that whoever the murderer was would be chafing at the bit wondering when it was going to be made public, and the longer they kept it quiet, the more chance there would be of the murderer going back to the spot to see if the bodies were still there.
Then, if that hadn’t been enough, some utterly stupid boy racer, hyped up on drugs, had decided that speed - in more ways than one - was a great thing, even though the heavens had opened for hours at a time, causing flash flooding on most of the motorways in the north of England.
The idiot had thought that doing way over a hundred on the flooded A1 was the way to get his kicks, sending walls of spray up and over the roof of his car and many others. That was, until he crashed head on into a bus full of very unlucky old people, who had been out for a fateful day trip to the Northumberland coast.
Unable to control the car, he’d crossed the road and hit the bus full on, killing the bus driver and five passengers and injuring most of the others. The catalogue of broken bones was immense. It had taken hours to sort out, and because of staff shortages due to government cuts, Kristina had personally visited all the families of the dead. The colossal fool of a car driver had got off with a few cuts and bruises, and was now cooling his heels in one of the cells. If Kristina had her way, the prick would never get out. Remorse was something the dickhead had never heard of, Kristina had thought, as she’d slammed the cell door behind him.
To finish the day nice
ly, a domestic in Berwick had threatened to get out of hand, with the woman swearing she would throw herself out of the bedroom window of a fourth-floor flat. Thankfully, after an hour or so, she’d been talked down by the negotiator, a middle aged man by the name of Melvin Kingstone, who Kristina had never met before. Annoyingly, he kept asking her where the hell Mike Yorke was, frustrating Kristina even more.
In the end, things ended amicably enough. Until the next time, Kristina thought, looking at the highly-strung young woman as she got into the car and told Cleverly to head for home.
Most never jump. It's attention that they want, and now that she’s had it once, I can guarantee it’ll happen again. Shaking her head as they drove past the unneeded ambulance, she gave Stan, one of the drivers, a wave. Smiling at her, he blew her a kiss.
Now, finally arriving home, and just as she was about to put her feet up and watch a bit of telly to take her mind off the missing Mike Yorke, there was a sudden loud knocking on the door.
‘Shit,’ Kristina moaned, as she used the TV remote to shut Keith Lemon up. ‘What the hell now?’
She opened the door to find Mr Brodzinski standing there. Oh no, Kristina thought. I can’t be dealing with this now.
Mr Brodzinski, a chess-playing friend of Detective Jason Cox, had a missing grand-daughter who had been held in the monastery near Holy Island with many others, against their will. The teenagers had been plied with drugs to keep them compliant, as well as working them to death in the drug sheds. They had been treated as slaves and used any way he wanted. The culprit, who was now on the run, was known simply as The Leader. Mr Brodzinski’s grand-daughter Annya was now presumed dead.
‘How did you…?’
‘I followed you home.’
Inwardly Kristina sighed as she said, ‘Mr Brodzinski, I’m sorry for your loss, but it’s against the law to follow a police officer home. And Sergeant Rafferty is actually in charge of your case.’
She felt lousy being so short with the old man, but there were lines that shouldn’t be crossed, and following and visiting a detective at home was definitely one of them. Especially after the fucking day she’d just had!
‘Don’t like her.’ He shuffled his feet for a moment. ‘And really, dear, frankly I do not trust the woman. There is something that is not quite right about her.’
Hmm, not keen on her myself, Kristina was thinking. Never liked her from day one. Arrogant isn’t the word for her. But she said, ‘There really isn’t a lot I can do, Mr Brodzinski, as I said befor…’
‘My grand-daughter is most definitely not dead, Detective,’ Mr Brodzinski interrupted her. ‘I feel her.’ He patted his chest. ‘In here… She is not dead. I know.’
‘But--’
He shook his head, as he went on insistently. ’There are no buts, Detective, no buts at all. My Annya is not dead.’
Kristina sighed. ‘You have spoken with Detective Cox, haven’t you, Mr Brodzinski? I thought you and he were friends.’
‘We have spoken, yes, but he is of the same mind as you and says it is up to the other one if the case remains open. Though he did say he would try and talk to her about it, and he has.’
‘And what did Sergeant Rafferty say to him?’
‘She has closed the case. So now I have come to you.’
‘Oh. Well.’ Kristina did feel sorry for him, but with resources stretched as tight as they were, and with government cuts starting to bite deep, and Mike Yorke missing, she needed Rafferty on the double murder case.
She hesitated for a moment, trying to think of a way to let him down gently. Unable to come up with anything as the old man was staring intently at her, she said, ‘Tell you what, Mr Brodzinski. I’ll have a word with Sergeant Rafferty myself, and see if I can get her to take another look at things, perhaps question some of the other kids who were in the monastery at the same time as your grand-daughter. You never know, one of them might come up with something… Perhaps.’
Rafferty can spare an hour or two, surely, Kristina thought, as she smiled at Mr Brodzinski.
‘Thank you.’ He bowed his head. ‘That is all that I ask, that my Annya is not forgotten.’ He went to turn away, then, looking back at Kristina, he again touched his chest. ‘She is in here. Alive. I know.’
Kristina nodded and watched silently as he walked away, head down and shoulders hunched. She’d seen parents, grandparents and other family members in denial before, but something about this man touched her. Thoughtfully she closed the door and went into the kitchen. A cup of tea, then she would give Rafferty a ring. It wouldn’t hurt her to give the case another look over, for God’s sake. She glanced at her watch. Would she be home now?
She had no idea if the other woman had any social life at all, or even if she had any hobbies. In fact, she suddenly realised just how little she did know about Sergeant Rafferty. The woman had simply appeared in the office one morning, supposedly on exchange from the Dublin Garda, her superior assuring her that she had been informed of Rafferty’s coming over a week beforehand, and that the email must have been lost.
‘Hmm,’ she muttered, thinking of ways to put that right. First thing in the morning, she would get Cox onto it. Any missing emails, she was sure he’d be able to find them.
But for now a cuppa, then a quick chat with Rafferty. After all, it was part of the main case, which was still very ongoing. Even though they’d been told from above to drop a few things, which she and Cox had both found very puzzling. Plus there was no body. Really, there was nothing to prove that the kid was dead, which made Rafferty way out of order. Annya Brodzinski should be listed as missing.
Why? Why sign a kid off, when there was no proof?
Shaking her head, she reached over the blue Formica bench to switch the kettle on. There was another knock on the door. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ She practically stomped to the door.
Pulling it open, she blinked in surprise to find Detective Cox standing there.
‘I’ve got things to tell you, and no, they won’t wait - can’t wait.’ He pushed his way past her.
This was very un-Cox-like. Kristina, following him into her sitting room, frowned, wondering what the hell was up now. Whatever he’d found out, he was very excited about it.
Not long after, and deep in thought, Kristina slowly closed the door behind Cox. Both were colleagues and very good friends of Detective Inspector Mike Yorke, who had suddenly and under suspicious circumstances disappeared.
She leaned heavily against the door. Feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders and a slightly queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, her fear for Mike Yorke becoming stronger by the minute, she sighed, knowing that staring into space and dwelling on what might or might not be was definitely not an option. Certainly not in this frightening new world that Mike, and now Cox, had made into a nightmarish reality.
With a final sigh, she pushed herself away from the door and made her way into the sitting room, glancing at the tiny square-faced silver clock on the mantelpiece which, like most other things in the small cosy two bed roomed cottage in the border town of Berwick on Tweed, had belonged to her beloved grandmother, Margaret. Kristina sighed. Her grandmother had died over three months ago leaving everything she had to her and a cousin, named Margaret after her grandmother. Cousin Margaret lived in London and worked on some beauty magazine. She had not been in touch with their grandmother for at least seven years, and hadn’t even been bothered to come to the funeral, but she was now demanding Kristina sell the house.
Yeah, well, she can flaming well dream on, cheeky cow. I’m not moving, not again. She sighed. It seemed as if all she had known this year had been trouble and death.
Nine o'clock. She tutted as her eyes focused in on the clock, then, shaking her head again, muttered, ‘Where the hell are you, Mike? What is going on? Why the hell didn’t you explain more? It’s damn hard adding the pieces up.'
Small in stature, with a magnificent mane of auburn hair, Kristina flung herself onto the brown leather s
ettee. She stretched the kinks out of her neck muscles, and pulled her red t-shirt down over her jeans before putting her hands behind her head and staring at the ceiling, mulling over what Cox had just told her.
Detective Cox was a computer whiz, and he’d done some fishing around for Mike. What he’d come up with had been frightening, and unbelievable to say the least. But it fitted in with the little Mike had actually told them. Problem was, he had found out just what Mike had asked him to find but, seeing as Mike was AWOL, there was no way to pass the information on.
‘No way,’ she muttered, her mind jumping back to what Cox had told her.
‘He must have got it wrong. Must have, too many movies and late night snacks. No way can what he dug up be true, even if it does fit in with everything.’ Cox was a known grazer of junk food. Kristina and the rest of the team often ribbed him about his diet which Cox, being Cox, he took good-naturedly.
Her gut feeling, though, said the opposite. Cox was also the most unimaginative and down to earth person she’d ever met. To come up with something like this would mean he’d had a serious personality transplant. Sitting up, she sighed and chewed on her thumbnail.
Recently widowed, Kristina had only just came back to Berwick on Tweed. The moment she saw Mike, after a three year absence, she knew that the flame, despite her marriage, was still burning as strong as it ever had.
Stupid that I left in the first place!
And if I’m honest, he’s the real reason I came back here.
Even if I truly didn’t plan it.
Well, not consciously.
But, where the hell?
She picked up her mobile and tried his number again. After a minute, and no answer, frustrated she threw the phone down on the settee and glared at it as if it was to blame for everything wrong in the world, as well as the missing Mike Yorke.
‘Where the hell are you, Mike?’ she muttered again. ‘Stubbornest man I every flaming well met. You always bloody well were!’
A moment later she sat upright. ‘Shit, nearly forgot to phone Rafferty.' She picked up the phone and dialled Rafferty’s number. After a few rings, it went to voicemail. ‘Hmm.' Kristina looked at the phone and shrugged. ‘I’ll try again later.’
Holy Island Trilogy 03 - The Final Countdown Page 1