Out Of The Red
Page 1
Out Of The Red
A Gripping British Mystery Thriller - Anna Burgin Book 2
David Bradwell
Contents
Out Of the Red
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
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Epilogue
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Cold Press
In The Frame
About the author
Out Of the Red
The gripping, twist-filled sequel to Cold Press.
Investigative journalist Danny Churchill is hot on the trail of Graham March - the disgraced former police DCI. The investigation takes him to Germany where he soon starts to uncover dark secrets and new depths of depravity.
Back in London, and aided by his flatmate - fashion photographer Anna Burgin - Danny’s investigation intensifies, but as he gets closer to the truth, the body count starts to rise. Help is offered from the most unlikely of sources, but if Danny accepts, is he doing a deal with the devil herself?
Prologue
Tuesday, April 5th, 1994
THE first line was exciting, full of daring, intrigue and the promise of the new. But nothing that came after could ever come close. He knew that. And that’s why, despite the temptations, and the ease of access, he’d always resisted. Alcohol, yes. He’d get drunk with the rest of them, keeping up with the best of them. But he stayed away from anything stronger. He had a bright future. He wanted to enjoy it. He didn’t realise that it would soon be no more than the basis of a tragic eulogy, and that within the hour he’d be dead.
* * *
Coralie Bruguière couldn’t believe she could ever be happier. Three days earlier she’d come to London with her boyfriend, Olivier. It took a couple of days to acclimatise to the bright lights and noise of the English capital, compared to their quaint semi-rural life in the outskirts of Lille. But by Tuesday evening they were in love with the city, and even more in love with each other.
By day they’d explored the sights, walking hand in hand through Regent’s Park, puzzling out the Underground, sheltering from the English rain and buying each other gifts on Oxford Street. They’d visited Buckingham Palace, countless museums and other places she never believed she’d see with her own innocent eyes.
It was a perfect break. She wanted it to last forever, but tonight, she knew, it was coming to an end.
Coralie had met Olivier at a Christmas party just over two years ago, and they’d been inseparable since. They were perfect for each other. Both had dreams of one day escaping to the bright lights of Paris. They’d met each other’s parents and their relationship had gained approval from all concerned.
It had been an idyllic period in her life. Now, though, she had the sense that something was changing. Something for the better still.
Over dinner, in a restaurant just off the South Bank, the mood was light. It was late, and they were tired, but they’d been making the most of their last full day. Their money was running out, but they’d decided to spend the last of their funds on a special meal as a fitting final memory of their time in London. The restaurant manager had found them a table as other diners headed out into the night.
The waiter took their order. They skipped the starters to keep the price down, but Olivier insisted on ordering a special bottle of wine. Then, as they waited for their main courses to arrive, he took his girlfriend’s hands and looked into her eyes. She smiled in delicious anticipation as he let go with one hand, and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small velvet box that he’d been carrying for the last three days, waiting for this moment. He opened it to reveal a calibre-cut diamond on a white gold ring.
Three days earlier, Coralie had come to London with her boyfriend. The next day she’d be returning home with her fiancé.
It was after midnight when they left the restaurant, the good wishes and congratulations of the waiting staff still sounding in their ears. Rather than hail a cab, they decided to walk back to their hotel, holding hands along the riverbank, taking advantage of a break in the clouds and enjoying the calm of the cool night air. On the far side, they could see Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. They turned right and headed towards the iconic Tower Bridge.
After a couple of minutes, Coralie stopped and pulled Olivier to her. They kissed, like characters from a Robert Doisneau poster. Olivier suggested she stand by the wall next to the river so he could take a photograph. She smiled at him. It was a beautiful pose, full of passion, hope and romance. He joined her by the wall and they held hands, looking out, across the river, watching the slow-moving water of the Thames, and listening to the sounds as the wake from a passing motorboat lapped against the wall.
They looked down to the mud bank as the water receded, and that’s when they saw the body. And that’s when the full horror hit.
1
Four days earlier: Friday, April 1st, 1994
A RHINE riverboat edged slowly downstream, under the arched railway bridge that connected Cologne to much of the rest of Germany. Danny Churchill looked out of the window and then drew the curtains for the final time.
He turned back to his desk, pressed the power button on his IBM ThinkPad 500 notebook computer, and then went to retrieve his suitcase while he waited for it to boot. It would be good to get home. A shame, perhaps, that he couldn’t stay longer, but this was a long-term project. He’d come looking for answers, but every answer led to further questions of its own.
Eventually the screen showed the now-familiar Windows 3.1 desktop. Danny returned to his desk and pulled out the chair. Almost immediately his fingers were gliding over the keyboard, nudging the trackpoint to move the cursor. He double-clicked on the CompuServe icon.
Electronic beeps and whistles gurgled from the internal fax modem while it established a connection. And then he was online. The sense of achievement never diminished, nor the feeling that he was crossing the threshold into a new network-centric world. Suddenly he wasn’t alone.
He opened his mailbox and checked for new messages. When the download completed, there was only the one: a work circular with details of a leaving party for one of the picture editors. He started typing a new message.
Subject: Greetings from Köln!
Hi Anna and I hope all is well.
I’m just star
ting to pack up now and looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.
It’s been a long day but I think I’ve made progress. I hope so anyway, although he’s a sly bastard so definitive proof is still proving elusive. I can’t say too much on here but I’ll tell you what I can tomorrow. Dinner?
I should be back around lunchtime. Will you be home?
I saw a bit more of Cologne today. It’s a lovely city. We should come here for a weekend. I’d love to just go off exploring and not have to worry about work. It’s very photogenic too. You’d love it, I think.
I’d better dash. I’m heading down to the bar in a moment for a well-deserved nightcap, but then bed beckons. Missing you.
Take care and speak soon.
Danny x
He thought for a moment. Was there anything else to add? This whole electronic messaging thing - and indeed the ThinkPad itself - was relatively new, and he still couldn’t quite fathom how it all worked. But as an investigative journalist for Britain’s biggest-selling morning tabloid, the Daily Echo, he knew it was becoming ever more important to keep in touch with technology. A year ago, he’d got his first mobile phone to celebrate promotion from researcher to fully fledged writer. Now he had a notebook computer and an email address. The speed of progress was both relentless and accelerating.
He pressed send. The message made its way back to London, to the flat he shared with his best friend and confidante Anna Burgin. Would she still be awake? Probably, given the time difference. What would she be up to? He tried to picture her, on the sofa, watching TV, or with any luck, maybe working at the computer.
Despite the cost, he left the connection open while he continued packing. He’d worry about the hotel bill when he filed his expenses. The accounts department would be tolerant. He’d proved his worth, many times over.
A few minutes later a reply arrived.
Re: Greetings from Köln! - now Greetings from Camden!
Hi Danny,
Hark at you with the Köln thing. Can’t wait to see you too. Yes, I’m here all day.
All’s good back in the motherland. The women’s air force has just merged with the RAF apparently, so I may have a career change and become a fighter pilot. I think I could fancy that if I’m tall enough, which I doubt. Life is so unfair.
In other news, I’ve had a lovely evening. I’ve just come back from a night out with Katie and Ben who are two of the writers at Harpers, although I fear the fourth glass of wine was an error, haha. I always assumed Ben was gay but apparently not, as he asked me out, and insisted on swapping numbers when I refused. Most unexpected!
You’d be proud of me though. I still managed to turn this thing on, although God alone knows how.
By “Dinner?” do you mean you’re offering to take me to dinner or expecting me to cook for you? Very happy to accept if it’s the former, but sod off if it’s the other. :-)
Ooh, exciting news. I’ve got a surprise for you tomorrow if you’re up to it. A big night out to relive your youth. I’m not saying any more now so hopefully you’ll be keen to get home asap.
Safe travels and lots of love.
Take care. Anna x
Danny smiled. He cherished his friendship with Anna. They’d met at university and lived together since, although never quite crossed the line into romance. They trusted each other and looked out for each other. He had a sudden surge of homesickness as he pictured her struggling with the mouse, battling with technology. He sent a quick reply.
Hi again,
Lovely to hear from you. Thanks for the quick reply.
I could imagine you in uniform. :-)
Yes “Dinner?” meant invitation to dinner, my treat, but maybe lunch would be better if we’re out at night? Sounds intriguing. I’ll be there as soon as I can.
Sleep well and happy dreams.
Dx
He shut down the computer, and unplugged the modem and power supply. Ten more minutes of final packing in the morning and he’d be ready to take the train to Düsseldorf Flughafen, to catch the flight home.
With nothing else left to achieve, he picked up his key and left the room. When the lift arrived, he pressed E for Erdgeschoss. A moment later, the doors opened at reception. A guest was talking to the concierge, but otherwise all was quiet. The hotel exuded business-class calm and sophistication.
At the bar he ordered a Kölsch. The barman seemed glad of the custom. Highlights from a football match were on a TV screen at the end of the room, so Danny took his drink and made his way to a table with a better view of the game. The sound was turned off, not that he’d have understood the commentary anyway.
And with that, he allowed himself to relax for the first time in days, switching off from the constant stress and occasional danger of the investigation into the illicit sidelines of the corrupt former police Detective Chief Inspector, Graham March. One drink, then sleep. Then home for the weekend before battle resumed on Monday.
He closed his eyes, succumbing to fatigue. But then, suddenly, he was alert, on edge, sensing movement behind him. He tried to ignore it, but it seemed close, and the bar was otherwise nearly empty. He heard the rustle of clothing. Immediately he was wide awake. And then he heard a voice, softly spoken but unmistakeable. A voice he’d never expected to hear again.
“Hello, Danny,” she said.
He turned, and looked straight into the eyes of a ghost.
2
OOH, that was good. You should take it up professionally.”
Graham March lay back, sweat glistening on his 18-stone frame. Aurelia, his favourite Polish masseuse, opened a packet of baby wipes to clean up the worst of the mess and then picked up her tunic from the floor, moving to the side as it caught on a heel. She did up the buttons and then leaned over to check her appearance in the mirror that ran the full length of the table. She knew she was being watched from the adjacent room. It was all part of the job. All part of the humiliation.
“I’ll leave you to get dressed,” she said, trying not to catch his eye. “Can I get you a glass of water?”
“Yes, my darling, I think a certain amount of re-hydration is called for, if you catch my drift.” His laugh was almost as sickening as the thought of what she’d just had to endure.
Aurelia left the room, and March sat up. He decided against a shower. He’d enjoy her scent for a little while longer. He was nearly dressed when she returned.
“Ah, there’s a good girl,” he said, taking the glass with one hand and patting her on the backside with the other. He let his hand roam down her thigh to where the hemline gave way to nylon. She tried to suppress a shudder.
“Mikołaj says he’s ready for you,” she said. “He’s in his office when you’re ready.”
“Tell him I’ll be there in five.”
She nodded.
“See you again, Mr March,” she said, turning to leave. The maintenance of courtesy took every ounce of her resolve. The maintenance of self-respect hadn’t been so resilient.
* * *
Half an hour later, March climbed the stairs from the basement and emerged from the door of the Central Sauna massage parlour, onto the street that led back to Euston station. He frowned at the rain, his senses assaulted with the noise and pace of motion. It was suitably dark. He wouldn’t be seen, not that it really mattered any longer. He’d survived far worse. Suspended, yes, but on full pay while investigations were ongoing, although he was confident he’d be able to annul those in the near future, once his version of the truth came out. And of course, some token good works and a word, or more, in the right direction. He raised his collar and allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction.
* * *
“I’m a changed man,” he declared, raising his glass. “Cheers.”
“You’re full of bullshit, I know that.” Despite the strong words, the woman on the other side of the desk was smiling.
“Seriously, Jacqui, I’ve discovered my charitable side.”
“Right. Giving money to hookers doesn�
�t count, especially if it’s for services rendered.”
March laughed and took another drink.
“If you weren’t such a cynic you might actually have a bit more success with romance, my dear. How’s the casino business?”
“All the better now we don’t have to subsidise your pension plan.”
“And again, such misanthropy. That was merely a small recompense for turning a blind eye to what I like to call your more creative ventures.”
“And again, full of shit. So, go on then, amuse me. What have you done? Giving cash to bookies doesn’t count either.”
“Jacqui. You do yourself a disservice. No, my darling, I have become involved with the homeless, protecting runaways and helping them to find a warm meal and a roof for the night.”