Don't Turn Around: A dark, thrilling, page-turner of a crime novel (Detective Jennifer Knight Crime Thriller Series Book 1)

by Caroline Mitchell

  ‘Well, you know Mr Wallace? He’s one of my best clients. He said he could get me a little job down the bingo halls in Lexton as a cloakroom assistant. It wouldn’t be much, but I’ve been putting some money aside. You could have Frank weekends when I have to work and I can look after him during the week.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve worked it all out,’ Viv said, raising her cup for more. ‘There’s only one problem, isn’t there?’

  The sentence hung in the air. Glo leaned forward and whispered, ‘He doesn’t have to know.’

  ‘And how is that gonna happen? You think Osborne is gonna let one of his best earners go, just like that? Off into the sunset, “Ta ra Glo, I’m gonna miss you!”’ Viv extended her fingers in a tinkly wave to demonstrate her point. ‘If he finds out what you’re up to, the only way you’ll leave that place is in a box.’

  Gloria looked around. Frank pulled back behind the door, holding his breath as he strained to hear.

  ‘Mr Wallace is going to rent me a flat over the bingo hall. It’s not much, but it’s a start. There’s a spare room and everything, Frank would love it there, it looks over the town, all the lights, you can see for miles. If we travel down on the train, we can get Frank here to you every weekend. I might even be able to get him a little job so he can help you out with the bills. It’s about time you started taking it easy.’

  Viv lit another cigarette and looked at Gloria coolly. ‘So this Mr. Wallace; married, is he? Planning on paying your rent in kind?’

  Gloria sighed. ‘Maybe, but he’s a good man that wants to help. Osborne will be none the wiser until it’s too late.’

  ‘Glo you can plan all you want, take Frank with you, I don’t care. But you listen to me …’ Viv grabbed Gloria’s forearm hard. ‘Osborne won’t let you go. I’ve seen what happens to girls that try to leave. Why do you think I’ve never walked the streets? You and I may have our differences, but I don’t want anything to happen to you.’ Viv’s cigarette bounced on her bottom lip, and she jabbed the plastic tablecloth with her finger to drive home her point. ‘If you’re leaving, you plan it good. And don’t tell anyone what you’re doing. You get me?’

  Gloria nodded somberly. ‘I won’t tell a soul. When I’m settled, I’ll come and get Frank. That’s if he wants to come.’

  ‘Of course he will. I know I’ve not been much of a mum to him. Since his dad left, life has been hard. Some days it’s all I can do to get out of bed.’

  ‘You try your best Viv, but I think a little break will do you both good. You know I would never have called the social on you. I may be a lot of things, but I’m no grass.’

  Frank counted down the days to the summer holidays. The weeks passed and as the chill left the air, he dreamt of the day Gloria would come for him. She had made him a promise and she was moving away just for him. Once he left, he would never come back to this dive again.

  Thump, thump, thump. The headboard vibrating against the wall in his mother’s room distracted him from his thoughts. Old Andy O’Leary was paying a visit. Shouldn’t take very long, although he always shouted to God when he was nearly finished. He wasn’t a churchgoer as far as Frank knew.

  Faster; thump thump thump. It gained momentum. He really should try to fix that headboard. Wedge something to stop the noise. ‘Oh God, Oh God, Oh … GOD.' Frank imagined ramming a large cloth in Mr. O’Leary’s mouth and taking him down with his crowbar. That would grant him his wish to meet God for sure. After a few minutes, the bedroom door creaked open and Mr. O’Leary padded downstairs, exiting through the back door into the night. Frank looked out his window to the garden below to see the small Irishman swivelling his head from side to side as he checked the coast was clear.

  ‘Frank, come here!’ His mother shrilled from the bedroom next door. Frank got back into bed and pulled the blanket over his head. An object hit the adjoining wall. ‘Frank, you come in here right now.’ Frank dragged himself out, cursing under his breath as his feet hit the hard wooden floor.

  ‘I’m trying to sleep, I’ve got school tomorrow.’ Frank opened the door to see his mother spread on the bed, a pillow covering her waist as she rested an ashtray on it. ‘For God’s sake Viv, cover yourself up will you?’

  ‘Why? It’s only tits. You’ve seen them plenty of times before.’

  Frank rubbed his eyes, wishing he could erase the vision from his memory. His mother had changed after his father left. ‘Reverted back to self’ was what his grandmother said. Not that they saw much of her these days. One thing was for sure, mothers weren’t meant to go around flashing their tits like that. It was disgusting.

  ‘What do you want?’ Frank said, in a voice older than his years.

  ‘Go downstairs and get me my bottle of gin. It’s at the back of the bread bin.’

  ‘Go and get it yourself, you lazy bitch. I’m going back to bed.’

  Viv picked up the ashtray and threw it at him. It whizzed past his ear, clanged against the door and scattered its contents on the floor. ‘After everything I do for you. Go and get me that bloody gin before I tan your arse.’

  Frank stared at his mother in defiance as he imagined shutting her up once and for all. It was not the first time such a thought had entered his mind, and they were becoming more frequent.

  ‘Don’t you give me the evil eye, that shit doesn’t work on me anymore,’ she said, unrepentant.

  ‘I can’t wait to leave this place, and when I do, I’m never coming back.’ Frank spat the words festering in his mouth.

  Viv pulled on her dressing gown and swung her legs from the bed. ‘Oh yeah? Where are you gonna stay?’

  ‘I’m moving in with Glo. I heard her say so. She must have her place ready by now.’

  Viv whispered under her breath, pushing her feet into her slippers. ‘You stupid boy.’

  ‘I know where it is, over the bingo hall in Lexton. I’ll pack my stuff and go there tomorrow.’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘I can. You just watch me.’

  ‘You can’t – because she’s dead.’

  Frank stepped backwards, failing to mask the horror on his face. ‘You’re lying.’

  Viv shuffled towards him with as much sympathy as she could muster. ‘She died of a drug overdose last week. I wasn’t going to tell you.’

  Tears welled in Frank’s eyes. ‘No. I don’t believe you.’

  Viv put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Son, why would I lie?’ She patted him twice on the shoulder and walked through the door, her words following behind her. ‘You should know by now. You can’t rely on anyone. Life is shit and people are shit. Sooner you know that, the better.’

  Frank’s voice broke into a sob as he followed his mother out to the landing. ‘I thought she was off the gear.’

  ‘She was. But you best let it drop now,’ Viv turned, pointed her finger in a warning, ‘I don’t want to hear of you talking about this to anyone else. Not if you know what’s good for you.’

  Frank wiped his tears as he felt a dark monster grow fresh hatred within him. Osborne. He was responsible for Gloria’s death. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and when he opened them, he knew what he had to do. His days of crying were over.

  6 Chapter Six

  Johnny paced the confines of his narrow bedsit, rubbing his clammy hands on the back of his sweat-stained jeans. A raging temperature coursed through his body, and he ripped off his t-shirt and threw it on the bed. His sudden fever was the least of his worries as he listened for signs of the men who had threatened to take his life. As much he hated his neighbours, he preferred their company to being the only person left in the block of flats. Pulling back the net curtain, he peered out the grime-streaked window. Apart from some kids leaning on their bikes, it was all clear. He patted the reassuring outline of his phone in his jeans pocket, trying to work out how long he had to call the filth should the door be forced open. Not long enough. Stretching onto his toes, he ran his fingers over the doorframe until he felt the outline of the knife. It’l
l be okay. They’ll never get through the double bolts, he thought. Like a rat in a cage, he paced from window to door. But he knew. If the people working for Mike Stone wanted a way in, they got a way in, even if it meant dressing up as Santa fucking Claus and coming down the chimney.

  It was no surprise that Shelly had refused to take him in. They were hardly love’s young dream. But with his mates too scared to speak to him, there was nowhere else to go. Johnny sat on the bed and rocked as he held his head in his hands. They were coming. He could feel it. By stabbing Mike Stone he had signed his own death warrant. ‘I’m as good as dead,’ he whimpered in the silence of the room. Mike was building his empire and wouldn’t let Johnny show him up. Then there was the matter of the two grand debt. If he paid back Mike the money he owed, he might have taken a beating and left town. But Johnny was skint, and the money he got pimping Shelly had dried up along with her looks. He turned his head to the window and another wave of dread washed over him. The light was rapidly evaporating, and with it, any hope of survival. Under the cover of darkness the hunters would come. His shoulders shook as he wept, tearing his nails into his skin in an act of reproach. A dribble of saliva fell from his mouth as he cursed the root of his problems.

  The ouija board had seemed like a bit of fun when he had discovered it on the wardrobe of his flat. He had used them as a kid and knew how they worked. But this one didn’t work like the others. It brought the voice. It brought the Grim Reaper. Johnny used to pretend he couldn’t read or write. It was just his way of protecting himself from signing anything the coppers put in front of him. But his literacy was good enough to pick out the words which came with each slide of the glass over the smooth varnished wood. HELP. REWARD. LISTEN. ACCEPT. YES.

  After one active ouija board session, he had simply invited it in. He didn’t need the board to communicate anymore, because after that, he heard the voice in his mind. It said it was the Grim Reaper, but not to be afraid because it wasn’t coming for him. Johnny had a job to do, and he accepted being fully controlled by the Grim Reaper in return for the gifts that appeared in his wake. A puppet, that’s what Johnny was – and he was not the only one. It was no different to a good hit, losing hours of his time. But just like drugs, the good times did not come for free. The Grim Reaper took what it wanted and gave little regard for its host. Like a virus, it extended feelers in the gloom, preparing its next infection. More and more voices were filling his head, snapping at his heels like hungry rats. He hoped it would move on; leave him alone to pick up the pieces. But it never had any intention of letting him live, and when Johnny realised he had stabbed Mike Stone he knew he was living on borrowed time.

  Johnny jerked as he opened his eyes and realised the room was in complete darkness. Please not again, he thought, pushing the button on his phone to check the time. The backlight shook beneath his trembling hands, and he blinked as he struggled to focus his blurring vision. Where did the last hour go? He thought. Razor-sharp pain speared his stomach and he bent over, clasping his sides. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten. He couldn’t remember anything.

  Johnny’s knees gave way and he dropped to the floor as a seizure overtook him. Footsteps made their way into the room as he writhed amongst the mouse droppings in the space between his bed and the wardrobe.

  ‘Poor Johnny, are you suffering?’ a voice crooned from above him.

  Johnny’s eyes opened into two painful slits, allowing him to make out the hooded figure above. It was not Mike Stone. He recognised the face from somewhere but his thoughts were jumbled, dislocated. Had he just let them in? Flecks of foam shot from his mouth as he muffled a cry for help, and he kicked and jerked as his body convulsed out of control. His chest heaved as he was hoisted into a sitting position against the narrow single bed, head lolling to one side like a rag doll, blood trickling from his mouth where he had bitten his tongue. After a few hoarse breaths, Johnny turned his eyes to the person before him. ‘You?’ he croaked, barely mustering enough energy to point his calloused finger.

  Johnny’s ragged fingernails screeched against the floorboards as the figure dragged his limp body to the hall. He knew there was little point in fighting, but his body kicked out just the same; a frail attempt at self-preservation.

  Johnny’s eyes swivelled upwards to see a thick hemp rope hanging from the top banister. A rickety chair caught its shadow from where it was parked underneath. His heart, which was straining to provide him with the most basic functions, began to bounce in his chest as raw fear flooded his system. The draft from under the door whistled in a ghostly sentiment, and he realised then, that in the cold paint-chipped corridor amongst the mouse droppings and the cobwebs, this was where he was going to die.

  But there was little sympathy from the cold-hearted figure propping him to his feet. Having prepared for his demise, the Grim Reaper silently left the building, and tears streamed down Johnny’s face as he found enough strength to walk to the back door and bolt it behind him.

  Johnny’s legs weakened and he plopped heavily on the chair. His hair hung limply around his face as he stared at his bare feet, considering his options. Either he said no and the Grim Reaper would kill him anyway, or he could wait for Mike Stone’s men to find him. He shuddered as the breeze tickled his back. Johnny had heard all sorts of rumours about what happened to people that crossed Stone, including torture by amputation. Even if he survived this, he would most likely die soon anyway. Johnny stood on matchstick legs as he grasped the back of the chair for support, then slowly dragged his feet towards the chair. He could smell the toxicity seeping through the air like poison. He lifted one foot up on to the seat, then the other, clinging onto the wood with his bare toes as he reached for the rope. He could just go to sleep now. Go to sleep and the pain would all be over. The whispers were gentle now, calming, like a lullaby. Trance-like, he pushed his head into the rope and closed his eyes. Soon, it would all be over.

  7 Chapter Seven

  The lights of the marina twinkled as Jennifer drove across the river bridge, the coloured glows teasing the residents on the other side. To her they signalled wealth and opulence, a sore reminder for the people left behind. The marina was a multi-million pound project, boasted to help the historic tourist town. But all it did was segregate the population of Haven into the haves and have-nots. The marina hosted yachts, luxury townhouses, and a variety of fine dining establishments. Not the sort of places the homegrown residents of Haven could afford. In the east of England, at just over an hour’s commute to London, Haven was a reasonably priced base for the bankers and brokers that commuted from the flats overlooking the Blakewater River.

  Jennifer lay blame with the councillors, who concentrated their efforts on the marina development, instead of the working class citizens on the other side. She wondered how many palms had been greased to get it underway. Instead of developing the neglected housing estates, they sold off the cheap properties to out of area housing associations, filling them with the dregs of humanity and the promise of a better life. Once a thriving tourist attraction, the thick green woodlands lay as forgotten and neglected as the boathouses that dotted them.

  It broke Jennifer’s heart to see her beloved hometown on its knees. No amount of street cleaning could scrape the grime from Haven’s streets, but she would do everything in her power to combat it.

  Bolting the front door behind her, she switched on the hall light and rested her coat on the banister. The feeling of foreboding had followed her home, and she reprimanded herself for allowing Johnny’s words to play on her mind. Work helped distract her incessant thoughts, but returning to an empty house intensified her growing apprehension. She flicked up the heat and took the post from behind the door. She had lived in the house for two years, yet never fully relaxed within its walls. It had everything she could have wanted, including a newly fitted kitchen in black granite with gloss white walls and rows of gleaming spotlights overhead. The black and white theme continued throughout most of the house, excep
t for the dark wooden banister, which matched the original flooring in the hall. A cream carpet in the sitting room meant guests had to take off their shoes, and her favourite part of the house was the under floor heating which kept it warm all year around.

  Kicking off her heels, she tried to relax as the mundane chatter of a TV chat show played in the background. But peace evaded her, and she shifted in her armchair, trying to deny the thoughts filling her head. They were calling her. The voices of the dead.

  Jennifer clasped her hands to her ears as whispers began to run unbridled through her mind. Who’s there? Annabel, is that you? An old man whispered.

  ‘Go away,’ Jennifer said, grasping the remote control to turn up the television.

  An insistent woman’s voice broke through. There’s no Annabel here, you silly sod. What about me? One minute I’m making a nice cup of tea and the next I’m looking at myself, lifeless on the floor. Young lady, I need to speak to my daughter, do you hear me? I insist you fetch her this minute!

  As a child, Jennifer had tried to help, but it always came to the same conclusion. The people the voices sought so desperately could not be found, they were from a different time, or they just didn’t want to know. And then there were the others – dark energies masquerading as weeping children, looking for a way in. Their sinister intentions were fuelled by hatred and anger that drove their host to the brink of despair. It chilled her to the bone. If it weren’t for Father Kelly … she shuddered. The family priest had patiently taught her to channel her energy, deflecting the cries of the lost souls roaming the void. He explained that by listening she was keeping them grounded, stalling their need to relinquish earthly ties. She had joined the police to help the living, plagued by guilt because she couldn’t help the dead. But now they were flooding her consciousness in uncontrollable waves. Curling up in her chair she pressed her fists to the side of her head as she steadied her breathing. Just what the hell had started this off again? It didn’t matter what the clinic told her, the whispers were real. The restless dead. All searching for something.