Stolen: A DI Scott Baker Novel

by Jay Nadal

  Table of contents

  Copyright

  Forward

  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

  Next in the series

  How to Connect With Me

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  Glossary of terms used in the DI Scott Baker series for US readers

  Copyright

  Published by Jay Nadal @ 282publishing.com

  Copyright @ Jay Nadal 2016

  All rights reserved.

  Jay Nadal has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction, Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or a used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Forward

  Hi there, its Jay Nadal here. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to share my writing with you. My books are set in the coastal resort of Brighton on the South Coast. For the Brightonians amongst you, you’ll recognise many familiar locations in my scenes.

  Brighton offers such a vivid and diverse landscape that it makes it a pleasure to incorporate many well-known settings that bring my writing alive.

  If you want to keep in touch about how and where I do my research then connect with me below:

  Join up to my advance notification list here

  Prologue

  Loud banging from downstairs broke the stillness of the night. For a moment he wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming or in a parallel state of semi-consciousness. He tried hard to ignore the noise hoping it would leave him in peace.

  He wanted to be left alone to indulge in his dream; envisioning the pole dancer he’d watched last night and the private dance in the booth that now left him aroused once again.

  Drunken youths were no doubt the culprits banging on the door, eager to grab another drink to fuel their rampant aggression.

  “Will you fuck off,” he groaned in frustration from under his covers, hoping the noise would stop if he ignored it.

  It was common to experience anti-social behaviour in this area. Discarded food wrappers tumbled over each other as the light breeze tossed them around. Salad and kebab meat littered the pavement. The stale stench of urine and vomit permeated from closed doorways, evidence of the low life that hung around his neighbourhood.

  Without warning, the repetitive banging turned into a thundering, wall-vibrating commotion. Seconds later, the front door flew off its hinges, sending shock waves bouncing through the fabric of the building. He startled full awake; heart racing, pulse vibrating in his ears, an orchestra of sound swirling around his head, as panic grew. On full alert, he tried hard to focus in the dark toward whom or what might be coming.

  Waves of fear rippled through his sweaty body. He could hear someone moving downstairs. Who was it? What did they want?

  He attempted to breathe quietly, but no doubt sounded like a panting dog.

  He stepped slowly across the bedroom, one foot in front of the other, desperate to avoid squeaky floorboards that would give him away.

  The sounds changed. He was sure that chairs were being moved around downstairs. He had two choices: call the police or confront the toe rag. In reality, he knew he had only one option. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself at the top of the stairs as he peered into the dark murkiness, the hope it would calm him going amiss on this occasion. It was now or never.

  The switch flooded the stairs and hallway with an incandescent glow that stopped the sounds.

  He took one step at a time, still choosing to say nothing, hoping that the lack of response from him might unnerve the scroat.

  A thought crossed his mind. And if there’s more than one? Then I’m proper fucked, he realised. Shit, I left my baseball bat upstairs. Idiot. Too late to go back up now.

  Walking through the doorway, his frame silhouetted from the light in the hallway. He could just make out a large dark figure standing in the middle of the unlit room. The intruder didn’t flinch or say a word. A tense standoff added to the trepidation. Knots of tension twisted deep within. His stomach churned, his bowels quivered and loosened as he stood there.

  “What the fuck do you want, you wanker?” he shouted, eyes narrowing to focus in the darkness. He hoped his aggressive choice of words might deter the intruder.

  Still no answer came from the dark stranger who stood motionless.

  His body tensed as he was set upon from both sides. Two further intruders tightened their grip as they each grabbed an arm. Their vice-like hold sent shooting pains through his arms. His hands tingled as the tourniquet-like pressure cut off his blood supply.

  He protested again, his resistance futile as he tried to dislodge their grip, thrusting his body back and forth to escape his human chains. He looked both ways, in a desperate attempt to focus, hoping to recognise the brutes holding him. But he saw little. Only a cold feint glow cast dancing shadows around the barely lit room.

  The panic coursed through his veins as a hood covered his head, robbing him of any illumination that his eyes had to work with. What’s happening? Who the fuck are they? Am I going to die? Sporadic thoughts tumbled through his mind while waves of nausea threatened to erupt like a spewing volcano.

  His attackers dragged him into the centre of the room, his bare feet catching on the rough carpet. He let out a sharp scream as his toes collided with the table and chairs. He tried hard to listen for even the slightest of words, a clue to the accents, even a name, but nothing was forthcoming. Of course, there’d be nothing. This had been planned for a few weeks, each member aware of their role and their duty.

  Unceremoniously dumped in a chair, his body groaned. His arms forcibly tied behind the back of the chair left him defenceless. Unsure of his fate, his eyes welled up; the first of many tears streamed down his cheeks, the saltiness mixing with his saliva as he breathed rapidly.

  “Who are you?” he shouted out. “What do you want? Take the money?” His questions met with an almighty thud as a fist made contact with his jaw.

  The impact disorientated him. At first, he felt nothing, the shock soon replaced with a stinging sensation that erupted from his mouth. He had little time to recover before the second blow connected. The punch sent his mind and consciousness into a spin.

  The next few moments seemed to last forever as punches and kicks rained down on his body from every angle. It was hard to tell what hurt the most as his body protested to the pain shooting through him. His arms stung as a solid instrument pulverised him.

  The assault lasted just a minute or so, but long enough to render him semi-conscious. His arms finally cut loose, the stiffness keeping him rooted to the spot. He fell to one side, his body unable to support
him, the floor giving him the final blow.

  For a moment, he was grateful. They had done their job, he was still alive, but he’d under-estimated them. Still in complete darkness, the kick winded him; he coughed hard, air escaping from his lungs quicker that he could breathe. Panic gripped him, sweat forcing his sleep top to cling tight to his back, his eyes stinging as he blinked furiously.

  Please leave me alone now, he prayed. His stomach ached, the muscles in spasm as they withdrew to shield his vital organs from the assault. The hardness of boot tips burying themselves deep inside his innards as his body endured another attack from all angles. At least they’d chosen to avoid his face, he thought, instead deciding to punish the rest of his body. That was some blessing.

  A burning blanket of pain enveloped his body, his muscles screaming in agony, he’d never experienced something so crippling.

  He lay there slipping in and out of wakefulness, a sickly sweet wet liquid escaping from his mouth; the only sound around him was the sound of destruction: Smashing bottles, mirrors broken into a thousand pieces, tables thrown against the wall.

  The silence returned as footsteps faded into the distance. He knew the room had been left as broken as his body.

  Chapter 1

  It was one of those rare occasions where Detective Inspector Scott Baker found himself the last to arrive at a crime scene.

  He stood at the edge of the car park in Madeira Drive looking out over the beach and beyond. Scott noticed a calmness to the sea, marred only near the water’s edge by a hive of police activity around a small white forensics tent.

  Walking on the beach was never graceful at the best of times. His shoes sank into the stones as he traipsed across to the scene, a cold slice of toast in one hand, his piping hot coffee in the other. He was grateful that at least some of his breakfast had remained warm.

  As he approached the police cordon, he paused from moment to scan the scene. They had a body close to the shore, in a secluded spot of the beach. As he looked over his shoulder and glanced around, he noticed the lack of vantage points.

  Madeira Drive stopped at the car park where he’d just left his car. It was unlikely that much traffic would have come down this far. There would be the odd articulated lorry parked up for a rest stop. He looked beyond the road towards a shallow incline of grass that went as far as Marine Parade, the main coast road heading out of Brighton towards Rottingdean.

  He turned his attention back towards the beach that stopped two hundred yards further up where it reached the marina wall. From where he stood, he knew there weren’t many opportunities for witnesses. Drawing from his own experiences, a few hardened runners would run along the drive and then back up onto Marine Parade. No doubt the busy flow of traffic along the main road was oblivious of the scene being played out on the beach.

  PC Willits was the scene guard today. It had been a while since he’d last seen her, and on that occasion, he’d been rather off with her. He was determined to make amends.

  She greeted him as if nothing had happened. “Morning, sir.”

  “Morning,” he replied with a smile. He fumbled for a moment holding his toast and coffee. He looked around, he wasn’t sure why, but was looking for somewhere to dispose of the remnants of his breakfast before getting kitted up. In frustration, he tossed the last piece of toast a few feet away.

  A few eager seagulls floating on the thermals swooped down. They squawked and bickered amongst themselves as they fought for their prize until one triumphant victor emerged, scooping it up and making its escape.

  “Crikey, these buggers are getting bigger and bigger,” he commented. He saw seagulls as nothing bigger than oversized pigeons, but now that he was up close and personal, he felt they were the size of bloody albatrosses.

  Scott thrust his mug towards the PC forcing her to grab it hastily. After signing her scene log, he donned himself in a protective suit and overshoes before retrieving his cup and disappearing through the cordon.

  Detective Sergeant Abby Trent and Detective Constable Mike Wilson were on scene, huddled together comparing notes. Abby looked up to see her boss approaching.

  “What have we got Abby?” Scott enquired, sipping on the last dregs of his coffee as he continued to walk past them and on towards the tent. Abby joined him to brief him en route.

  “We’ve got a young girl in there, and she’s known to us, Guv; I remember her. I cautioned her about four months ago for soliciting.”

  “And now she’s dead,” Scott continued, shaking his head as he entered the tent. Seeing a dead body proved challenging at the best of times, especially when attending crime scenes involving children. Most officers felt the same. It was a natural human response. For those officers who had their own children, or in his case who once had a child, it was particularly distressing.

  “Hey, you.” His thoughts were broken by the warm greeting from Cara Hall. The pathologist was on her knees inspecting the victim’s arms inside the tent. “You took your time getting here, detective. You’re normally the first in the queue,” she said with a mischievous grin.

  “Well, you know me, Cara, I like to mix it up, keep people on their toes… thanks for the bringing it up though,” he fired back with a wink. “It’s nice to know you’re so vigilant about my comings and goings.”

  “You’d be surprised just how much I know about you Scott Baker,” she teased.

  “You’re scaring me now.” Their eyes locked for a few seconds longer than needed, a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by Abby’s female intuition. “What can you tell us so far?” Scott asked as he crouched beside the victim and Cara.

  “We’re dealing with a young victim. She hasn’t been in the water longer than 12 hours.” Pointing to the puncture marks in the fold of her arm, “We have marks on both arms and behind the knees,” Cara remarked. “Other than a compression to the side of her head, there are no other visible signs as to cause of death. I’ll know more when I’ve opened her up. She does have extensive bruising to her face, arms and legs, though. She’s missing all fingernails too,” she added, lifting one of the victim’s hands.

  Scott looked at the tangled mess that once were the girl’s fingernails. “If it had been one fingernail, it could have been accidental, but to have all ten missing ....”

  “There’s lots of tissue damage around the nail bed and cuticle, I’ll look into this in closer detail when I examine her. We need to remove her from the scene once forensics have done their thing,” Cara commented. She placed plastic bags over each of the girl’s hands to preserve any evidence.

  Cara referred to her in such a matter-of-fact way that it appeared cold and insensitive. She could have been referring to a slab of meat, or a carcass, when she was talking about opening her up later. She appeared detached when it came to her work, and yet, he’d seen a different side of her when they met away from work.

  The girl was no older than fifteen or sixteen, her shoulder-length, mousy brown hair now tangled and matted with seaweed as the salt water dried. She was still clothed in a black blouse and black skirt, together with black knee-length boots. Her attire suggested that she was much older than she was, and would have been more befitting on someone more than twice her age.

  Scott studied her thin frame, hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, evidence of the ravages from drug abuse, working the streets and poor nutrition. He struggled to comprehend how a child’s youth could be stolen, her mind and body exploited by the same people who should be protecting her. Her journey to adulthood corrupted and short lived. It played on his mind. He only wished he could do more to stamp out this cruel industry that preyed on the vulnerable.

  “For fuck’s sake” he said through gritted teeth and clenched jaw, his outburst taking Abby and Cara by surprise. Looking at Abby for a moment, they shared a silent moment of both anger and despair. Abby’s only response, a very slight shake as she bowed her head.

  Cara placed one hand on his arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You okay, Scott?”


  “Yes, I’m fine. Stuff like this just sickens me.” He stood up, his knees cracking as he straightened up. “What time is the PM?”

  “She’ll be the second one today; she’s ready for moving now, the longer we’re here, the more attention we’ll attract. I’d imagine 12 o’clock, does that work for you?”

  “Sounds good to me. I’ll see you there.”

  As Abby and Scott stepped out, Scott took a big lungful of fresh air to clear his head.

  “Scott and Cara, hey, first-name terms then? You care to spill the beans?” Abby teased nudging him with her elbow.

  Scott knew that Abby was just teasing. As much as he’d like to say more, she wasn’t going to get anything from him. “Less of the cheek, madam, you will get zilch out of me!” he replied with a smile.

  “I speak to lots of people on first-name terms, there’s Matt in forensics, I call you Abby, I even call Sheila the tea lady, Sheila.” He was doing his hardest to gloss over their budding relationship, but he knew Abby was smarter than that, she had no doubt seen straight through him.

  “Did you see that?” She lifted her voice and pointed towards the blue sky. Scott looked in the same direction as her finger as it trailed across the horizon.

  “What?”

  “That pig, it’s flying.” She laughed and pulled her fingers away from her nose suggesting it was growing in the way Pinocchio’s nose grew when he told a lie.

  He knew he’d been had, as Abby laughed to herself.

  “Ha ha, very droll ... so what do we know about her?” Scott asked to distract her from the main thrust of conversation, namely his personal life.

  “Her name is Libby Stevens, she’s 15; I nicked her and gave her a caution for soliciting about four months ago. Her popular patches were around Kemp Town and around the back of the station. I tried to get her help at the time, but she wasn’t having any of it. She might have looked peaceful inside the tent, but she looked fucking terrified and like shit when I nicked her. I just wish I could have done more.”

  “I know,” Scott agreed. “We can’t be expected to remember everybody that comes through here. We’re juggling umpteen cases; we don’t have the time to set everyone straight. Get Sian and Raj to have a wander round. They need to get a statement from the jogger who found her. I can’t see any CCTV cameras, the nearest one is over there.” Scott waved his arm over towards the marina wall. “We can always try there, but I won’t hold my breath. There’s the David Lloyd gym and the Casino just over the other side of the marina wall, they may have some cameras that could have picked up something.”