by Jay Nadal
It was Richards.
36
Scott scanned the room minutes after Richards’s arrest. It was nothing more than an improvised bolthole that smelt of stale sweat and general mustiness from a lack of proper ventilation. Empty cans of beer lay strewn in one corner, and half a packet of custard creams together with a torch were on top of a box. A scrunched up sleeping bag had been pushed to one side. Scott snapped on a pair of latex gloves and examined carrier bags discarded in one corner. The illumination from a torch that Mike held lit up the darkened space.
“He’s kicking up a right fuss out there. I’ve let Helen deal with it, because if he pisses me off any more, I might just batter him with this torch.” Mike grunted his displeasure.
“It’s hardly an en suite, is it?” Scott said as he rummaged through the first bag. “Bingo.” He pulled out an assortment of women’s underwear. In a second bag, he discovered women’s shoes and other items of clothing.
Scott turned in anger and exited the room, instructing Mike to arrange for scientific services to review the evidence.
Scott glared at Richards. “Who do all those items of clothing and shoes belong to?” Scott asked, flicking his head back in the direction of the garage.
Richards offered nothing more than a demented grin.
He inched closer to Richards. “If I find that those items in there belong to other victims, I’ll make sure you’re banged up for a long time.”
Richards spat at him and tried to wriggle free of the police officers.
“Get a fucking spit hood on this animal.” Scott grabbed Richards by his top. “Who else have you attacked? Who?”
“Guv!” Helen shouted.
Scott didn’t hear it. He was lost in rage-fuelled anger. This case had consumed him. And having seen the evidence, he suspected that Linda Allen was one of many victims. His grip tightened. Scott leant in closer and whispered, “I will make your last hours of freedom so fucking miserable for you, that you will wish you’d never been born.”
Helen placed a hand on Scott’s arm and tugged him away. “Guv, enough!” she said firmly.
Richards offered nothing more than a gaze filled with pure hatred.
“I can’t believe you didn’t call me in,” Abby fumed as she looked at the monitor in an adjoining room and saw Richards sat there in a white suit. She felt cheated, having missed out on the final few hours of tracking down the killer.
Scott shrugged. “I didn’t get the chance,” he lied. “Things happened so quickly, that I barely had enough time to call Mike.”
Abby eyed Scott. “You’re a lousy liar, Guv.”
Forensics had uncovered hair fibres from the impounded car. Some fibres matched Linda Allen. Other hair fibres extracted were being referenced against the mis per list. Analysis was taking place on the soil samples taken from work boots discovered in the boot of the car.
It was clear from the start of the interview that Richards would not cooperate. Scott had tried every form of coercion and pressure, going in soft and then hard, but nothing worked. Richards sat back in his chair, his arms folded defiantly, refusing to talk. They had appointed a duty solicitor who had little work to do as her client answered every question with a “no comment” that tested Scott’s patience.
But the file of evidence they had against him was substantial, and they presented each piece of evidence to gauge his reaction. His DNA matched the DNA profile from semen taken from Linda Allen and Daisy Callaghan. The black pubic hair retrieved from Linda Allen during the post-mortem, matched Richards’s profile. The bags and duct tape matched the same composition of those discovered on Linda. And finally, the photograph taken in Cardiff confirmed he was there the night Daisy Callaghan was murdered. It was all they needed.
Abby and Scott stared at the monitor as Richards locked his gaze on the camera in the corner of the ceiling and gave it a finger salute. Scott turned to Abby, who looked as frustrated as Scott felt. Not every arrest ended with a full and frank confession during the interview. And in such cases Scott would charge the offender based on evidence that linked them to the crime and hoped CPS would agree.
But Scott wanted to give it one more attempt.
Seated before Richards once again, Abby joined Scott, not wishing to miss out.
Scott held up another clear evidence bag that contained the list of female names recovered from the apartment. Shelly Martin and Zoe Evans on the list had been found safe and well. They’d not been contacted by Richards directly, but he’d liked their profiles and sent them virtual gifts. They’d not been able to locate a female called Katrina Banis yet.
“Laura Winters, missing for the past two years. Did you have anything to do with her disappearance?”
Richards shook his head.
“For the purpose of the tape, could you say your answers, Mr Richards?”
Richards threw Scott a derisory glance. “No.”
Scott sighed. “Anahit Grigoryan, she arrived in the UK six months ago from Armenia. She went missing three months after her arrival. Did you have anything to do with her disappearance?”
“Nope.”
“Emma Ali. Reported missing. Ten days ago. Did you have anything to do with her disappearance?”
“No comment.”
The interview turned into a battle of wills. It was evident that Richards would stonewall Scott’s questions. For the time being Scott hoped the underwear, clothing and shoes discovered at the garage and apartment would yield forensic evidence linking Richards and those missing females in the coming hours and days.
He slid a picture of Linda across the table. “She was your wife at one point. What could be so horrible that would drive a man to kill his ex-wife?”
“No comment,” Richards replied flatly as he rocked on the back two legs of his chair.
Scott maintained the silence for a few minutes before removing another photograph from the Manila covered file. He pushed it in Richards’s direction. “The mother of your daughter. A child who has lost her mum. A mum who won’t be there to see her daughter turn sweet sixteen, eighteen or twenty-one. Who won’t be there to see her girl go to her high school prom.” Scott turned towards Abby. “Can you imagine the psychological trauma Shannon will go through when she’s old enough to realise that her dad killed her mum?”
Abby shook her head at the question and stared intently at Richards. There was no reaction. Richards was nothing more than a cold, calculated, psychotic killer who held no remorse.
Scott changed tact. “Where was your last gardening job?”
Richards shrugged. “I can’t remember.”
“It must have been wet? It’s covered your boots in mud, and some of it’s still damp, so it must’ve been recent?”
“As I said, I can’t remember.”
“I imagine it upset you that Linda needed to go elsewhere to find love, romance and sex? Did it make you feel inadequate?”
Richards’s eye muscle twitched, and Scott pounced. “What was it? Couldn’t get it up? Not packing enough down there?”
Richards’s bristled further. Scott went for the jugular.
“Linda confided in her friends you weren’t up to the job and was surprised as you were when she fell pregnant.”
Anger boiled deep. It churned within, hungry for destruction. Richards launched for Scott and sent the papers flying. The duty solicitor recoiled in horror as pandemonium broke out. Richards grappled with Scott’s jacket as Abby hit the dado panic strip. Richards shifted his grip as he reached for Scott’s throat.
Abby raced around the table and threw her arm around Richards’s neck and tried to pull him back. Her restraint only enraged him further as spittle erupted from his mouth and his faced reddened in fury.
Officers piled into the room amid the wail of the emergency siren. Several manhandled Richards to the floor as he screamed vile obscenities. One sealed his fate.
“The bitch deserved it.”
“You okay?” Abby asked. A concerned look on her face.
Scott nodded and slumped in his chair. “Not the outcome I hoped for. The findings at the garage have come a little late to nail him today, but I’m hoping there’s enough there to link him to some of those missing women.”
Abby leant against the wall, a sense of anti-climax hanging heavily in the air. “The phones that we seized show he’s been in contact with over a dozen women in the past twelve months. All the conversations relate to online meetings and sites. Some are still active and accounted for. Five have not been online in over three months. But that’s not uncommon. Perhaps they’ve met someone, or their membership has expired. We’ll follow up with further enquiries.”
“At least we’ve charged him with the murders of Linda Allen and Daisy Callaghan.”
It was a good outcome for the team. But one name still concerned him. Rebecca Levy. Not knowing her fate played heavily on Scott’s mind. With nothing to suggest that she’d come to harm, he could only guess that she was one of the many who disappeared for reasons only known to them. Maybe they would never uncover new information about her disappearance, but Scott couldn’t help but feel for Mr Levy. One of thousands of parents each year who lived for news of missing loved ones. They lived in hope, and for many, hope was the one thing that kept them going.
37
Nine weeks later…
“It must be around here somewhere!” Adam shouted.
The three of them stopped and examined the map as they familiarised themselves with their surroundings. Whichever direction they looked, the woodland looked the same.
“I think we’re not far. We’ve been on this trail for over an hour already,” Stevie added with enthusiasm. He was the persistent one of the three, and the first to look up new sites to uncover. Adam and Dean followed his lead.
Together, they’d researched, discovered, broken into and explored dozens of abandoned hospitals, building sites, mortuaries and properties off limits to the public. They were part of a growing movement of urban explorers who travelled the length and breadth of the country searching out weird, unusual and sometimes scary locations. Once inside, they’d explore, take photos and upload their experiences.
They’d already been to Draycott Cross Colliery in Derbyshire, GKN Shadow Factory tunnels in Smethwick, St Peter’s Hospital Mortuary based in Chertsey, and the old cement works at Shoreham. They’d evaded security and barbed wire at many of these sites.
Their new site for exploration was the abandoned underground reservoir in Plumpton, north of Brighton. Surrounded by dense woodland, and deep undergrowth, their journey was slow and hard as the ground was wet underfoot.
Some thirty minutes later, they knew they were close as rusty and broken metal railings loomed into view.
Excitement and a sense of curiosity filled their veins as they examined the site. At ground level there was little to see. In fact, the location looked no different to the rest of the forest. The magic lay beneath their feet. Several explorers had posted their photos of the underground cavern. Dark, decaying walls, and a chamber partly submerged.
They split in different directions to search the ground.
It didn’t take long for Dean to discover the grate. “Here lads, I’ve found it, I think.”
The other two joined him. On first impression, it looked like nothing more than a rusty floor grate in the ground hidden by fallen leaves. Fresh footprints suggested that other explorers had recently visited. The discovery of a torch nearby only reinforced the assumption.
“Give us a hand.” Dean huffed as he gripped the cold steel and tugged with all his might. Together, the three pulled the grate to one side and peered over the edge into the blackness.
“You found it, so you go first,” Adam suggested as he readied his camera kit and headlamp.
By now their combat fatigues were muddy and wet as they knelt on the sodden ground and watched Dean descend the metal stairs into the murky blackness.
His voice echoed around the narrow passage as the light from the headlamp bobbed and bounced off the walls. “Jesus, it fucking stinks down here.” His voice trailed off as he disappeared. “Someone’s been here; they’ve left clothes and a sleeping bag on the ledge.”
Stevie and Adam exchanged excited glances and readied themselves to descend.
They stopped in their tracks when Dean’s guttural scream raced up the inspection chamber. “Call the police, call the police!” He screamed like a wounded animal. As he clambered up, his feet slipped on the wet rungs.
He scrambled up to the surface and dragged himself over the edge only to collapse on the wet ground. He threw up as his stomach lurched. His face was ashen. He lay on his back staring at the sky. His chest heaved through the force of his shock.
The voices became a distant echo as his friends crowded around him in concern. His brain had shut down. He was clammy with a glisten of cold sweat. His eyes were as wide as if someone was coming to deliver the fatal blow. Yet what he saw, the bodies, no one else could see. Trapped in his own psychosis, he experienced a living nightmare for one, tailor-made by his own brain to play on his deepest fears.
Current Book List
For the full list of books, please visit my website by clicking on the page link below, or each book from the list.
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DI Scott Baker Series
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Book 5 – Sacrifice– Available here:
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Book 6 – Isolation– Available here:
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Book 7 – Missing– Available here:
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Collaborative Series
You Saw Too Much- Book 1– Available here:
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Don’t Look Back- Book 2– Available here:
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Prologue
Weighed down with the torture of recent events, Lori unlocked the door of the motel and stumbled inside, hauling her one big bag of spare clothes with her. Before she got a chance to study the small, dusty room, she hurried to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. She then unpacked her bathroom gear and brushed her hair in short, violent strokes, fighting the urge to look at herself in the mirror. The image she expected was awful: tired eyes, frizzled hair, and red skin bitten by the fall air.
She glanced around the bedroom and shook her head at the worn and tired feel. If she painted the walls black, the room couldn’t be any darker. The once-frilly net curtains at the window were thick with years of grime. The light hanging from the ceiling struggled to reflect from the formerly beige carpet that was more like a forest floor in both color and texture. The walls could be any shade at all. She couldn’t tell.
Lori grimaced. She’d clearly been given a room that hadn’t been used in a long time. She thought about going to complain but had neither the energy nor inclination. It could wait until tomorrow.
By the time she was done, she climbed into bed and winced as the hard springs poked her skin. It was like fingers pricking and prodding her all over, adamant she shouldn’t sleep. She didn’t need them—she had enough trouble sleeping just from the memories that came back to haunt her. How had this all happened so fast? Only weeks ago she’d been the wife of a loving
husband, and now she was being hunted while a nameless man fed her conspiracy stories.
I’ll get to the truth somehow, she thought, stirring. Even if it kills me.
Chapter 1
Before her life changed forever, there was nothing Lori loved more than living in the small, quiet town of Castleford, Connecticut. With a population of less than seven hundred, there was little room for drama and plenty of space and tranquility to enjoy the view of the lush and leafy forests that surrounded the town. There was no better place.
Castleford, referred to as the town that always slept, was hemmed in by dense woods that were home to ancient beech, cedar, and birch trees. These trees stood as silent bastions, observing folk going about their everyday lives. She never tired of admiring the landscape as it changed through the seasons. From a color palette of greens in the spring and summer, to the rich oranges, yellows, bronzes, and reds that heralded the cool touch of fall in the air.
Yes, this was their home now, the place she and her husband had chosen to relocate, and that’s why she could afford a smile when she stood in line at the grocery store, clutching some last-minute picnic essentials. Her heart fluttered as she thought about this special picnic and the news that she was desperate to tell Sam. She imagined the look on his face as she told him. Just the thought made her laugh. Their dreams were coming true.
It was the first Friday of the month, which meant an early leave from her job as an independent blogger. Her blog, All Things Life, focused on Castleford and the many things that visitors to the area could try. It meant that she’d explored the local trails through the state forest, discovered the delights of the local wildlife, and promoted the local farms and bakery. One part of her blog that she looked forward to was her monthly quirky comparison of a New England town to its UK namesake. Sheffield, Hartford, Winchester, and Norfolk had featured in recent months.