Hurt (The Hurt Series)
Page 1
Hurt
by D.B. Reeves
Copyright
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013, D.B. Reeves
For my loving parents, Brian and Margaret.
CONTENTS
Larnaca, Cyprus
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-one
Chapter Seventy-two
Chapter Seventy-three
Chapter Seventy-four
Chapter Seventy-five
Chapter Seventy-six
Chapter Seventy-seven
Chapter Seventy-eight
Chapter Seventy-nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-one
Chapter Eighty-two
Chapter Eighty-three
Chapter Eighty-four
Chapter Eighty-five
Chapter Eighty-six
Chapter Eighty-seven
Chapter Eighty-eight
Chapter Eighty-nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-one
Chapter Ninety-two
Chapter Ninety-three
Chapter Ninety-four
Chapter Ninety-five
Chapter Ninety-six
Chapter Ninety-seven
Chapter Ninety-eight
Chapter Ninety-nine
Chapter One-hundred
Chapter One-hundred and one
Chapter One-hundred and two
Chapter One-hundred and three
Chapter One-hundred and four
Chapter One-hundred and five
Chapter One-hundred and six
Chapter One-hundred and seven
Chapter One-hundred and eight
Chapter One-hundred and nine
Larnaca, Cyprus
Tuesday, December 26th
5.28pm local time. (3.28pm GMT)
The stark light in the toilets did nothing to improve her gaunt features. She bunched her thick hair behind her head and tied it up in a loose ponytail. The look only served to enhance the dark rings beneath her eyes and the cheekbones she hadn’t seen since her teens.
The white vest top she wore used to fit snugly around an ample bosom, yet now hung loose on narrow shoulders and a flat chest. She looked like she belonged here among the elderly and retired. Yet she had another good twenty years or so left in her before she could rightfully call herself one of them.
Twenty years to do what, though?
That was the question. A serious question she had to consider before returning home to where the ghosts awaited her with haunting text messages about her past, and savage lessons about death and salvation.
Cool beads of perspiration broke on her brow, and her stomach twisted into a tight knot. It was all she could do to stop herself from throwing up in the sink when from her handbag her mobile rang.
Sucking up a deep breath, she fished out the phone and saw Mason’s name flashing on the screen.
She knew the purpose of the call, which was why she was reluctant to answer. She didn’t want to know the grizzly details of the latest victim. She didn’t want to know about the loved one who had been spared, whose horrific ordeal would eventually enrich their lives. She didn’t want to know about how the bastard had appeared out of nowhere again and disappeared just as suddenly.
She didn’t want to know any of these things.
This was why she had flown here, so as to escape the bastard’s choke hold on her life. Yet in the stark reflection in the mirror, she watched a woman she used to recognise bringing the phone to her ear and greeting her ex-colleague with a voice as sombre as the news she was about to receive.
‘Where are you?’ Mason yelled.
‘Not close,’ she mumbled.
‘Are you near a TV?’
‘Why?’
‘Just answer the damn question!’
Never before had she heard Mason raise his voice, and hearing it now scared her more than she thought it would. ‘Wait a second.’ She grabbed her handbag and strode out of the toilets back into the bar. And stopped cold.
Where a moment ago the hotel bar had entertained easy conversation and light laughter from its elderly guests and the two teenage girls propped at the bar, now it had fallen into a deathly silence. It was as if time had stopped, freezing everyone in a state of bewilderment as each and every one of them stared open mouthed at the TV above the bar.
‘Boss?’ Mason’s urgent voice reverberated in her ear. ‘You there?’
She approached the bar, slipping past the statues of her fellow guests toward the two girls.
‘Turn the volume up,’ came a voice from within the small gathering.
The barman, himself in a state of hypnosis, complied.
She, however, did not want to hear what was going on. Neither did she want to see what would happen next.
Because not twenty-four hours ago, she’d had a chance of preventing it using the very gun the figure on the TV was pointing at the camera.
Chapter One
2 months ago
Sunday, October 29th
The seven-year-old girl had thick, curly black hair. In contrast, her kid sister had straight auburn hair like their mother’s. Their mother, the cake decorator, who was as talented with a chicken and some veg’ as she was with icing sugar and a sponge.
It was their mother’s chicken casserole that
had filled the house with that homely aroma the girl loved so much. Most kids she knew favoured the sweet smell of popcorn or candy floss. She would swap any of those smells for the hearty aroma of mum’s homemade chicken dish. For she had been bought up to appreciate the simple things in life by parents, who had worked hard for what they had.
She took nothing for granted, especially her parents, and especially her dad, who was a respected journalist and not always home on time to enjoy mum’s cooking with the rest of the family. And sometimes, not home in time to tuck her in bed. Yet not a single night had passed without him sneaking into her room and kissing her softly goodnight, regardless of the time. She knew this because rarely did she sleep until she’d felt his warm kiss upon her forehead.
In contrast, her little sister would forever be demanding attention from their parents. More often than not, for none other reason than she knew she’d get it. However, as soon as she had it, she’d find something better to do, like annoy her big sister, just as she had been doing this afternoon. Usually the girl wouldn’t mind, but this particular Saturday afternoon she was engrossed in the new word search puzzle book dad had bought her. She was obsessed with these puzzles because, unlike other puzzles, the answers were always there before her eyes. She just had to look. Simple. However, her father had warned her if she looked too hard she risked missing the word she was seeking. The trick was to put the puzzle down and come back to it later. She’d appreciated the advice but had struggled to take it. Once she’d begun a puzzle she required absolute solitude so as to concentrate and finish it. Because try as she may she could not put it down until she’d found every last word.
Her sister knew this, of course, and would make a sport of trying to distract her. This was why the girl had hidden behind the sofa to finish her latest puzzle. Yet she knew she was on borrowed time, for although theirs was a sizable house, the scurry of tiny feet in and out the rooms was getting louder, warning her she would be found sooner rather than later.
It didn’t happen.
Because that’s when the doorbell rang…
DCI Catherine Jessop opened her eyes. She blinked against the dull light creeping through the crack in the curtains and felt moisture seep onto her cheeks. Stared at the alarm clock on the bedside table, its red numbers blurry in her sodden vision.
10.22am. Her first lie-in since she could remember. And what better day than a miserable rainy Sunday?
She sniffed, clearing her nose, blocked from the tears that had welled during the night. Tears that had become more frequent recently. She was rewarded with the smell of frying bacon and fresh ground coffee from the kitchen downstairs. Over the patter of rain on the window, she could hear Ray growling along to Led Zeppelin as he prepared the breakfast in bed he’d promised last night. A fry-up was on this morning’s menu, guaranteed to soak up last night’s wine excess.
She shifted her head on the pillow and was punished with a dull ache above her eyes. And if that wasn’t punishment enough, the ringing of her mobile from the bedside table next to the alarm clock. A groan escaped her lips, dry from the Merlot she had sunk to try and help her unwind after a long week.
If last week felt long, how was this next week going to feel?
Short Timers Disease she’d heard her affliction called. The mythical ailment that prolongs time and saps any enthusiasm you have for your job when a holiday is imminent. But not only was this her first holiday in two years, it was also her honeymoon, due to commence a week today.
Felt like a bloody year today.
She dabbed at her moist eyes with the duvet and thought about the catalyst for the tears, Maybe she was not suffering from Short Timers Disease, after all, but from something much more potent: fear. Fear because the day after tomorrow there would walk another ghost in a city already full of them.
But this ghost, unlike the others, was not dead. Yet.
Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she snatched up the phone and wasn’t surprised to see DI Scott Mason’s name flashing on the screen, demanding her attention.
The bedroom door nudged open, announcing another man in need of her attention. But this man held a tray of good food and hot coffee, and was wearing nothing but a faded Iron Maiden t-shirt, a pair of baggy boxer shorts, and his trademark mischievous half grin.
‘As promised,’ Ray announced.
To answer Mason’s call or not answer? That was the question. The difference between suiting up in Tyvek and stepping into a scene of bloody carnage, and slipping back beneath the sheets with bacon and eggs and coffee lay with one press of a button.
Ray eyed the ringing mobile. The smile faltered, dropping from his eyes. He shot her a wink. ‘One more week, detective. Suck it up. Then we’re outta here.’
Yeah, she thought, answering the call. And not a second too soon.
Chapter Two
Fuelled with a couple of Aspirins, a slice of toast, and half a cup of coffee, Jessop drove through the rain-streaked streets, where the traffic was building up with Sunday shoppers heading into the city centre.
She headed against the flow, away from the congestion and thankful for it. Another mile and she’d be on the M4 and just thirty minutes from London. Such was the accelerated growth of her home city, she had often mused it would not be long before the thirty-five mile gap between the city’s would close. After all, what with boasting the UK’s tenth largest shopping mall, and a football team that had made it into The Premiership, her city was attracting the sort of blue chip companies and IT giants that used to favour the country’s capital.
Of course, with such rapid economic growth came a population growth, and with nearly 3000 new residents a year settling into the new landscape, she was beginning to feel like a stranger in the city she used to call home.
She sighed as up ahead she could see the white top of the 85 metre wind turbine, a recent addition to the city, which welcomed one and all from the M4 junction. What it did not welcome, however, was enough wind to justify it, and was deemed a colossal failure. This always brought a wry smile to her lips. Money may be able to buy progress, but it could never buy common sense. And the great white stationary eyesore was a glaring tribute to this.
Just as such cynical thinking was an acknowledgment of her need for a holiday from a city getting younger whilst she grew older.
She made a right turn, neglecting to signal, and winced at the blaring horn punched by the disgruntled driver she’d cut off.
Ray’s words this morning muffled the noise of the horn reverberating in her head: ‘One more week, detective. Suck it up. Then we’re outta here.’
“Outta here” was Chicago, where they would begin their two week drive to LA along Route 66. An unconventional honeymoon, sure, but a trip that had topped Ray’s Bucket List since forever.
She recalled the look in his muddy grey eyes when she’d surprised him with the news she’d booked the trip. She wished she were looking into those eyes now instead of the drab, drenched housing estate, where a drenched uniformed officer was securing yellow crime scene tape across the communal door of apartment block C.
Parking alongside the curb, she flicked her coat hood up and left the warmth of her car. By the time she had tip-toed across the water-logged cul-de-sac and reached block C, her trouser legs were drenched and somehow water had seeped through the right toe of the H&M boots she’d bought yesterday.
Cursing the boots, she flashed her warrant card at the young PC looking as wet and miserable as she felt, and ducked beneath the yellow tape. She ascended the stairs to the first floor landing of the three storey block, where she found Mason crouched next to a white glossed door numbered 64, scrutinising the brass lock mechanism.
Mason turned from the door, eyed the drenched cuffs of her black trousers, frowned. ‘New boots?’
‘I assumed they were.’ She made a mental note to return the boots and unleash hell upon whoever was passing as the manager of the store that day. Picking up one of the white Tyvekforensic suits her perceptive DI
had brought, she asked ‘What we got?’
‘No sign of forced entry.’ Mason stood, stretched his long back, snapped off a pair of latex gloves and raked a hand through his short, thick brown hair. As usual her 6’ 2” DI with the perpetual frown and intensely dark eyes was impeccably dressed, sporting a grey shirt and tie combo to compliment the charcoal suit his rangy physique carried so effortlessly. ‘Victim’s name is Tanya Adams. Twenty-five. Got a six-year-old daughter, Keisha. Poor kid reported the crime to her friend and neighbour, Carly Samuels.’ Mason motioned across the landing to number 65. ‘Brooke’s with her now, but the kid aint said a word since.’
‘Give her time.’ She slipped on the CSI suit and snapped on a fresh pair of latex gloves. She couldn’t help but imagine the gloves were a pair of Marigolds, and that she was about to wash up the breakfast dishes instead of poke around a bloody crime scene.
Sucking in a deep breath, she turned to the door and examined the lock. Mason was right about no forced entry. Both the gloss frame and brass lock were intact, as was the security chain. She stepped over the threshold into the flat, took a look through the spy hole in the door back out onto the landing. The magnified view was clear. She considered the communal door to the block with its keypad and intercom entry system.
Had Tanya known her killer?
Closing the door, she surveyed the short magnolia painted hallway with its clean terracotta carpet. On her right, both bathroom and kitchen doors were open. Straight ahead, the living room door was closed, as was the second bedroom to her left.
She closed her eyes, inhaled long and deep, and deduced Tanya Adams was a smoker. Of course, above the stale stench of cigarette smoke that clung to the upholstery there were two more prominent smells coming from the first bedroom to the left. But these smells would not have been present when the killer had arrived.
Only after he had left would the stench of blood and urine dominate the flat.
As always, she began her investigation with the closest room to the point of entry. In this case, the bathroom, which proved clean and tidy with no toothpaste streaks on the sink, no smudges on the mirror above the sink, and no hairs in the bath. A single mother herself for so many years, she knew what it took to maintain a clean house, and was quietly impressed with Tanya’s efforts.