Crossed Out
DCI Bennett Book 6
Malcolm Hollingdrake
Copyright © 2018 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 2018 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
Contents
Also By Malcolm Hollingdrake
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Coming Soon
A Note from Bloodhound Books:
Acknowledgments
Only The Dead
Hell’s Gate
Flesh Evidence
Game Point
Dying Art
Also By Malcolm Hollingdrake
DCI Bennett Books:
Only The Dead
Hell’s Gate
Flesh Evidence
Game Point
Dying Art
Praise for Malcolm Hollingdrake
"The quality of writing was excellent and I'm looking forward to reading the next in the series - which is already on my kindle!" Mark Tilbury - Author
"All in all, gripping and engrossing with a cast of characters I look forward to reading about again." Eva Mercx - Novel Delights
"This book has a tremendous story, that I can't stop thinking about 2 days after I have finished it." Susan Hampson - Books From Dusk Till Dawn
"Wow what a terrific read 'Hell's Gate' is! The second book in the ‘DCI Cyril Bennett Harrogate Crime Series’ is thrilling and captivating and I love it." Caroline Vincent - Bits About Books
"The author certainly knows how to write one intriguing plot that is very well researched, that will have the reader hooked from start to finish." Shell Baker - Chelle's Book Reviews
"The book is professionally written and totally gripping I read it within 24 hours because I couldn’t put it down." Jill Burkinshaw - Books n All
"The story is very well told and the writing is excellent. All of these points add up to making Game Point a book you can easily read in one sitting!" Neats Wilson - Life Of A Nerdish Mum
"Again this is another fantastic book in the DCI Bennett series from Malcolm Hollingdrake and I stand by my thoughts that the series has got better as it has progressed- this is hands down the best book in the series so far!!" Donna Maguire - Donnas Book Blog
"There is no other way to describe Malcolm’s new book Dying Art except for downright awesome, I was intrigued and compelled by the plotline to savour every moment of what was happening, in the Art World and also Bennetts life." Diane Hogg - Sweet Little Book Blog
"I love the characters, the way the story built up. It's so good to see Cyril back again. Malcolm Hollingdrake is one of my favorite authors." Livia Sbarbaro - Goodreads Reviewer
Dedicated to
Carrie and Brian Heap.
Thank you for your friendship.
In memory of
Emily Shutt – an angel, a warrior and a little princess.
God Bless you.
‘If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.’
Luke 9:23
Prologue
The first of April and only a fool would be out at this time in the morning. The fine mist that was often sarcastically referred to as “dry rain” flushed Harrogate’s dark streets and gardens, an organza veil soaking all in its path. Only when trapped momentarily within the streetlights did the drifting, watery sheets appear to be guided invisibly by the slight accompanying breeze. To the lone figure the rain was a bonus; it made the ground forgiving as the fine blade disembowelled a small area of The Stray. A patch of turf and accompanying crocus bulbs, just showing signs of life, formed a small mud mound. Into the cavity was placed a plastic packet and the soil was folded back. Considerately, those bulbs removed were carefully returned. This procedure was no wanton act of vandalism; it was methodical and planned. Once the small cross was connected to the line that linked the buried packet, it was sunk into the ground. His soiled fingers came up to his lips before returning to the top of the cross. The first offering was in place. He stood and bowed. Water droplets ran from his shaved head and down his neck before collecting in cold runnels trapped beneath his clothing. He smiled and walked across the soaked grass, his slight limp barely noticeable.
1
The blue flashing strobe lights stabbed the morning darkness like fine needles as the ambulance raced along the far side of The Stray. At four a.m., there was no need for the siren. A solitary figure turned to watch it disappear into the distance, a modern day son et lumière.
A slight, spring-night frost had settled on the grass verge giving an ethereal sheen under the streetlights’ sharp, white glow, multi-shadowing the hooded figure as he walked casually along the road, gloved hands stuffed into the marsupial-style pouch at the front of his jacket. He ignored the majority of the domestic waste bins that lined the roadside, left out the previous evening in preparation for the early morning collection. Although all appeared to be the same grey, wheeled clones, they were not. On closer inspection there were differences, many subtle and hardly noticeable in the half-light; some appeared cleaner than others, almost cherished, while others showed signs of complete neglect. The majority had some distinguishing feature that set them apart, made them identifiable, made them belong; a neatly applied house number, some occasional floral stickers, even a set of wickets painted accurately to the lower front. It was the bin daubed gracelessly in red letters by an amateur hand, Gail’s Hair and Nail’s, that he sought. It appeared to have been painted using a hen’s foot and contained one too many apostrophes.
He paused and checked the road. All was quiet. A gloved hand lifted the lid whilst the other hand rummaged briefly until a white bin bag was located near the top. Quickly removing it, he stuffed it into his jacket. The lid was closed quietly. Within thirty minutes, the contents would be extracted from the bag and carefully displayed.
The crocuses formed their own coloured carpet on either side of the tarmac pathway that linked the corner of Beech Grove and Otley Road to West Park. It was a direct route across The Stray. It was this springtime splendour that brought the many photographers and admir
ers to Harrogate and today was no exception, aided in part by the clear azure sky and the growing warmth of the sun.
A thin, ethereal mist was released as the early sun melted the morning’s frosty coating. Subliming, it rose before quickly vanishing. Angie Rhodes sat alone on the bench, her head back, staring at the sky. She wore an old jacket on which conical studs ran across the right shoulder and down the front, like a protecting row, a barrier of sharp, metal spikes. The left sleeve was untouched apart from a small finger puppet of a white bear stitched to the inner part. However, the right side of the jacket was in total contrast. Numerous, multi-coloured patches had been haphazardly stitched, running down the front and sleeve, making it difficult to see where the sleeve and jacket separated. Skulls, the logo for A Clockwork Orange, set on a bright, orange background stood like a threatening beacon next to three braided, coloured bracelets that had been stitched to run in rings round the sleeve, suggestive of an official rank.
Using a small blade, she had, for the last fifteen minutes, been amusing herself digging and slicing into her own flesh and she was pleased with the result. Beads of blood from the damaged skin on the back of her hand swelled into small, crimson, jewel-like domes. She raised her hand and admired them before blowing them into red rivulets that quickly crossed the other older scars, spreading like external, vivid veins. She deliberately brought her hand onto her lips and sucked; the metallic flavour was so familiar. She grinned red. It was then that her eyes were drawn to the myriad coloured blooms, a sumptuous border, two feet wide, stretching both to her left and right. She looked for one flower to match the redness of her hand. There was none.
She leaned back on the bench again and stared at the sky. The sun sulled low as if reluctant to rise. The slight breeze, still cool, held its own honed edge against her exposed skin. She lifted the hood of her jacket but remained seated. Her eyes moved slowly, panning the dazzling display in an endeavour to count those blooms directly opposite and stave off the boredom that was growing within, a task encumbered by the occasional breeze that invited some flowers to play hide and seek. She gave up on the task too soon, a trait for which she had always been criticised throughout her school life. Even when she had found employment, she would often lose her concentration and slip away into her own space and time. People did not seem to understand; they did not hear the voices, her voices that could be both friend and foe. They were there at the beginning, encouraging and goading her on but they never seemed to stay when the trouble started. She inserted her finger into the opening of the finger puppet and lifted her arm.
“You can’t count them, can you, you lazy cow?” She changed her voice and moved her arm pretending that it was the bear which spoke.
“Can’t be arsed,” she muttered to the bear before sitting back again and stretching her legs across the tarmac path.
“You never could and you never will. Like me, I’m stuck, sewn here in what’s usually an upside down fucking world. You didn’t think of that when you put needle and thread to work, did you? That’s ’cos you’re thick as pig shit.”
She removed her finger and daubed blood on the dirty white of the puppet. “That’ll shut you up.” She lifted her arm fractionally to see the scarlet contrast with the white. “Bloody bear!”
She closed her eyes briefly, allowing the light to play and dance within the darkness trapped behind her eyelids. She smiled to herself, delighted by the effect and the immediate distraction. Her pleasure, however, was short-lived.
“Excuse me. I don’t want to squash the flowers.”
The voice of Alex Golding was an interruption, an inconvenience that disturbed her puerile amusement. Alex was standing to her right, holding on to the handle of a large pram, waiting for her to move her sprawling legs blocking the pathway. Angie opened her eyes one at a time and simply glared at the young mother. Her face, held in the shadow beneath the hood, was only partially visible. She reluctantly retracted her legs and as Alex started to move forward she thrust them out again and laughed.
“For a kiss, faggot.” She salaciously thrust her tongue in and out of her mouth and leaned forward.
Alex felt her heart begin to beat more quickly as the confrontation escalated. She looked directly at the stranger’s face cocooned and partially concealed within the hood; a single, blue, tattooed tear was visible below the left eye. A variety of metal rings and studs protruded from her lips and nose.
Alex stared bravely and defiantly at the seated girl before summoning enough strength to confront her. “No? You’ll not let me pass, then I’ll scream louder than you’ve heard anyone scream before.”
To her relief, Alex saw an immediate change in the young person’s attitude, the tongue flicking stopped and the legs were quickly retracted before she pulled the hood over her face, an act of defiance reminiscent of a chastised child. Suddenly she was a bully no longer, she had closed the fabric gate, isolating herself from the outside world. The troublesome woman had been banished to the other side of the fleeced fabric.
Relieved at the youth’s submission, Alex moved away quickly along the path.
Rhodes sat, hooded and hidden, the voices suddenly silenced, she was momentarily invisible to the world. As the sound of footfall receded, she casually stood and turned. The frustration and anger had grown inside her as the voice in her head returned, challenging and goading her.
“Fuck the flowers!” she yelled as loudly as she could.
Alex heard the scream, stopped and turned anxiously. She watched as the youth swung her right leg defiantly in an arc, her foot decapitating a number of the crocuses to the right of the path, sending them scattering like confetti across the grass.
“And fuck you, bitch! Fuck you all! Nobody knows, nobody!” She pointed at Alex and showed firstly her fist and then a single finger. “Fuck… everything!”
Quickening her step, Alex Golding, anxious about the youth’s next move, turned and walked away from the frustrated anger and wilful destruction. Once she was a safe distance, she waited for her anxiety to calm before telephoning 101 to report the incident to the police.
The early sun beamed through the small, wired-glass window that had not been cleaned for an age. Particles of dust floated as if trapped within the light. The contents of the bag taken from the bin were separated carefully; only the longest strands of human hair were then removed from the table where they had originally been spread. The many colours and textures were now mixed; importantly their length was similar. He leaned over the table and sniffed, inhaling any scent or perfume that might still linger on the cut pieces. He was attempting to discern any differences and he believed that he could. He tried to visualise those to whom they had once belonged. His hand slowly moved until it touched his groin and he smiled. “Behave! Work before pleasure,” he muttered. The hair left on the other table was returned to the bag for disposal. It would be burned.
He collected a pair of domestic rubber gloves, a brush and a bowl of scarlet hair dye. The chosen strands were secured with a rubber band, dipped, then gently brushed before being placed onto a gauze, metal drying tray. Within the hour the samples would be dried, separated into batches and vacuum-sealed into small pouches. It was the second collection he had created. As before, half would go and half would remain in his care and so on this occasion, six would stay and six would be exhibited around the town. His early morning’s work was complete.
He held the bags one by one to the sun’s light and admired the scarlet strands as if it were an ancient ritual. He kissed each packet reverently mumbling, “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow,” before placing the twelve packets away in an octagonal Quality Street tin. As he pushed on the lid, he heard the sound of the door open and slam closed in another part of the building followed by footsteps crossing the room above him. He paused and closed his eyes. He knew the steps and he knew where they were heading. Within minutes another door banged followed by the deep, thumping bass. His peace had been destroyed.
&nb
sp; Ignoring the noise, he moved towards a high shelf and viewed the line of wooden crosses collected throughout the county, long after their ceremonial placement; time and weather had aged them, now they were neither valued nor missed… They were perfect. He reached for a small hand drill. All in all he would plant thirteen.
2
The PCSO looked at the damaged area and then sat on the bench next to Alex. He took careful notes as she described the youth in some detail.
“With the jacket, tear tattoo and face full of iron, we should be able to track him.” The fact that Alex had mistaken the girl for a boy would prove to be the first hurdle the police would have to negotiate. He called it in to Control before standing and walking across the path to inspect the arched track of destroyed crocuses. He shook his head. “Pointless vandalism, I can never understand it.”
Within the swathe of damaged flowers, the officer noticed a small, weather-beaten, wooden cross. The few remnants of the red petals from an artificial poppy still clung to the wooden intersection; the words In Remembrance were just visible through the grime and dirt. It was clear that it had been exposed to the weather for some time, partially buried and hidden within the spring flowers. He bent down, collected it and showed it to Alex. He noticed the small length of what appeared to be fishing line attached to the damaged base.
“It’s been here some time by the state of it. Probably from the Cenotaph.” He pointed down the pathway. “They’ll leave nowt alone, some of them, as you’ve seen today. Come on!” He finished writing his report on the smartphone and handed it to Alex. “Please read through that. It’s a new system meant to save police time. We use it to upload reports and witness statements.” He laughed. “When it works; we are dependent on a good signal.”
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