The Hill - Carla’s Story (Book Two): A Paranormal Murder Mystery Thriller. (Book Two)

by Andrew M Stafford

  Richard Price’s office

  CKT Ltd, Darlington

  6.35pm

  Monday 18th June

  Richard Price had just been promoted to a management position. It was a brilliant step in the right direction. He’d had a good pay increase, but the downside was that he was putting in more hours. As a manager he was expected to stay until the work was done, and unlike before he had gained the promotion, there was no overtime. His forty nine thousand pound salary put the end to any extra pay for staying late, or working over the weekend.

  He wasn’t particularly bothered about working late, as long as it wasn’t on a Tuesday or a Thursday. Tuesday was pub quiz and Thursday was skittles. That was about the extent of his social life in Darlington. He hadn’t found a lady since moving from Bristol and wasn’t worried either way. He enjoyed his own company and was quite happy living a quiet life on his own. Although one or two of the girls at CKT thought he was quite handsome for an oldie.

  Richard was reading and amending a report on waste management when there was a knock on his office door.

  Barry Partridge was looking at him with his mouth squashed up against the window of the door, puffing his cheeks in and out like a goldfish. He stopped and stared at Richard with a cheeky grin. Richard beckoned him in.

  “Barry, you old git, what can I do for you?”

  Barry liked Richard and he loved his West Country accent which stood out like a sore thumb in Darlington.

  “Roight me luvver,” said Barry, taking the micky out of Richard’s accent.

  Richard smiled.

  “This better be important,” said Richard waving the report under Barry’s nose.

  “Some of us are here to work, not just use this place as an excuse to stay away from the wife and kids.”

  Barry put on a childlike ‘I’m upset’ face.

  Barry was either loved or hated by his peers. The man acted like a kid. He was always clowning around, taking the piss, hiding behind doors and jumping out. The other week he’d brought in a remote control fart machine and had his work mates in the open plan office rolling with laughter, until Chris Kingston, the Managing Director walked in wondering what the hell was going on. Barry had already received a warning from his line manager, but nothing seem to stop the man from acting the fool.

  “OK kiddo, what’s it all about?” asked Richard.

  “Have you been on Facebook?”

  “No Barry, funnily enough I haven’t. If I had time to mess around on Facebook, I wouldn’t be stuck in this shit tip at half past six, I would be at home with my feet up having a cold beer.”

  “Whatever Mr Dick for Brains, take a look at this.”

  Barry was prodding Richard’s computer monitor with his finger.

  “Get Facebook up, you’re gonna love this.”

  Richard sighed and opened up his Facebook account.

  Richard hardly ever looked at his account. He only had about forty friends and found the whole thing a waste of time.

  “OK, what is it I’m looking for?”

  “Oh, let me do it,” said Barry as he grabbed Richard’s mouse and scrolled through his Facebook page.

  “There,” said Barry pointing at the link he’d shared.

  “You’ve really got to watch this, you’ll be amazed……it’s freaky man…. wait ‘til you see the girl…….”

  “It’s not one of your usual smutty things is it, like that last thing you shared with those two ugly tarts fighting in jelly?”

  Barry tutted.

  “What me, no, I’ve moved on now, I’ve matured,” said Barry whilst looking at Richard with a stupid crossed eyed look on his face.

  Even though Richard found him highly annoying at times, he did like the man. He reminded him of an irritating version of Arthur Askey.

  Barry clicked the link which opened a new tab in Richard’s browser showing a story from the Bristol Post. Before Richard had a chance to read the news story Barry clicked the icon for the video clip which accompanied the story. He clicked the icon so the video went full screen and took up the whole of Richard’s monitor.

  Richard watched the video as a boy in a chair was talking to a man. At first he didn’t noticed the static image of the girl in the bottom right of the video. He was trying to concentrate on what he was watching, but found it hard to make out what was going on due to Barry’s incessant chattering.

  “What’s going on, what’s this supposed to be about?” asked Richard.

  “Oh, I don’t know, I’ve not really paid any attention, anyway, it’s not about the video, look at the drawing of that girl in the corner.”

  Richard looked at the picture of the girl, which on his screen was about the same size as a three inch square sticky Post It note. He strained to see and reached for his glasses to get a clearer view.

  “See what I mean,” said Barry excitedly.

  Richard was confused. Barry reached over and picked up a framed photograph which Richard kept alongside his desk organiser. The picture was of himself and his eighteen year old daughter Carla, which had been taken earlier in the year. Richard kept it close to remind him of her when she was far away in London studying at the University of the Arts.

  “Look, that girl in the video, she’s a dead ringer for your Carla.”

  Barry had met Carla last Easter when he’d been to Richard’s house to borrow his power drill. She was home for the university Easter vacation and the pretty teenager had left a lasting impression on him.

  Richard took the photograph from him and held it up against the picture on his computer. Barry was right, they looked identical. It was as though his daughter had sat for an artist who had done a sketch of her in pen. Everything about the picture was accurate, from the style of her hair, which she’d not changed in years, the shape of her nose to the dimple on her chin. The sketch also showed the same freckles that Carla had on her cheeks all year round.

  “So what’s this video supposed to be?” asked Richard a second time.

  “I don’t really know, I’ve not watched it properly. Everyone’s watching it, it’s something to do with a reincarnated dead bloke, from your neck of the woods I think.”

  Richard hit pause on the video and looked at the sketch again. He hit the back button on the browser which took him to the news story from the Bristol Post. He skim read the item, without taking in the full story. As he did there were two things that jumped out at him. One was ‘Badock’s Wood’ and the other was ‘Detective Chief Inspector Garraway’.

  “Markland Garraway,” said Richard under his breath.

  He felt faint as a buzzing sound started deep within his ears which got louder and louder.

  “Sheesh man, what’s wrong with you,” said Barry as Richard lurched towards his desk.

  Richard looked at Barry, who was shocked to see all the colour had drained from his face.

  “You look awful man!”

  Richard took a sip of water, sat back, and reached a tissue to wipe the beads of perspiration from his forehead.

  Barry watched as Richard stood up on shaky legs. He grabbed his keys from the desk and walked out of the office. Walking like a drunken man, he was bouncing off desks and knocking into filing cabinets as he made his way out of the building. He left his computer turned on and his office door unlocked.

  Barry was bewildered by what he’d just seen.

  He ran after him calling his name.

  Other than the two of them, the office complex was empty. No one heard Barry as he called after Richard. Not even Richard heard him as he swiped his staff card to open the secure doors which let him out of the building and into the car park. The buzzing in his ears was preventing him from hearing what was going on around him.

  Barry looked from the window and watched him struggle to open his car door. Eventually he got in and slammed it shut. The car lurched forward and made a left turn out of the car park.

  “What the……..” said Barry as he watched Richard’s car disappear from view.


  Chapter one hundred and thirty one

  William IV

  Truro, Cornwall

  6.49pm

  Monday 18th June

  Daniel Boyd sat on his own in the family pub in Truro. It was the first time he’d visited a pub since he’d hurt his foot just almost three weeks ago. He finished his pint, stood up and hobbled to the bar to buy another. He stood in the queue behind an excited group of young men who were talking over each other.

  Although he’d lived in Cornwall for almost two years he’d not got used to the Cornish accent. He was subconsciously listening to what the men were talking about whilst waiting to be served.

  One of the men had his smart phone and was scrolling through a website.

  “You gotta see it,…… it’s the freakiest thing,” said the shortest of the group of six men standing at the bar, whilst he was desperately trying to find something to show his friends.

  “I’ve already seen it, I watched it this morning,” said his well-built closely shaven friend.

  “What’s it all about?” said another of the group as he paid for the round of drinks.

  “Hang on and I’ll show you,” said the short man as he struggled to find the website. While he was looking, the closely shaven man started to explain to the other four what the short man was looking for.

  “I’m surprised you guys haven’t already seen it…….it’s the strangest thing……this kid’s been hypnotised or something and he’s talking in his sleep or something and this Bristol bloke’s been murdered and………”

  “Shut up, you’ll spoil it,” said the short man as he eventually found what it was he’d been looking for. He propped his phone on the bar and played the video clip.

  It was Monday evening and the pub was quiet. The six men said nothing as they watched the video clip of Christopher Jameson on the man’s phone.

  Boyd stood behind them and couldn’t see what they were watching, but he could clearly hear the dialogue.

  He could hear reference to Badock’s Wood in Bristol, murder and Ben Walker.

  Boyd dropped his empty pint glass when he heard those three key things. The six men turned around and saw Boyd nervously picking up the broken glass as his shaking hands placed the shards on the bar.

  “Good job it was an empty one,” said the short man.

  “What are you watching?” asked Boyd apprehensively.

  “It’s a strange video that’s doing the rounds” replied the short man.

  “What’s it about?”

  “You need to see it, everyone’s watching it.”

  “Why?”

  “A fella who was murdered up in Bristol a few years ago, he’s come back to life……he talks through a little boy who’s been hypnotised. He tells the hypnotist and a policeman all about his murder and the person who killed him. It’s probably a hoax…..but if it is, it’s been done really well.”

  “Where was the murder?”

  “In some woods in Bristol, Babcock Woods, I think.”

  “No, it was Badock’s Wood,” said the closely shaven man.

  “Do they say who the murderer was?” asked Boyd who was by now sounding extremely anxious.

  “No, but the kid gives a pretty good description, and the cops are looking for a girl.”

  The short man picked up his phone and handed it to Boyd. He looked at the sketch of the girl and recognised her straight away. He handed the phone back to the man and walked out of the bar without speaking.

  “Strange boy,” said the closely shaven man.

  Boyd struggled to get the key in the lock as he desperately tried to open his door. He limped up the stairs as fast as his painful ankle would allow, opened the door to his bedsit and switched on his dilapidated computer. The thing was taking ages to come on. It always did and Boyd was desperate to see for himself what the men in the pub had shown him.

  He lay on his bed waiting for it to come to life and as he did, he thought about what he’d just been told in the pub.

  Eventually the computer was ready and he searched for the Bristol Post website. Had it not been for the lads in the pub he would never have known about the news item.

  The Bristol Post website finally cranked up and Boyd saw that he could search the site. He typed in ‘murder Badock’s Wood’ and the story came up on his decrepit and ancient computer.

  He read the story before playing the video clip. He was a bag of nerves and none of it made any sense. Although the man in the pub had told him what it was about, he was having difficulty comprehending what he was reading. He read it again and saw that Garraway was searching for the girl in the picture.

  He played the video all the way through and shuddered when he heard the boy in the hypnotist’s chair say the words, “With a rock Tom, ………he killed me with a ………rock.”

  He watched Markland Garraway as he interviewed the boy but was speaking with Ben Walker. Boyd immediately recognised Walker’s calm voice, even though it was coming from a two year old boy.

  He played the video a further five times and after an hour lay on his bed. He felt nervous, exhausted and confused. Oddly, the fact that Ben Walker was communicating by means of a two year old boy did not seem strange to him. Strange things had happened since the murder, including peculiar dreams. He recalled the one of the court room when the baby in the pram was giving evidence against him. Was that dream trying to tell him something?

  And what about the vision of Ben Walker in the window of the house, the day he fell of the ladder? There had certainly been enough unusual things going on lately to make the video seem believable.

  The description given by Ben of Boyd was spot on. Ben had even described the clothes he’d been wearing that night in the woods. That bothered him immensely, but what was unsettling him the most was the picture of the girl. He knew exactly who she was, but he’d never got to know her. He couldn’t even remember her name. She just used to hang around with the gang from time to time because she was friends with Charlotte, who was Greeny’s girlfriend. One thing he did remember was that it was she who had ended the fighting, by saying she’d seen the police. Boyd knew she’d not seen any police, otherwise they would be everywhere and Boyd would have been arrested and charged that very night.

  If she were to come forward, or if someone was call the police and name her it would be game over. He didn’t trust her.

  He lit a cigarette and lay on his bed. He needed to come up with something. He clicked his jaw and blew smoke rings as his troubled mind thought of what to do next. He struggled to think of anything other than one desperate and impulsive plan.

  Boyd sat up and hobbled over to the corner of his bedsit where he prepared his meals, which mainly consisted of microwave dinners and toast. He rifled through a drawer and found a sharp kitchen knife and put it in his rucksack.

  He reached under his bed for a polythene bag in which he kept a few tools. He removed a long screwdriver and a hammer and put them alongside the knife in the rucksack. He grabbed his keys and wallet and left his bedsit and headed to Truro bus station.

  Few people saw the pathetic sight of Daniel Boyd hobbling the one mile trek to the bus station with his rucksack swinging from side to side from his shoulder. Twenty minutes later he was checking the coach departure times.

  “Shit,” he said under his breath. The last coach to Bristol had just left and the next one wasn’t due to leave until stupid o’clock the next morning.

  He decided not to return to his miserable bedsit and instead, sleep on one of the chairs in the station waiting room. He would probably get a better night’s sleep there than putting up with the deafening music that emanated from his selfish neighbour’s bedsit, but more importantly he didn’t want to miss the early bus. He needed to be in Bristol as soon as possible.

  By nine forty five it was dark and street lights illuminated the road outside as he looked through the bus station window. The darker it became the clearer he could see his reflection in the glass. He was looking at the refl
ection of a killer.

  Boyd had devised a plan, and if the outcome was as he intended, it would result in the number of murders he had committed increasing twofold.

  Chapter one hundred and thirty two

  Richard and Carla Price’s home

  Darlington

  9.50pm

  Monday 18th June

  Richard Price sat alone. The house was dark. He’d been sitting motionless in the lounge since just before eight o’clock. The sun had gone down, but he hadn’t noticed. He was waiting for Carla to return from her evening job in the centre of Darlington.

  He had arrived home at seven and had gone straight to his computer, read the news story from the Bristol Post and watched the video again and again. He had printed the picture of the girl and was holding it in his hand.

  Everything now seemed to be making sense and things were slotting into place. Ben Walker had been murdered early in September 2009, which was the same time Carla’s personality had changed. The same time the happy and carefree teenager had turned into a quiet and reclusive character. The story she’d told him about the sketch she’d done of Garraway had never really sat easily with him. There was something about it that just didn’t seem right.

  The story in the Bristol Post told of a man who had been murdered and of a girl who had been left for dead. The police were looking for someone who looked uncannily like his daughter. Richard was contemplating whether Carla could be a killer. Surely not? But it seemed that she had been involved. His body was shaking as he considered what he should say to her. Perhaps she had also seen the video and if so, she would have seen her likeness to the girl in the picture. But it was more than just a mere likeness, it was identical. It was Carla and there was no question about it.

  He was shaken from his thoughts by the clunk of Carla opening the front door. He heard her call ‘hello’ and by the cheery sound of her voice he assumed that she had not seen the video.

  She turned on the light in the hall. Walking into the lounge she was surprised to find her father in the darkened room. She turned on the standard lamp in the corner, which partially illuminated the room. She smiled at him but felt uneasy when he didn’t smile back. He looked at her with tired eyes and without speaking handed her the picture he’d been holding tightly in his hand. It had become crumpled. Carla looked at him with a puzzled stare and held the picture under the lampshade. The paper was too creased for her to make out exactly who the person in the sketch was. She placed it on the dining table and flattened it with her hand and then took it back to the lamp. It only took seconds for her to work out who the girl in the picture was.