Only The Dead: an explosive new detective series

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  Table of Contents

  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

  Only The Dead

  Malcolm Hollingdrake

  Copyright © 2016 Malcolm Hollingdrake.

  The right of Malcolm Hollingdrake to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2016 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  In memory of

  DM2/154931 Private

  William Hollingdrake

  Royal Army Service Corps

  26th September, 1918 Age 30

  Also now available:

  Hell’s Gate: the explosive second part of Malcolm Hollingdrake’s DCI Cyril Bennett Harrogate Crime Series

  Amazon UK

  Amazon US

  “Revenge proves its own executioner”

  John Ford (1586-1639?)

  There is no known antidote, even today. With the modern marvels witnessed in medical science, there is nothing to help you. It literally makes you want to weep!

  After an attack, you would know nothing of the danger you were in, you would only feel the wet, oily substance in your hair and on your forehead. You would feel its viscosity on your fingers, smell it and experience a sensation in the eyes that is often brought on by peeling onions; slight discomfort and watery, but nothing frightening. Your initial reaction would fade as you wiped your hand on a tissue before throwing it into a litter bin. Feeling foolish for feeling scared, you might make your way to meet with friends or return home. At the earliest opportunity, you would check your hair in a mirror and would try to clean away the matted residue. You might think it was from a bird. You would only grow curious and more anxious as you began to cough a little and tears filled your eyes for no reason. You would not feel ill, just a little silly and possibly embarrassed at your inability to control your tears. In one to two hours, however, all that would change.

  Chapter One

  Detective Chief Inspector Cyril Bennett stared at the strange face that gurned back from the misted bathroom mirror; it was far from the face he knew. He deliberately closed his eyes but only one obeyed his order, the right eye continued to study the reflected disfigurement. It had to be said that the toothpaste liberally spread round his lop-sided lips and the fact that it continued its path to drip from stubble on his chin, didn’t enhance his appearance. Three days ago he had been fine. It had been a long day, yes, nothing abnormal in that, followed by a few relaxing drinks in the Black Swan and one or two night-caps once home and this was what he had awoken to.

  “Bloody Bell’s pissing, poxy palsy,” he groaned in a strong, Yorkshire accent. “Great!”

  ***

  If a cliché could bombard the senses then Lawrence Young was right in the middle of a war zone. The swaying, honey-coloured corn lay mottled red by the Papaver rhoeas; both were caressed in gentle waves as if some invisible hands were moving with stealth. They wafted left and right in the morning breeze that was slowly succeeding in clearing the dawn mist that still greyed the horizon’s blue. Damp, earthy smells drifted from the boot-disturbed, ochre soil, but it wasn’t just these sensory intrusions that brought sadness and yet at the same time a smile to his lips. Somewhere above this flatness was the shrill, broken call of a sky lark, its Morse code-like trill filling the emptiness of the morning with a welcoming yet warning call.

  Leaning against the wooden gate post, he tilted his head, his eyes scanning the endless blue in search of the bundle of noise. The distinct lack of a visual reference point made its location a challenge. He shaded his eyes with a gloved hand, stared into the distance and then back again. Suddenly, out of nothing, appeared the small, brown bird bobbing up and down as if elevated by the energy of its song. His eyes followed the moving bird as the sound filled his head giving the penultimate clue to his location. Slowly, he let his eyes drift earthward, leaving the bird to its morning reveille. Here then was the last clue, the row upon row of white, Portland stones, meticulously maintained in soldier rows; the large, sword-emblazoned cross, a protecting arm over the fallen, stood semi-silhouetted against the morning blue. A stronger breeze grew from nowhere to make the corn whisper as if in protest at the intrusion and a strange, malevolent tingle ran to the nape of his neck. Words grew in his head as his eyes drifted skyward again.

  “In Flanders’ fields the poppies blow

  Between the crosses, row on row

  That mark our place; and in the sky

  The larks still bravely singing, fly...”

  He knew it by heart. He knew that it had been written after the funeral of Alexis Helmer by his friend, a Canadian physician, ninety-eight years ago and that the poet had discarded it, dissatisfied with his work, frustrated, no doubt, by the senselessness and futility of this grim and hopeless place. The Canadian was probably disheartened by the endless, surgical hours toiled to save a few of England’s finest, the frustration of knowing that infections would kill as many as the bullets and the bombs.

  Lawrence took out a small tissue, removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses; he misted each lens with his warm breath before rubbing the glass clean. Holding up the tissue in the growing breeze he watched it flutter as if he were giving it life and then he released it to drift away. It moved freely, butterfly-like, over the road and then tumbled a short distance before being held fast by an ear of corn, gently flapping in protest at a journey cut too short.

  The growing noise of a tractor engine drowned the sound of the lark. He turned to look, angered by the distraction and intrusion.

  ‘Why are tractors so large these days?’ he said out loud.

  The ground shook gently as the green Leviathan, its complicated and unidentifiable attachment erect and tail-like, passed. The driver gave a cheery wave. Once its rumble had ceased, his eyes scanned for the paper but it had gone, swallowed like young men in Ypres’mud. Lost! Strangely the lark too had given up on the day.

  He moved away from the post and his gloved hand lifted the metal cylinder of corroded metal. He wrapped it with care and patience in a cut piece of car inner-tube before placing it in a rucksack. It was one of the 1.45 billion shells fired during the senseless battles that had raged, harvesting the blood of youth. This corroded relic was no souvenir; he knew jus
t what it contained. He had rejected two other shell relics, dredged up by the farmers and left for collection by the Belgian Army’s Ordinance Disposal Company. First World War munitions were still killing as they were brought to the surface by ploughs. His harvest was very specific. He collected a poppy from the edge of the field and placed it alongside the shell he had chosen before swinging the sack over his shoulder. He looked in the direction of the tractor but it too had gone. Alone again, he moved away, happy that he had secured another quantity of Yperite.

  Chapter Two

  The Cloth Hall at the centre of Ypres made a perfect back-drop. Lawrence Young sat with his back to it as he viewed the square. Parked cars seemed to fill the place and around part of its periphery were squeezed rows of cafés. He sipped a beer, his rucksack secured between his feet. He smiled to himself remembering the number of times he had enjoyed a beer in this wonderful place. He screwed up his eyes as if trying to time travel and picture it at the end of 1918...images of the photographs he had seen in numerous text books, black and white, brown and cream, filled his mind’s eye. Crumbling and chaotic shattered walls that were once homes and businesses replaced the near-perfect square, the sky dark and menacing filled with imaginary acrid smoke and the Cloth Hall injured; total demolition.

  Today, as he re-focussed his thoughts, magnificent in bright colour, bathed in milky sunshine, there was little visual existing damage and there was definitely no one in the square who could recall the devastation of those years at first hand. Funny how people soon forgot once the external scars had healed. For the majority of the people living there, it was of the past...life moves on and in some ways that is how man survives, he moves on; hopefully he learns and heeds, but he moves on. But at the Menin Gate, each night at eight, memories return with respect and solemnity, the last post still sounds, not to honour the devastation and war, nor to remind us of the bloody-mindedness of those leading the lambs to the slaughter, but to remember the lambs themselves; the dispensable, the naive and the innocent, the wasted talent and skills of the individuals who had evaporated daily, the Pals who had lived together, fought together and suffered together. They had come from the northern cities excited by this adventure to what was, for them, an exotic land, away from the drudgery and predictability of life’s daily grind. That night Lawrence would stand in a quiet corner and listen to the bugles’ haunting cry echo through the rebuilt streets and trickle over the regimented cobbles before slowly disappearing forever. He would lick his own wounds.

  Across the square he could see the beautiful, cobbled Grote Markt leading to Memenstrat which would take him directly to the memorial walls protected within the magnificent gate. The patterned, cobbled streets had always made an impression on him; it was probably the predictable order, knowing that around the next corner they would just be the same; he liked that, it calmed him. His eyes refocused on the square; the lollipop trees, in lines, the bicycles, in lines, even those waiting for the bus made an orderly line; predictable. He drank more beer before wiping his mouth with his handkerchief. His mind refocused on the grainy films of British troops waiting in line for the whistle to signal their destiny. How brave they had been, the smell of fear never reaching the modern audience. The end result seemed so predictable yet he failed to detect signs of fear. He admired that.

  There would be no whistle blown for Lawrence Young, he would be the one to blow the whistle and only when he was ready. He would be the one to take control but he knew one thing for certain, he would see and smell their fear. He carried his rucksack to a clean but elderly Renault Scenic. He removed the rusting shell case and placed it inside what appeared to be a polystyrene box. He closed the lid, threw the rucksack next to it and closed the boot. He would wait for the buglers and then drive for the Tunnel.

  ***

  Just before eight, the traffic leading to the gate was halted and four uniformed firemen stood beneath the arch, bugles in their right hands. The low sun dappled the walls as if reading the thousands of names of those with no graves, ‘Known only to God’, carved into the white stone. The volunteer buglers of the Last Post Association turned and marched to the centre. Lawrence watched the crowd of holiday makers filming the proceedings having been reminded by ceremonial assistants of certain etiquette that was expected. He hung his head and familiar faces behind his closed eyes drifted in and out of focus. They were the sole reason he was here. He focussed on each face. ‘I shall remember them,’ he whispered. ‘I shall.’

  A degree of cold affirmation settled on him as the bugles cried yet again and without embarrassment Lawrence Young wiped a tear from his eyes. Nobody saw but if they had they would simply have turned away.

  ***

  The Renault contradicted its external appearance and started at the turn of the key. Lawrence set the Sat Nav for Coquelles and the Tunnel even though he knew the way. Setting the navigation system to km per hour helped him abide by the speed limit; as night approached the km numbers on the car’s speedometer became difficult to read and he didn’t want to be stopped for a minor speeding offence this late in the game. The route planner showed 93 km and a journey time of just over the hour. He had plenty of time and headed for Poperinge and the E42.

  There was no traffic leading to the Euro Tunnel booths and he selected one showing the Union flag so he could perform the necessary ‘booking in’ from the driver’s seat. The toll booth was automated, all cameras and screens and they soon recognised the registration number. The screen to his right indicated to a Mr. Eric Johnson that an earlier shuttle was available at no extra cost, the choice was his, but he declined and the windscreen boarding card, emblazoned with a large capital E, was dispatched. A cheery ‘Bon Voyage,’ appeared on the screen. Lawrence grinned at it before popping the card into a small, plastic clip on the side of the windscreen and slowly progressed through French Customs, and then through the British Border Agency booths. He looked at the British official and smiled. A blank expression was returned with the temperament of a bank clerk.

  “Courtesy with maximum efficiency, we British! I don’t think so!” he thought.

  The passport was scanned and handed back. It was done. He could now get a coffee in the terminal building and relax before his 10:35 train.

  He moved the passport from the dashboard and slid it into his travel wallet. His eyes scanned briefly the photograph of an elderly lady. The protective plastic cover was now crumpled but he still smoothed it affectionately with his thumb. A sad smile flickered on his lips before he slid the wallet into his pocket.

  Once through the tunnel he had one more task to perform. He would pull off the motorway and in the same lay-by, swap the number plates. He had found an identical Renault for sale on a web-site and had number plates made up. If the ANPR (Automatic Number Plate Recognition) cameras picked him up it wouldn’t track to him. However, he knew that the cars being detected miles apart within minutes with the same plate would give away a clue; he was also aware that a major feature of ANPR allowed data mining that could correlate journey times; impossibly quick journey times would be immediately flagged, but life now was about risk.

  Chapter Three

  The fluorescent lights blinked into life with a cough leaving one of the six reluctant to wake. A touch of the cylindrical starter gave it a helping hand and it begrudgingly lit with the sound of a faltering heart. Initially there was only a dull glow but soon it would match its neighbours. It continued, however, to attract attention with an annoying, protesting, low hum. Lawrence scanned the workshop. There was one door but no windows. Workbenches and tools surrounded the walls and some of the large machine tools gave the place a professional air. In the corner, covered with a tarpaulin sat the Renault, its cooling engine clicking and ticking.

  His father had been a skilful engineer and Lawrence had acquired many of his skills and could turn his hand to anything. On the shelves above the benches stood the proof in the form of beautifully crafted, scale models made by both himself and his father. Now they stoo
d unused. Alongside these stood three, large, brown, faded books – ‘The Great War, I Was There,’ by Hammerton, written in gold lettering followed by dates on each. At the base of each spine was an image of a soldier, a sailor and an airman. These three tomes had always been on this shelf but it was Volume Three that had fascinated and puzzled Lawrence.

  He took it down and let it fall open at one specific page always marked with a pink bus ticket from the 50’s stamped 4d. He turned the book to view the sepia photograph of a large group of soldiers looking out from the past and it was on one soldier in particular that Lawrence’s eyes would always fall. Was this man a Lawrence Young too? Was it his Great grandfather’s brother who had died at the age of thirty? He had never seen photographs from his father’s side of the family but somehow, out of all the faces on every page of these three books, this face called out to him. He could divine similarities in the bone structure to that of his father, the eyes had the same stare and he looked older than the rest. To survive the war until 1918 and be thirty years of age was no easy task. Was his interest just the obsession of a man trying to make contact with the unknown past?

  He scanned page 1458 again, looking into the eyes of these men, this cannon fodder, and wondered what skills and opportunities had been lost in that cess-pit of war. What would they have given to or taken from society? They were a lost generation. What lights had been extinguished before their glow could be noticed? Beneath the photograph the caption read, ‘Their future was uncertain but they faced it with smiles.’

  He closed the book and returned it to the shelf next to a brass, car mascot that had belonged to his grandfather. It depicted a laughing British Tommy with a large, unkempt moustache. It had been his father’s favourite item. Old Bill had been created during the First World War as a cartoon.

  “They had no choice,” he said out loud, “no bloody choice what so ever.”