by Jacqui Rose
‘What’s going on?’ She could hear the man’s shoes crunching through the gravel behind the car and then her window darkened. She jumped in her seat. He was crouched level with the window, his face obscured by a black balaclava.
Not good. Not good at all.
Shit, shit, shit.
Panic started then.
His voice came through the window. Slow, precise.
‘We’re in the middle of nowhere. So if you scream, no one will hear you. More importantly, if you do scream, I’m going to break the fingers on your right hand. Scream again, and I’ll cut them off. You understand me?’ There was no trace of an accent, yet there was something odd about his voice.
She started to move across the back seat to the opposite door. Adrenaline kicked in. The need to get away, to get out of there, out of the cab, out of the situation, overtaking everything else.
He was quicker though, the door opened behind her and a hand grabbed her by the shoulder. He was strong.
Fight back, fight for her life, fight back.
Without screaming.
She used her fists against the window, gripped the door handle, pulling with all her weight, as the man attempted to drag her out.
He got a firm grip of her dress, and placed his arm around her neck turning her around. She kicked out at him, but felt herself being lifted from the car. He dragged her all the way inside, his grip around her throat choking the air out of her lungs. Her eyes drifted downwards and then around. Stone steps with marble pillars to the sides. He dragged her inside, along a darkened corridor. She needed to breathe properly. Watched as one of her “oh so comfortable shoes” slipped off and became lost in the darkness. She kicked at the ground, scratched at his arm, used her fingers to prise her way out of his hands, but nothing worked. She was being dragged along on her heels.
He stopped.
Shifted his grip, so she was now in a headlock. She could breathe in a little. They went through an opening, before she bounced downwards. A staircase, she guessed. She couldn’t tell. It was too dark.
They came to a stop. He took his arm from around her head, and before she had chance to move, he pushed her with two hands. She fell backwards, landing hard on her right side.
She heard, rather than saw a door close. She sprang up, the pain from the fall lost in the midst of heavy breathing and adrenaline.
‘Let me out of here you bastard! Open this door, open it now.’
She was in darkness, she grasped at the door, trying to find a handle or anything. Something she could do to open the door. She used her fists, banging on the door with all her strength. ‘Please, don’t leave me here. Open the door.’
She continued to bang on the door until her hand started to ache. Pain, so painful.
She switched hands.
It came then. A voice through the walls, an audible static over it. She stopped, cocking her head to listen.
‘You will be fed. You will have water. There is a hatch opening on the door which can only be opened from the outside, through which this will be provided. On some days your food will have an extra ingredient, in order for me to clean up. You will not know when this is. If you’re good, I won’t have to kill you.’
It went silent then. She stood still, straining to hear any other noise, backing away from the door carefully. She put her hands out in front of her, her eyes trying to adjust.
There was no sound, other than her own breathing, panting in and out. She spread her arms around, jumping a little as her hand brushed against a flat surface.
She took a large breath in, struggling to keep the panic in. She couldn’t see the walls around her, yet she could already feel them. Closing in on her.
She was alone, in the darkness.
Chapter One
Sunday 28th January 2013 – Day One
Frosty, brisk air swirled around Sefton Park and its surrounding area. Early morning mist only just beginning to lift above the tree line. Detached houses, set back from the main road lined the street on the side where flashing lights from multiple vehicles had drawn out bleary eyed gawkers. Once they housed whole families, now most were converted apartments, selling for six figure sums. They stood on the pavements shifting on cold feet in the early morning light. Mostly, they’d never say two words to each other, but the early morning excitement had driven them out, caused conversation to break out.
It’s not your small, family friendly, swings and slide type of park. Instead, it’s acres of greenery, beautiful old trees, and enough space to see something new each time you walk through there.
And the odd dead body turning up unannounced.
It was usually suicides. Tied to a tree or a bunch of pills in the middle of a field. Hope no one finds them before they go.
Sometimes it was something else.
He saw the lights in the distance. Blue, red, shifting from left to right. The constant pattern having a hypnotic effect on the surrounding populace. Detective Inspector David Murphy was sitting in his car, the engine settling as he turned it off. The lights of the marked cars parked in front of his Citroen, reflected off the dark interior inside, a strobe effect bouncing off the dashboard.
Murphy shook his seatbelt off and leaned forward, attempting to see past the lights and people milling around the park. He slumped back in the seat when it became clear he wouldn’t see anything.
He scratched his beard, the trim he’d performed the previous night giving it a coiffed edge, which he decided said ‘distinguished’ rather than ‘hiding a double chin’. He stifled a yawn, and opened the car door and stretched his long legs out, the tight feeling in his calves telling him he’d maybe overdone it on the cross trainer the previous evening, trying to shift those last few pounds of weight.
He’d been awake no more than fifteen minutes when his DCI had called. That made it less than an hour into the day for him, and he was walking towards the body of a dead girl.
Not how he usually liked to start off a day … especially a Sunday. A phone call from work before he’d even had chance to drink his coffee. Have a slice of toast. Put a fresh suit on.
Death could be incredibly selfish.
‘Murphy’ he’d answered once he’d finally located the phone hiding in his jeans pocket on the bedroom floor. Stabbing at the screen, trying to answer the stupid thing.
‘Murphy.’
‘David?’
Murphy’s shoulders slumped. DCI Stephens. Which outside of normal hours, usually signified nothing good. ‘What’s happened.’
‘A body. Suspicious circumstances. Found in Sefton Park.’
‘Shit. Bad?’
‘Not sure of all the details at the moment.’
‘I’m wanted?’
‘Why else would I be calling you David. I’m not your bloody alarm clock.’
‘It’s been a while that’s all. Was starting to wonder if I’d be stuck on break-ins for another six months.
‘Well you’ve got something else now.’
‘Who’s with me?’
‘Rossi or Nichol. Your decision.’
‘Great. Not exactly Sophie’s fucking Choice.’
‘Language. Weren’t you taught never to swear in front of a lady? And anyway, beggars can’t be choosers. How long until you can get down there?’
Murphy crooked his phone between his shoulder and ear. Grabbed his trousers from where they had been lying next to his jeans. ‘Which end?’
‘Which end of what?’
‘The park.’ Jesus wept.
‘Oh, Aigburth Drive. Just look for the lights. Sounds like half the bloody force is there.’
Murphy zipped up his trousers and gave the previous day’s shirt a sniff. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’ Ended the call and pocketed the phone.
He’d left the house with his cup of coffee still in his hand. Stuck it on the passenger seat as he got in his car and debated strapping it in. Probably over cautious. Reversed out the driveway, and onto the road. Decided twenty minutes was pro
bably a little optimistic. It’d probably be double that this time of the morning, with the traffic through the tunnel. He’d shook his head and tugged on his bottom lip with his teeth, turned right out the small winding road which surrounded the small estate, lamenting the fact he was already going to be playing catch up when he got there.
The commute may have been bad, but at least it gave him a chance to wake up. Within five minutes he was on the motorway heading for the Wallasey tunnel, which separated the Wirral and Liverpool proper. The Wirral is a small peninsula, only separated from Liverpool by the River Mersey, a mile long tunnel underneath the seabed. Traffic wasn’t as bad as it would have been on a weekday, so he was able to push his luck and cover the distance a bit quicker.
The Wirral wasn’t always home. In fact, he’d only been able to call it that for the previous few months.
He loved the city of Liverpool. The people, the buildings, the history. He just didn’t want to live there. Working in it was enough at that moment.
He used his fast tag when he arrived at the tunnel booths, and broke the forty mile an hour limit going under the River Mersey. But it was still forty minutes after the phone call by the time he’d pulled the car to a stop.
Into the damp and cold January morning, zipping his coat up as he walked towards the hastily strung up crime scene tape which lined the path which led into the park from Aigburth Drive. The wide main road, shadowed by high trees on both sides, masking most of view. A couple of uniforms were stood guard, a quick flash of his warrant card and he was able to pass through into the park.
He could see the hive of activity a hundred or so yards up ahead. A stone path cut through the grass on either side, leading from the entrance into the distance. A grass verge which went up in to the treeline and took up a few acres of the park was where people were gathered. Murphy dropped his head as the wind picked up, and began walking towards them.
‘Sir!’ Detective Constable Laura Rossi, second generation Italian. Five and a half foot tall, dark long hair. Strong looking, from the broad shoulders which made her look stocky, to the roman nose which on her complimented her features. Most of the single, and quite a few of the married, lads at the station had tried and failed with her. Murphy wasn’t one of them. Strictly professional. She came bounding towards Murphy. She brushed her hair away from her face, tucking strands behind her ear. ‘You all right?’
‘What have we got?’ Murphy said as she reached him.
‘Morning to you too sir.’
Murphy looked down at her, Rossi being at least eight inches smaller, and about half his weight. ‘Let’s get on with it. And stop calling me sir, how many times do I have to tell you.’
‘Course. Sorry sir. Young female, found by a corpse sniffer around six a.m. Fully clothed. Nothing around the body, just laid out beneath a tree.’
Murphy looked around and spotted the man she was referring to, talking to some uniforms. An older guy, probably in his mid sixties, his dog sitting next to him silent on his lead.
‘He have anything to say?’ Murphy said.
‘Not much, dog ran off into the trees, he went looking for it and found the girl.’
‘Is nobhead here?’
Rossi looked confused. ‘Who’s a nobhead?’
Murphy smiled, still finding it amusing that the scouse accent didn’t match the Mediterranean looks. ‘Nichol. Is he around?’
Rossi attempted to hold back a laugh behind a hand. Murphy noticed her fingernails, bitten down rather than manicured. ‘Yeah, he’s off on the hunt for clues. His words, not mine.’
‘Good.’ Murphy replied. ‘Fat bastard could do with some exercise. SOCOs here yet?’
‘About twenty minutes before you.’
‘Any other witnesses?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘Okay. You looked at the body yet?’
Rossi shook her head.
‘Well then. Let’s not keep her waiting.’
Murphy snapped on his gloves, extra large, and began walking towards the scene. He could see the Palm House, a large dome building which was the centrepiece of the park, in the distance past the trees. The great glass windows which gave it the appearance of huge green house looked dull and lifeless in the muggy morning light.
Murphy and Rossi entered the tent which was just about finished being erected around the body. The treeline was thicker there, the ground still not completely unfrozen from the previous harsh winter, crunched underneath his feet.
The click and whirr of photographs being taken was the only soundtrack to the scene. Murphy let his eyes be drawn to the girl. Early twenties he figured. Plain looking, dressed conservatively in black trousers and a red woollen jumper. One earring, which meant either one was missing or was now a souvenir.
His money, as always, was on the latter. Always to the morbid thought first. To be fair, he was usually right.
From the angle he was stood, he could see only a profile of her face, the eyes closed and an emotionless expression stared away from him. She looked peaceful, no pain etched across her face as he’d seen on others. Yet, she had the distinctive pallor of the dead; pale, lifeless.
Murphy side stepped around the edge, carefully avoiding anything that looked important. He stood at the foot of the body, taking it in. The clothes looked new, unworn, the creases on the jumper looked like they were from packaging, rather than wear.
She was spread eagled, her arms outstretched in a V, her legs doing the same. Carefully placed in the position. It looked unnatural, posed, which was probably the intention Murphy thought.
Dr Stuart Houghton, Stu to his friends, was crouched over the girl. He’d been the lead pathologist in the city for as long as Murphy had been working. His grey hair was thinning more, his posture looked less firm as he stood up from his haunches. His short, squat stature only enhanced by the ever growing paunch he was cultivating around his middle. He turned to look at Murphy.
‘Dr Houghton, what have we got?’
‘Took your time Dave.’
Murphy mockingly put his hand to his mouth. ‘Calling me Dave when you know I don’t like it. You never fail to shock. And it was only because I knew you’d be here already. What can you tell me?’
‘Are you running this one?’ Houghton said.
Murphy gazed lazily at the pathologist and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I just do as I’m told.’
Houghton pursed his lips at him. ‘Well then, can’t tell you much at the moment.’ He said gesturing towards the young woman. ‘This is how she was found, her arms and legs outstretched like she’s doing a star jump, only lying down. There’s no evidence around the body as far as we can tell so far, and she’s been dead around twelve hours. No ID, handbag, purse, nothing. Other than that you’ll have to wait for the PM for me to tell you more. We’re moving her out now.’
‘Why suspicious then? Maybe she took a bunch of pills or something.’
Houghton muttered something under his breath before continuing. ‘There’s bruises around her neck which indicate asphyxiation. First paramedic on the scene noticed them, and, in my opinion correctly, assumed it was better to call in the big boys.’
Murphy looked closer at the girl’s neck. Large bruises circled her neck, turning darker as the time moved on. Two marks stood out, directly under her chin indicated where the thumbs of someone strangling her had been placed.
‘Did she die here?’
‘Not certain yet, but I’m almost positive she wasn’t. No signs of struggle around the area. The grass is flattened only in the immediate vicinity of the body.’
‘Okay. Any other distinguishing features I need to know about straight away? And let us know when the post mortem is.’
Houghton nodded, and went back to work.
Murphy left the tent, Rossi trailing behind him. ‘We’ll take a statement from the witness and then we should try and find out who she is.’
Rossi nodded and set off towards the witness. Murphy began the process of removing his g
loves, looking around the area seeing familiar faces from older crime scenes about the place. He nodded and exchanged greetings with a few.
No one stopped to talk to him.
He wasn’t surprised. He gave one last look at the finished tent, the uniforms walking around the area, looking under the bushes and scouring the ground.
Back to it.
He takes them … then breaks them
Enjoy this extract? Buy the rest of the book here:
DEAD GONE: 9780007525553
A Note from Paul Finch
It must be a strange quirk in my character, but I’ve always preferred fiction that explores the darker side of the human experience. This won’t surprise anyone who’s read any of my novels and stories, but I’m only really satisfied when my characters are subjected to extreme stress and peril, my landscapes are nightmarish, and my villains drip with malice and madness.
Don’t get me wrong, I like a touch of mystery too, but I can’t conceive of a thriller which isn’t as frightening as it’s possible to make it.
Though I’m a former policeman and crime reporter, I don’t believe I’m scarred or haunted in any way. I like to think that I’m an affable kind of guy who wouldn’t wish ill on anyone in real life, but in my crimewriting I’m afraid it’s a different story. I honestly don’t feel that I’m giving my readers their money’s worth if I don’t hit them with something gritty, gruesome and disturbing.
Hopefully Him! won’t let anyone down in that regard. It is based loosely on the experiences of a real family friend, though thankfully her tale was nowhere near as hellish as it becomes here, and dwells in that same shadow-land between the thriller and the horror story where so much of my writing can be found, including my two recent novels from Avon Books, Stalkers and Sacrifice, both of which follow police investigations into particularly gut-wrenching cases and have a high emphasis on action and terror.