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

by Caroline Mitchell

  She wished she could say the same about her mind. Charlie’s death played heavily as she relived their last moments together in custody. If only she could have done more. She had been told the case would be closed as inconclusive, just like the others. How many more deaths before people take her seriously? An unwelcome thought crept into her mind. Could her recent dreams of nothingness be a premonition for her future? Her heart fluttered in her chest. The killer could be on their way to her this very moment and there was nothing she could do about it. Touching the cross around her neck, her anxiety lost momentum as she slowly came to ground, like a deflated balloon.

  She returned her glance to the box, with its frayed edges and ragged bands of Sellotape, begging to be opened. It was either that or put it in the loft. And even then it would bother her, like an itch waiting to be scratched. What if it contained the answers she had been looking for? Dragging the box over to the center of the living room floor, she ripped back the tape and carefully emptied its contents onto the carpet. Detaching herself from the fact that these were her mother’s things, she worked methodically, putting irrelevant items back into the box. There would be another day for sentiment. The belongings were mainly work related; a pair of epaulettes, a worn cravat, and things her mother had kept in her desk at work.

  Jennifer flicked through a bunch of photographs, stopping at a group picture dated 1980. Officers stood rigid with their hands clasped behind their backs, and amidst the sea of uniforms, five women sat, crisp and immaculate, their white-gloved hands resting on the laps of their A-line skirts. There was not a smile in sight. It was taken at a time when women had to work twice as hard as their male counterparts to prove their worth. She stared at her mother’s face, wondering why she had sacrificed her family for a career. It was her family that had been left to pick up the pieces after she died; to her job, she was nothing but a number. Jennifer chastised herself for allowing self-pity to creep up on her. She boxed away the photos for another time, along with some small ornaments, a pencil case, calendars, and a jewellery box. She gently laid the jewellery box back with the other items and shook her head as she realised that all that was left was a faded black shoebox. Pulling back the lid, she found that it revealed a bunch of yellowed newspaper clippings, tainting the air with a slightly musty smell.

  Stretching her legs, she carried the shoebox and her journal to the sofa. Tiny clippings of death notifications quivered in her hand. Jennifer made notes of the names in her journal, but she didn’t experience the epiphany she hoped for. Laying the smaller clippings aside, she unfolded newspaper pages. The headlines reflected the biggest case of Elizabeth’s career. Jennifer had heard about the case through Laura, who had told her how driven Elizabeth had been to ensure that the killer was convicted. Much of the credit had gone to her senior officers, but Laura recalled the case as her ‘crowning glory.’ Her swan song before she died so suddenly.

  Frustration grew as she scanned the papers. Sure, it was an interesting case, but what had any of this to do with her? But her intuition drove her on. Jennifer traced her finger over the words. ‘Killer confesses to spate of murders … Homeless man Michael Osborne found hung ... police initially believed the death was a suicide until teenager Samuel Beswick alerted police … Killer Frank Foster was also responsible for the death of retired schoolteacher Stanley Rogers … died in a house fire.’ Jennifer clasped a hand to her mouth. Why didn’t she see this before? She studied the rest of the page as she read on. ‘Foster is also believed to have confessed to the death of seventy-five-year-old widower Mrs Barbara Harris, whom police believed had died of a severe asthma attack. Foster admitted to attempting to smother the pensioner …’ The words jumped out at Jennifer as the similarities became apparent. ‘Foster also admitted to assisting in the death of forty year old sex worker Martina Savage …’

  Jennifer grabbed her pen and scribbled down notes of the names. Could someone be creating current day counterparts?

  Michael Osborne = Johnny Mallet. Both drug users, both found hung, both deaths believed to be suicides.

  Stanley Rogers = Charlie Taylor. Both ex-teachers died in a house fire, both inconclusive.

  Barbara Harris = ?? Elderly lady, found dead in her home, suspected asthma attack, murdered.

  Martina Savage = Shelly Easton. Both prostitutes. Martina murdered. Shelly??

  Jennifer twiddled with her chain as the names screamed from the page. This was her connection. She could feel it in her gut. Perhaps the last two murders hadn’t happened yet but there was nothing to say … elderly lady? Living alone, apart from her dog … Realisation kicked in as the image of Joan’s face swam in her mind. ‘No, please not her.’ Jennifer said. A sick feeling grew in her stomach like a vine and crawled upwards into her throat. She whispered to the empty room, her words offering little comfort. ‘I’ll go there and offer to return the cross. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Everything will be fine.’ Yet as Jennifer grabbed her car keys, she knew in her heart Joan was already dead.

  Jennifer’s fingernails bit into her palms as she waited for a response to her sharp rap on the door. No barking dog, no sign of life. A voice arose from next door and a woman with a bun piled up on her head poked her nose over the hedge.

  ‘Are you looking for someone?’

  Jennifer shielded her eyes from the sharp winter sun as she turned to greet the inquisitive neighbour. ‘Yes I was looking for Mrs Connelly. Is she in?’

  The woman looked down the bridge of her long nose. ‘Are you a relative?’

  Jennifer flashed her warrant card. ‘I’m a police officer. I just needed to follow up some house to house enquiries.’

  The lady sighed as her face fell in sadness. ‘She passed away last week. I miss her dreadfully. She was my bingo partner.’

  Jennifer touched her forehead while trying to process the information.

  ‘Are you all right, dear?’ The woman’s voice sounded as it was coming from far away.

  Jennifer forced a smile. ‘I’m fine. Just recovering from the flu. I shouldn’t have come to work today,’ she lied. ‘Can you tell me how she died?’

  ‘They think it was her heart. Her poor little dog was barking all night. Inconsolable, he is.’

  Jennifer made it to her car, her hands trembling as she clicked her safety belt into place. She nodded at the woman, and swore under her breath she flooded the engine in her haste. Please start, please, she thought, not knowing how long she could hold in the dam of tears that threatened to break. The engine stuttered into life and Jennifer focused on the road, blocking all thoughts of Joan from her mind until she got home. But her thoughts filtered through, condemning her as guilty. Joan had said it was dangerous having her there. If it weren’t for you, she would still be alive, she thought. Jennifer felt the blood on her hands as if it was real.

  The car keys rattled as they slid across the hall table and Jennifer bolted the door behind her. She had barely known Joan, but the sense of responsibility hit her hard. According to the list, Shelly could be next. She had to be warned. But how? It’s not as if she would listen. She bit her fingernail as she paced the living room, wondering how she could persuade her DI to open an investigation. Could Frank Foster be responsible? It wasn’t entirely unknown for killers to shed their identity and slip back into the community, but after all these years? Or was she searching for a killer with supernatural powers? Jennifer picked up the shoebox, hearing a slight rattle as it moved. Holding it up near her ear, she gave it another shake. The sound was so slight she could have easily overlooked it. As she stared inside the empty box, a piece of frayed cardboard caught her eye. She ripped back the thin cardboard to discover a small brown envelope underneath. Her mind raced as she dipped her fingers into the envelope, and pulled out a black cassette tape. The same antiquated tapes they used for interviewing suspects. What was her mother doing with this? Frowning, she squinted at the scribbles on the label. ‘Sam Beswick – 12th December 1980 – copy.’ A flutter of excitement rose as she flicked
through her journal. Of course! – Sam Beswick was Frank Foster’s accomplice. Her aunt Laura had told her about the famous investigation, and of her mother’s fondness for keeping ‘trophies’ from certain cases. Another thought hit her, not entirely unwelcome. She would be listening to her mother’s voice. As soon as she could get her hands on a tape recorder, that was.

  21 Chapter Twenty-one

  Frank - 1990

  Memories of Gloria brought mixed feelings for Frank as he gazed at the twinkling lights spread across the town. He was proud of his purchase. The bingo hall had been replaced with a cinema, but the sentiment was the same. The night he bought the flat, he climbed the steps to the roof and spoke to the stars. ‘I did it girl,’ he whispered to the memory of the woman he had hoped would be his saviour. But all that remained of Gloria was the poetry book she had given him as a child, with the inscription, ‘There is power in words – use them wisely.’ Frank hadn’t understood it back then, but he did now.

  Moving into town was a wise choice, and scamming lonely women from the neighbouring city proved very lucrative indeed. With a nicely cut suit and some choice words, he could be anyone he wanted; a stockbroker, property developer, airline pilot, whatever their fantasy desired. He wasn’t a whore like his mother. He just sold the dream. He could have bought a city apartment with the money he earned, but there was something about the little flat above the old bingo hall that he liked. He could be himself here.

  His friendship with Sam Beswick was no coincidence. He just made Sam think it was. He had watched the kid for some time before deciding he would be of value.

  Sam Beswick was a loner. He stared mournfully from under his long black fringe each time he loped his scrawny frame into the building, usually after another session of name calling from two brothers, Joe and Edward. The Needham boys were Army dropouts who got their kicks picking on the vagrants that sometimes wandered into their ‘territory.' But lately their attention was focused on the strange kid who wore black eyeliner and dressed as if every day was a funeral. Frank knew what was ahead for Sam. Another ‘duffing up’, with the added bonus of having his pockets rifled for loose change and cannabis. Frank had enjoyed stalking the two young men. It had been surprisingly simple to find out their names, addresses, and so much more. He’d missed the peculiar little thrill of hiding in the darkness, and smiled in anticipation as he settled behind the green bins down the damp alleyway inhabited by rats. Sam passed the men on the corner, head down, eyes focused solidly on the path in front of him. He quickened his step as he ducked down the side alley to the flat’s entrance. Two sets of footsteps matched his pace, laughing and jeering as they threw stones in his direction. Sam clutched the bag of groceries to his chest and began to run. A strong pair of hands pushed him hard to the wet pavement, crushing the eggs he’d bought for his supper.

  ‘Aw, look at that, he tripped,’ Edward, the larger of the two lads said, as he drew back his boot to kick Sam in the stomach.

  ‘Isn’t this a nice gathering,’ Frank said, stepping out of the shadows. Cloaked in black, his hat dipped forward, casting his face in shadow.

  Edward squinted in the darkness, his expression changing to a scowl. Joe opened his mouth to speak but took a step back as he noticed Frank’s considerable bulk looming towards them.

  ‘Do one mate, this has nothing to do with you,’ Edward said, slipping his hand into his jacket pocket.

  Frank lent a gloved hand out to Sam as he scrambled to his feet, his long black coat dappled with eggshells and yellow yolks. ‘Go inside. I’ll deal with this,’ Frank said, his eyes on the two young men walking towards him.

  Sam’s eyes widened as the glint of a knife flashed in the shadows from the direction of the men. ‘But …’

  ‘I said go,’ Frank growled.

  Sam scurried away and Edward leered after him. ‘Run, you little shit, we’ll be back for you.’

  ‘You won’t if you know what’s good for you,’ Frank said, smiling.

  Edward pushed out his chest as he marched towards Frank, his words punctuated with spittle. ‘You mess with my fucking business again, I’ll cut you up.’

  Frank smiled as Edward sliced the air with his blade to drive his point home.

  ‘You call that a knife?’ Frank laughed, allowing the serrated hunting knife to slide down the arm of his coat into his right hand. His gloves gripped the thick boned handle. Curling his left hand into a fist, he deadened Edward’s arm with a punch, sending the flick knife skidding across the ground. Frank moved swiftly, kicking it under the bins. Joe stepped forward and Frank drew his elbow back to his face, causing Joe’s nose to crack upon impact.

  Frank quickly pushed Edward against the wall, kneeing him in the groin, making him shriek in pain.

  Edward whimpered to Joe as Frank held the knife to his throat. ‘Do something!’

  Frank barely acknowledged Joe’s punches to his rib cage as he turned his head and spoke calmly. ‘You have a choice, Joe. You’re going to punch me until your arm weakens. Then I’m going to slice your brother’s throat, and as he bleeds out, I’m going to gut you slowly, and choke you with your own intestines. Or you can run. But I know where you live, so keep your head low and your mouth shut.’

  Joe dropped his fist and ran without a backward glance.

  Frank leaned into Edward. ‘Well, this is awkward. So much for brotherly love.’

  ‘Please,’ Edward’s voice came out as a high-pitched squeak, ‘we were only having some fun.’

  ‘I’m having fun too Edward, or “Eddy” as your girlfriend likes to call you. Sweet little thing she is. I’d sure like to meet up with her on a dark night.’ Frank drove the blade further and the man choked a response, dancing on his toes as he was forced to stretch his neck away from the blade digging into his jugular vein.

  ‘Please, let me go. We won’t touch him again, I promise.’

  Frank cocked his head to one side as he gave it some consideration. Sighing, he lowered the knife and pushed the man away, sending him skidding backwards into the puddles. ‘Just remember, I’m watching you.’

  Frank felt Sam’s stare from his flat window, and casually made his way back inside. It was a real shame he couldn’t carry his threat through, but the boys were young and stupid and not really worth his time. Frank unwound the scarf from his neck and removed his hat. Unbuttoning his coat, he shoved his knife into his pocket and knocked on Sam’s door.

  ‘Yes?’ Sam croaked.

  ‘It’s OK kid, they’re gone. Are you all right?’

  Sam opened the door as much as the chain would allow. ‘Thanks for sticking up for me. But I’m OK now.’

  Frank gave Sam one of his winning smiles. ‘It’s OK kid, I just wanted to frighten them. I don’t think they’ll bother you again.’

  Sam smiled. ‘For sure. Thanks man.’

  It took a few more meetings before he gained Sam’s trust. A couple of weeks later Sam invited him inside. His flat stunk of weed and Frank persuaded him to ditch the wasters that turned up at his door all hours of the day and night. It soon became apparent that Sam would do anything Frank told him to. Not because he was afraid of him, but because of his deep admiration. The pair fell into a friendship, and Sam looked after Frank’s flat when he went on one of his escapades to con people out of their money. After a couple of months, Sam had forgotten all about the knife, and enjoyed the benefits of Frank’s protection. But protection came with a price tag that Sam could ill afford.

  Frank hammered with his fist on the black wooden door to overcome the heavy metal music blaring from the flat inside. He brushed the chips of paint that came off on his hand. Sam had decorated when he moved in during his Goth phase, but months had passed, and the place looked tired and worn.

  The door opened. ‘Your music is making my ears bleed.’

  Sam gave a goofy smile, his teeth too big for his mouth. He really needed braces.

  ‘Sorry. I’ll turn it down. Come inside.’

  He followed Sam in, completel
y at ease. ‘I’ve brought some cans. I was wondering how you are getting on with those magazines I loaned you.’

  ‘Cheers mate, they’re here somewhere, sit down.’

  Frank cleared the rubbish from the sofa and handed Sam a can of cider. Spending time in the untidy flat grated on him, and he needed a drink just to cope. Six cans later and the pair had eased into a relaxed conversation.

  As Sam flicked through the pictures in the detective magazines, his eyes rested on the case they called ‘The Demon.’ The image of the man was chilling. Six foot five with every inch of hair shaved off his body. His pale skin offset the hollow wells of his eyes, and the report stated that even the prisoners were scared of the man made famous for killing people in occult practices. Even more sensational were his claims of being capable of resurrecting the dead.

  ‘This guy is so cool. Imagine having the guts to do something like that, you’d be famous forever,’ Sam said as he inhaled his joint.

  Frank sat forward, checking he had heard Sam correctly. ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yeah, these guys go down in history.’

  ‘It’s easier than you think,’ Frank gave a twisted smile.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sam asked, passing a joint.

  Frank waved it away. ‘You heard me, it’s easier than you think.’

  ‘Man, you’re always coming out with stuff like that, but I don’t believe you.’