CHAIN REACTION an absolutely addictive crime thriller with a huge twist

by Bill Kitson

  Nash thanked him and read the document Viv had left him. As Pearce had said, the paperwork yielded little useful information. With nothing concrete to go on, they would have to wait for the thieves to slip up. Catching them red-handed seemed likely to be the only possible solution. Once more, although the outcome could never have been predicted, Nash’s guess was way wide of the mark.

  That night, following a visit to see Daniel and a meal with Clara and David, Nash slept better than he had for some time. But once again, his rest was disturbed. He woke next morning to that familiar feeling of emptiness.

  * * *

  Samantha Frost was as cold as her name implied. She was also wet. She was also miserable. But above all, she was desperate. The hunger that had driven her outdoors onto the windswept, rain-lashed streets of Bishopton in such filthy weather was only partly hers. And it had nothing whatsoever to do with food.

  Samantha had been with her current partner for two years. The attraction wasn’t his looks. It wasn’t his money. It wasn’t his magnetic personality, or his sex appeal. It was nothing more than a shared enjoyment of illicit substances that forged their mutual bond.

  Such guilty pleasures don’t come cheap. To fund them, her partner, ever the gentleman, came up with a simple, effective solution. It involved the sale, or more precisely, the hiring out of their only asset, Samantha’s body.

  She didn’t object too strenuously. It wasn’t as if sex meant a great deal in her life. It had at one time, but a series of fumbling, clumsy and less-than-proficient partners had quickly turned her off the delights of the physical act. Perhaps if any of her liaisons had been driven by love rather than lust, it would have been a different tale. But great lovers and true romantics weren’t exactly ten a penny in Samantha’s social circle.

  Two years down the line and the twin effects of the drugs and some fairly rough trade enjoyed by a few of her punters were beginning to show. Her face, once reasonably pretty, particularly in the less than brilliant street lights of Bishopton, was now little more than passable. Careless of her appearance, she had run to seed far too early. As the habit worsened her looks, she could no longer charge as much, attracting a worse class of clientele. One of the younger members of her profession, aware of this and Samantha’s age, cruelly nicknamed her the Tenner Lady. It was true that she’d to take on far more encounters simply to pay for her drug habit. Not only that, but she was working for two. As Samantha was earning, her partner saw no reason to dirty his hands and join the working class.

  The combination of misuses she subjected her body to accelerated Samantha’s deterioration. It was the most vicious of circles. One of the consequences of the struggle to provide for them both, a struggle that was more often unsuccessful was the inevitable worsening relationship, which was now categorized by abuse: mutual, verbal, and physical. Never shy of venting her feelings, Samantha gave as good as she got, within her physical limitations. On several of their not-irregular visits, police and paramedics found that it wasn’t Samantha but her partner who was in need of treatment. More recently, however, he’d become increasingly reluctant to risk coming second in their encounters. To prevent this, he purchased a set of wickedly sharp-bladed knives which he used to get his point across during their frequent arguments.

  Having established his authority as head of the household, he emphasized his superiority by demanding greater productivity from Samantha. Prices of good gear were escalating fast. It now cost as much to feed his habit as they’d paid for both of them only a year ago. The thought that this might be down to their increased usage never occurred to them. But then, neither Samantha nor her partner were heavily into constructive thought.

  On more than one occasion in recent weeks, Samantha had returned with barely enough money to pay for his drugs. That meant she would have to do without. As a sales incentive, this approach seemed revolutionary to him, although it was by no means unknown to those in Samantha’s profession. Nor did it work every time; at least, not in the way he had intended it to. When Samantha got beyond endurance, she resorted to pocketing her earnings, buying, and using the drugs before she returned to the love nest. She reasoned that although he could take what remained of the money she’d earned, he’d find it difficult to steal the drugs once they were in her system.

  As a strategy it was effective, but dangerous. Venting his anger at her duplicity became a frequent occurrence. Retaliation, even self-defence, was no longer an option open to her. Not when faced with an eight-inch blade being wielded close to her face. That night, as Samantha huddled miserably in a shop doorway that smelt vaguely of vomit and strongly of urine, her desperation and misery were compounded by the fact that she had not earned anything. And the way the weather was looking, her prospects of returning home with enough for one, let alone both of them, were somewhere below zero. In fact, the way things were going, she’d be lucky to be able to afford a packet of cigarettes, let alone the stronger drugs she craved.

  It was neither her looks nor her less-than-sunny disposition that were to blame for this. Weather such as they were experiencing didn’t so much lower her punters’ libido, it destroyed it. Even offering vastly reduced rates, or two-for-one deals like the supermarkets were so fond of wouldn’t have done the trick, to use a trade expression.

  Bishopton’s red-light district, which in reality meant that area patrolled by Samantha and her three fellow professionals, stretched from the corner of the Market Square to the bus shelter on the High Street; a district of no more than one hundred and fifty yards.

  From time to time, Samantha walked from one end to the other; partly to warm herself up, and partly to avoid missing a lone punter. Neither objective was achieved. Instead, she got colder, wetter, and more desperate. Eventually, long after the pubs had shut, the twin ethnic takeaways had lowered their lights and Bishopton had gone to bed, Samantha huddled inside the bus shelter. She was unwilling to return home. Not unless she had something to show for her night’s work, or lack of it. Returning with an empty purse to face the inevitable beating was an option she wasn’t prepared to risk.

  Samantha was in a pitiful state. Even someone in peak condition with a healthier lifestyle would have suffered outdoors in such weather. Added to her other miseries, Samantha was beginning to feel the effects of her enforced abstinence. The symptoms were visible. Her hands shook uncontrollably in a series of ague-like attacks. Her eyes were deep, red-rimmed sockets of pain. Her face, pale at the best of times, was grey with exhaustion, lined with suffering. She was about to chuck it in, risk her partner’s wrath, the message delivered by his fists, when she saw the lights of a car approaching, being driven at a fairly sedentary pace. She moved from the bus shelter to the edge of the kerb. Was this a punter? Or merely someone who was driving slowly because of the vile weather? She struck a pose, one that displayed her legs, still her best asset. Well, almost the best, but she could hardly display the other in so public a place — especially in weather such as this. The vehicle pulled to a halt a couple of yards short of where she was standing. Samantha shielded her eyes with one hand, peering towards the windscreen.

  The driver’s gaze travelled down from her breasts, taking in the short, tight skirt, glancing at her legs, before he looked at her face. No prizes for what he was thinking. She knew that look. Assessing? How much? Would she be worth it? In her job, you got to recognize the signs. She squinted back at him, screwing her eyes up against the headlight beam. He looked to be the wrong side of thirty, maybe even forty, she guessed. Not that age made much difference. Dirty old men paid just as well as dirty young men. Better in most cases. And as they were usually more desperate to get their end away, they couldn’t afford to be as choosy.

  The passenger door opened and she walked towards it. As she bent to look inside, she heard him utter her favourite chat-up line.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A ton.’ Better to start high for when he bargained, as they often did.

  ‘An hour, or for the night?’


  She was about to ask if he could manage a full night, but insulting a customer’s prowess wasn’t the way to increase clientele. And she was hardly fending them off with a pole tonight. ‘For the night, love,’ she replied.

  ‘Get in.’

  The tight skirt presented a bit of a challenge, but she made it, giving him an eyeful into the bargain. His expression certainly wasn’t one of disappointment. Samantha settled back against the cold upholstery. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘My place.’

  Not a talker, then. Maybe his talents lay elsewhere. Well, Samantha thought, she’d have all night to find out. At least that would give her chance to get warm.

  Chapter Nine

  Nash’s phone rang. He woke instantly, the bitter realization that he had been dreaming again overtaken by the fear of what bad news the call would bring. He fumbled for the receiver and grunted something that might have been his name into the mouthpiece.

  The caller was Sergeant Binns. ‘Sorry to disturb your beauty sleep, Mike.’

  ‘Yes, Jack tell me the worst.’

  ‘It’s not that bad, except for the victim. The reason I’m calling you is that there’s been a stabbing, not fatal or likely to be, but it’s right on your doorstep. Well, on the outskirts of Wintersett village to be exact, Lilac Farm.’

  By now, Nash was wide awake. He thrust back the duvet and stood up, stretching slightly to ease the stiffness in his back. ‘Give me some details, Jack.’ As he spoke, Nash reached for the pad he kept alongside the phone for just such emergencies.

  Having scribbled the location, which was near the Miners Arms, he asked, ‘Any chance you might fill me in with a little more by way of detail? The victim’s name and gender, for instance.’

  He sensed Jack Binns’ grin, but the reply was confusing to put it mildly. ‘The victim had no ID, which was hardly surprising seeing he was only wearing his trolleys.’

  ‘What was someone doing out at this ungodly hour with only his underpants on?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, Mike, that’s why I called you. Aren’t you supposed to be a detective? Should I get the delectable DS Mironova to help you?’

  ‘I assume you’re on call and out of Mrs Binns’ earshot, otherwise you wouldn’t have referred to Clara as delectable.’ Nash enjoyed Binns’ gasp of alarm. ‘No? Well, if I was you I’d make her a nice cup of tea as a peace offering. And definitely don’t call Clara. She’s got enough to do without your heavy breathing down the phone at two o’clock in the morning.’ Having exacted suitable revenge on Binns, Nash returned to business. ‘You could ask the paramedics not to set off before I’ve had chance to view the victim or speak to him, if that’s possible.’

  Nash got dressed hurriedly. He knew there would be at least one uniformed officer at the scene, and hopefully, if the ambulance crew got his message in time, they wouldn’t have removed the victim yet, not unless it was urgent.

  It took less than five minutes to reach the scene. The beacons of a police car and an ambulance guided him up the lane to the farm. That was the easy part. Once Nash had ducked under the incident tape, getting information as to what had happened was far more difficult. The officers explained how they had found the victim in the farm yard. Standing alongside him had been a lady who had applied pressure to the wounds to stop the bleeding and covered the unconscious man with a blanket while waiting for help to arrive.

  Having been given permission to interview the victim, who was now awake, Nash climbed into the ambulance and showed the man his warrant card. As he was speaking, Nash glanced casually at the victim, appearing not to notice his facial injury, shielded by a dressing, to the man’s cheek, just below his eye. Nash wondered if the eye had been the attacker’s target. If so, the victim had been lucky not to lose his sight. He began by asking the man his name. The only response he got to that and all the following questions was a blank stare.

  He turned to one of the paramedics who was monitoring his patient and winked. ‘I don’t think this warrants taking up a hospital bed,’ he told the medic. ‘Dress those scratches and deliver him to the police station. Tell them to charge him with wasting police time.’

  As he spoke, Nash watched the man on the stretcher, heard him gasp and saw the alarm in his eyes. ‘Right, so you’re not deaf and you do understand English, so enough of the pretence. I need to know your name, your address, and who did this to you.’

  It was of no avail, the man lapsed into sullen silence. Once he was out of earshot of the stabbing victim, Nash checked with the ambulance crew, who told him the man also had a wound to his shoulder and another on his side at waist height, none of which were life-threatening. ‘I thought I should mention that he also has a grubby bandage on his hand and another on his leg, obviously not relevant to his current injuries. They look like stab wounds.’

  ‘Take him to Netherdale General and ensure the doctors give me precise details of his injuries.’

  He turned to the two police officers, who were loitering by their patrol car, obviously waiting to be given the go-ahead to return to their regular duties. ‘One of you needs to go with him, and I need one of you to remain here until we get more info. He may be keeping quiet, but he is still the victim of an assault which could have proved far worse. It looks like being a long night, gentlemen. Contact control and find out who reported this.’

  Although their faces were in the shadow of the car’s beacon, he sensed them wince and hid a smile. It seemed to be his night for upsetting people, and it was far from over yet.

  The control room was obviously not overloaded with work, because it was less than five minutes later when the officer’s radio crackled, informing him that the woman who made the triple nine call, a lady called Olivia Brook, lived at the farm. He relayed this information to Nash.

  ‘Do you know her? I assume she’s the farmer’s wife,’ Nash asked.

  ‘I didn’t recognize her, and I’ve not come across the name before.’ He smiled. ‘That probably means she’s not been in trouble.’

  ‘OK, let’s go and find out what Olivia Brook can tell us.’

  The building, a stone-built house that looked as if it had been there for centuries, was obviously the farmer’s residence. Backing up their theory about the woman who had made the call, lights were burning in what Nash could tell through the window was the farmhouse kitchen.

  He approached the front door and gave it three lusty taps with the iron knocker that the light over the door showed to be in the shape of a ram’s head. Only seconds later the heavy oak door opened, to reveal a woman in her mid-thirties. ‘Mrs Brook?’ Nash asked, displaying his warrant card.

  ‘It’s Miss Brook,’ the woman replied. ‘I thought you might come here. Is he seriously hurt?’

  ‘His injuries aren’t life-threatening,’ Nash replied. ‘What can you tell me about him, and how he came to get those wounds? I tried asking him, but he seemed very reluctant to tell me anything, even his name.’

  ‘He’s called Camlo Hajdari. He works for me as a farm labourer, mainly as stockman. He lives there’ — she pointed to the tied cottage across the yard — ‘along with his sister.’

  ‘Would you mind if we come inside? I need to make notes and my handwriting’s hard to decipher at the best of times, and trying to take details down in this light is nearly impossible.’

  She agreed, but with obvious reluctance and a good deal of hesitation. ‘You can go into the kitchen.’ She pointed to her left. Nash and the officer entered the room, whereupon Olivia Brook closed the door and leaned against it.

  If Nash thought her behaviour unusual, he didn’t comment, despite the questioning looks from his fellow officer. ‘Now,’ Nash began, ‘could you repeat the victim’s name and spell it for me, please?’

  She did so, and Nash asked, ‘And what about his sister?’

  ‘I don’t know much about her. Her name is Aishe.’ Her answer was hesitant.

  ‘Has this man worked for you long?’

  ‘Only a couple of months.’<
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  ‘The name is obviously foreign; whereabouts are they from?’

  ‘Albania, I believe, but they’ve been living in France for some years, from what I remember him saying when I interviewed him.’

  ‘So what happened tonight? How did he come to get stabbed?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  Nash ignored the frankly disbelieving stare of the uniformed man and asked, ‘When you rang the emergency services, you told them you’d found him lying in the yard, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’ The reply was less than forthcoming.

  ‘And the call was timed at two-fifteen, so where were you going at that time of night?’

  There was a long, awkward silence, before Olivia said, ‘I went for a walk.’

  The lack of conviction in her voice made it apparent that she, like her listeners, knew the story was less than credible.

  To the surprise of his colleague, Nash didn’t press her for details, or attempt to contradict what he took to be an obvious lie. Instead, he asked her, ‘One other thing, this man Hajdari, how good is his English?’

  ‘He speaks it well enough, although his accent makes it a bit difficult to understand at times.’

  Nash closed his notebook and turned towards the door. ‘That’ll be all for now. We’ll leave you to get a good night’s sleep while we go talk to the victim’s sister. I take it this girl Aishe also speaks English.’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Once outside, as the reverberations from the door still echoed round them, the uniformed man looked at Nash. ‘If the names she gave us are correct, that’s the only part of her story she didn’t make up.’