by Zach Abrams
Table of Contents
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
Author note
Also by Zach Abrams
An introduction to Source; A Fast-Paced Financial Crime Thriller - the first few pages
About the Author
Made A Killing
Alex Warren Murder Mysteries Book I
Zach Abrams
Copyright (C) 2016 Zach Abrams
Layout design and Copyright (C) 2016 by Creativia
Published 2016 by Creativia
Cover art by
http://www.thecovercollection.com/
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.
Contact the author via [email protected]
or visit http://zachabrams.wix.com/zach-abrams
To my wife and children who have provided assistance and moral support
All of Zach Abrams' books are available as ebooks and paperbacks and some can now be obtained on audiobook format.
For more information and to buy copies, you can link to Zach's author page on Amazon at
https://www.amazon.com/author/zachabrams
https://www.amazon.co.uk/author/zachabrams
or visit his website at http://zachabrams.wix.com/zach-abrams
Chapter 1
Following a fairly ordinary morning, Alex Warren's day had taken a distinct turn for the worse. He was not a happy man.
The sickening sight of the corpse lay in front of him. It was a mess of blood and guts. A bright red pool surrounded the wound which was edged by ravaged flesh and dotted with black congealing clots. The horrified, wide-eyed stare of the victim exacerbated the profound ugliness of the scene. Overwhelmed by the smell of blood, Warren felt nauseous imagining he could taste metal in his mouth, and with great reluctance he took another look at the body before exhaling loudly. Even when he looked away, everything seemed bathed in a red haze. He was confused. There could be no doubt about how Stevenson was killed and Warren had strong suspicions about the murderer's motives. He wasn't surprised that someone murdered him but, rather, that it hadn't happened sooner. What perplexed Warren most was thinking about all the possible candidates for the crime.
The normally towering, muscular frame of DCI Alex Warren was weary and his shoulders drooped. His black hair seemed lank and the clean-shaven skin of his normally tight, angular face sagged. Instead of his usually healthy colouring, his skin came closer to matching the white protective one-piece coverall he was wearing. He normally carried his age well and most people, on first impressions, imagined he was in his early-thirties, but today he looked all of his forty-one years. Only his bright green eyes showed their usual sharpness. He was unhappy to be the poor sod assigned as senior investigating officer on this case and given the task of finding Stevenson's murderer. It was most unusual for him not to be keen to solve a crime. His fundamental problem was that he was happy to see Scott Stevenson dead. He couldn't consider the person who terminated his life to be a criminal, a hero more like. Yet he was the one given the task of finding the murderer so that justice could be served. What kind of justice was this?
Alex Warren was all too familiar with Scott Stevenson. He'd investigated countless complaints of how he'd robbed and cheated people and, in particular, claims that he'd targeted the elderly, conning them out of their life savings, their valuables, or the inheritances they'd planned for their offspring. At least three of the poor buggers who Warren was aware of had taken seriously ill and died as a direct consequence of the anguish Stevenson had caused.
Although he couldn't ever utter his opinion, Warren was of the view that Stevenson deserved to die. He believed the ancient, eighteen inch, ivory carving impaled below his chest to be a fitting end. The carving was crescent in shape, presumably pointed, and appeared to have been ornately carved from a slice of elephant tusk. Warren smiled at what he saw as an ironical statement. Reputedly, an elephant never forgets and clearly, someone else wasn't prepared to forget or overlook Stevenson's heinous deeds. Added to this, Stevenson had a reputation for dodgy deals involving antiques. Yes, using an antique, carved elephant tusk to end Stevenson's life was most appropriate.
Scott Stevenson had had no redeeming features. He was five foot four tall and his circumference wasn't too much less. His obese frame was topped by a spherical, bald head, thick-framed black spectacles which only served to emphasise his little piggy eyes, and was accompanied by an equally piggy nose and large pointed ears that a Vulcan would have been proud of. Despite all of this, he'd been vain and was once flattered when a paid for, nocturnal partner claimed he had the body of a God, little understanding her sense of humour and that she'd been thinking of Buddha. His looks were only the start, as it was his character which was most obnoxious. Over the years, he'd developed his despicable strategy; he'd endear himself to elderly householders, particularly little old ladies. He would target poor souls who were desperate for company and conversation and this gave him the opportunity to gain access to their homes. Even when they weren't forthcoming with information, once entrusted into their houses, he was quickly able to identify anything of value. In his earlier years he mostly targeted their cash, abusing his position of trust and convincing them to purchase unsecured investments. He persuaded them by explaining how easy it would be for them to enrich their own lives or that of their offspring. In his time he had sold life assurance policies before they were regulated, then went on to an assortment of strange and allegedly lucrative plans from foreign property to ostriches. In recent years he'd concentrated more on depriving them of the value of their antiques and collectibles. He'd convince them he was being generous and doing them a favour by taking their heirlooms off their hands, but he did so at a fraction of their true value. Then he'd make a killing selling them on at their full worth. Unfortunately, it was hard, nay impossible, to prove a crime had taken place as Stevenson was fastidious and ensured he had all the paperwork he required to justify and support his transactions.
Over the last few years there had been countless complainants and every one of them, together with each member of their family, was a potential suspect for the murder, not to mention what must be a multitude of other unknown victims who'd been too embarrassed to levy an official complaint.
Warren was sick at the thought of what lay ahead. To properly investigate the death, he'd have to interrogate the victims of Stevenson's cons and, worse still, force them to relive the trauma they'd been put through. Hadn't they suffered enough already?
When first assigned the case, Warren had considered his options. He wanted to refuse, but without a legitimate reason it would most likely have damaged his promotion prospects. His most compelling reason was because of his previous encounters on a personal level. Eighteen months ago, not long before the final breakdown of his marriage and not totally unrelated to it, his wife Helen's elderly aunt had fallen prey to Stevenson's c
harms. Spurred on by the insistence of his wife, it had taken all of Warren's persuasive powers, using some not so metaphorical arm twisting and tactics not considered acceptable to today's constabulary, before he regained her valuables. No reports were ever filed, nor could there be, and Alex could hardly give his prior dealings with the victim as a reason for not becoming involved now. He could have faked an illness and taken time off sick, just long enough for someone else to take over the job. That would have been cheating the system and, although not in the same league as Stevenson's transgressions, in his mind it would have put him into the same category. The potential hypocrisy was not lost on him. No, it just wasn't an acceptable option. He decided he'd just have to grin and bear it and hope his team's skills would be sufficient to solve the crime and do it quickly before too much damage was done.
Walking around Stevenson's shop, Warren took in the scene. The emporia was of modest size, about fifteen hundred square feet. There were small partitioned areas for office, kitchen and toilet but most of the expanse was open space artistically laid out with furniture, porcelain and an eclectic mix of collectibles. Behind the stench of death, the air was rich with the aroma of teak oil and polish which had been used to embellish the appearance of the brown furniture. Against a far wall was a line of locked, glass-fronted cabinets containing expensive, second-hand jewellery and an array of gold and silver artefacts. Nothing had been disturbed and, as the office safe and cash box also seemed to be intact, it appeared clear that a botched robbery was unlikely to be the motive for the death.
Warren looked again at the corpse. Stevenson's body was positioned half-sitting and half-lying across a chaise longue. One leg was stretched along its length while the other was bent at the knee with its foot on the floor. His mouth was agape and his eyes were wide open, but what drew the most attention was the ivory slice protruding from Stevenson's abdomen and the large red patch spread across his previously white shirt and blue blazer. Looking closer, Warren could see the blood had spread down and across the brocade fabric covering the antique seat. Judging from the aroma emanating from this part of the room, Stevenson had evacuated his bowels at time of death and Warren considered it highly unlikely that the chaise longue would attract any buyers willing to pay anything approaching its three thousand pound price tag.
“Better give us some space, Sir,” Connor called. “Not much of a challenge to determine cause of death,” he added with a chuckle. “But you never know what we might come up with.”
Warren quickly stepped aside. He had a lot of time for his scene of crime team and, in particular, he respected Connor immensely. Connor had been the catalyst to solving many a case, and in numerous others he'd provided evidence which proved crucial in securing a prosecution. Stepping back and from the vantage point of his six foot four height, Warren gazed down on the diminutive technicians scurrying about in front of him. There was a flurry of activity as they quickly but carefully identified, photographed, tagged and bagged anything that looked suspicious or seemed out of place. Not one of them was over five foot six and clad, as they were, in their protective white tunics and foot covers, he couldn't tell one from another unless they spoke. He was reminded of the 'umpa lumpas' from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
“Okay, fine, this is your territory. I'll leave this all to you and your techies for now.”
“That's a really nice piece of carving. Look how neatly it's been done.”
“You mean the tusk or his torso?”
“I was thinking about the ivory. But now that you mention it, the other's been quite neatly done too. I'm rather interested in antiques and old, ivory carvings can be very valuable. There's a lot of newer stuff about where the animal's been illegally poached, but this looks like an old piece and, if it is and has some provenance, then it will be highly sought after. It could be worth checking if there's any significance in the choice of weapon.”
“That's a fair point. I'll look into it. How long do you think you'll need? 'Cause I want back in to check the security system and go through his records to see if they tell us who he might've upset.”
“Give us a couple of hours, three tops. Then it's all yours. Mind you, we'll still have to wait for the Medical Examiner to arrive before we can get the body off to the mortuary. Don't know what's happened as old Duffie's normally out a lot sharper than this. All being well, I should have my preliminary report for you by the morning.”
“I'll look forward to it,” Warren replied, striding towards the front door. He started to strip off his protective gear as he stepped through the doorway and was relieved to gasp in some icy-cold, fresh air, freeing his lungs from the cloying smells of death and furniture polish.
The shop was positioned on a narrow side street just a few yards off Great Western Road in the Kelvinbridge area of Glasgow's fashionable West End. Typical for a November afternoon, the sky was grey with a watery sun occasionally sneaking through a preponderance of heavy clouds. The broad pavement was still damp and slippery, carrying the residue from a sleety shower earlier in the day, and Alex staggered as he fought to keep his footing while removing his shoe covers.
“Easy there, Boss,” Sergeant Sandra McKinnon said. She'd been following him and automatically reached out a steadying hand. Struggling not to fall, Warren precariously towered over her slight frame. Although proficient in martial arts and able to keep her footing on a tightrope, there was no way Sandra's pretty, petite form could support Warren's fourteen stone bulk. Incorporating a couple of dance steps which had never been attempted on 'Strictly,' he was able to regain his footing without bringing them both tumbling to the ground. Grinning with embarrassment, he guided them towards her Mondeo to use it as a makeshift command centre, leaving behind two uniformed constables who were chuckling at his balancing act.
Trying to regain the high ground by criticising someone else, Warren turned on her.
“What a bloody state this car's in. When's the last time you cleaned it out?” he exclaimed, picking his way through sweet papers and cola cans to find a clear space to sit.
“Sorry, Boss, it's since I quit smoking, I've been eating to compensate. I'm planning to clear all the rubbish at the weekend.”
“I'll believe that when I see it. Anyway, down to business. You arrived first. Fill me in on everything you've found out.”
“Okay, as you know, the call came in as a '999' from Stuart Findlay, a young lad who works in the shop. He'd been out for his lunch, left at one-fifteen and returned just after two to find the door locked. He had a key and let himself in, then found Stevenson dead on the couch. He says he never touched anything. He just made straight for the office, phoned it in, then waited outside the door. A squad car was first to arrive. Jarvis and Campbell met him. They said he was standing shivering in the street. They didn't know for sure if it was nerves or the cold. They checked out the place. Nothing seemed untoward, other than the body of course. They took a brief statement and called in the cavalry. They waited there with him until I arrived with McAvoy and then they took him down to Dumbarton Road. He'll still be there if you want to interview him while everything is still fresh in his mind.”
“Fine, I'd like to do that. In the meantime, let's take stock. If Findlay's telling the truth, we have a fairly small window of opportunity, smaller than forensics are likely to give us. Judging from the body and the weapon, it wasn't anything premeditated. It looks more of an impulse or striking out in anger. That makes it a lot more difficult for us. There's loads of blood about so whoever did this has probably been covered in their fair share. We want to start asking questions as quickly as possible. Can you arrange for copies of close circuit tapes from all the security cameras in the area? It'll take a hell of a time to check, particularly when we don't know yet what we're looking for, but it lets us start somewhere. If we're lucky, the shop security tape will give us the answer or, failing that, forensics will give us a break. If not, we're going to be clutching at straws. We'll also need to get moving on a door-to-door. S
ee if anyone saw or heard anything suspicious, anyone covered in blood for instance. I don't hold out much hope, this area's mainly populated by students and there's not too many about in the middle of the afternoon, but let's hope. An incident caravan's on its way and we can use it as a base. Release to the press that there's been a serious incident but there´ll be no further information until next of kin have been informed. I'm leaving you here in charge. You get it all set up and I'll head down to the station and see if I can get any more out of Findlay.”
Alex reached across and gave Sandra's arm an affectionate squeeze before exiting the car. There was still chemistry between them although neither of them had let it develop. Since Sandra had joined Alex's unit two years earlier, they'd shared a friendly and often risqué banter. Last year, just about the time of Alex's split from Helen, when he was moving out of the family home, there'd almost been a time. They'd been on a night out with others from their unit and both had a glass or three too many. They had shared a passionate kiss and a grope outside the back door of the pub before Alex had pulled away, realising his life was confused enough without having to worry about the complexities of a workplace relationship.
Sandra was still attracted to Alex but wasn't too upset by the rebuff. She was an intelligent girl and entered the police force on a graduate recruitment programme. Although slight in stature, she was strong and athletic with an attractive figure. She had jaw-length, pageboy-style, jet-black hair framing a pretty face of unblemished, lightly tanned skin with small cute features. Although now twenty-nine and with good steady earnings, she lived in her parent's home in Bishopbriggs. Being clever, attractive and modestly wealthy, she was not short of admirers.
Alex considered the team he had to start the investigation. Sandra was one of the two sergeants available and she was his natural deputy. She was smart and ambitious and Alex felt confident letting her handle anything, as she would apply the same intelligence and rigour he would himself. His other sergeant was Sanjay Guptar and, whilst Alex had equal confidence in his commitment, he felt Sanjay lacked the same intuitive streak and had less experience as a detective. Nevertheless, he was confident that Sanjay would apply solid support. To supplement, his first choice would have been Detective Constable Philip Morrison but as Phil was still on his annual vacation, he couldn't bring him on stream until the following Monday. In the meantime, he had Constable Donald McAvoy. McAvoy had accumulated twenty-five years service, mostly in CID. He was in the twilight of his career, marking time as he moved towards his retirement. He signified all that was best and worst in the police force of old. He was brave, honest and determined but his aptitudes favoured brawn over brain. He had never fully come to terms with political correctness and, although not overtly a racist or a misogynist, he struggled to cope with the idea of having an Asian and a female supervising his work. Although wary of Donny's values, Alex rated him as a reliable foot soldier, provided he was effectively supervised. Alex knew that, whenever required, he also had access to a number of other less experienced officers both from CID and uniformed divisions.