by Peter Repton
The Girl Must Die
A suspense thriller with a supernatural twist
Peter Repton
Copyright © 2017 by Peter John Repton
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Dedication
I dedicate this book to my beautiful wife Denise.
We got married when I was just eighteen years old.
On our first date I took her to a funfair at Cleethorpes and put my arm around her on the Waltzers.
Our life has been a glorious Rollercoaster ever since.
I thank her with all my heart for putting up with me for so long.
Forty-one years married and still counting!
1
The red-haired young woman gasped out aloud in extreme pain. Kerry, terrified and confused could not recall how she had gotten into this situation. She could remember nothing after filling up her car with petrol and then driving off. She struggled to open her eyes seeing the blurred outline of a man above her.
‘I must have had an accident,’ Kerry thought. Her vision faded away. Then it came back again with greater focus. Kerry noticed the figure of the man was upside down.
She glanced to her left spotting blood dripping from a wound in her hand. Kerry's terror escalated, her adrenalin finally shaking her mind free of the anaesthetic. She became aware now that everything in the dim room was upside down. The tall man Kerry thought to be a doctor leant in close to her freckled face; she felt his moist breath on her skin.
Kerry realised then that she was actually hanging upside down by her ankles. The man raised a long bladed knife in front of her face. Kerry screamed so loud that it almost made her heart burst. If it had done it would have been a blessing.
2
Jack Ford paced up and down his office. Jack was fifty-four, five feet ten inches tall. He did not take any shit from anyone. He was the top dog on his patch, making sure that everybody knew it. Well, except his wife Mary that is.
Jack drank the rest of his fourth mug of dark, strong coffee, slamming the empty cup into the table and throwing his arms into the air shouting aloud with frustration.
‘Why the bloody hell did something like this happen on my patch?’
Jack lived in Scunthorpe a pleasant small town. Something bad like this had not happened for two years, ever since the “Dice Killer” had been on the rampage. So where was the fairness in it occurring now when he was just over a year away from drawing his pension?
Jack's promotion from Inspector to Chief Inspector two years ago after the “Dice Killer” case result had impressed many. His record was excellent. Jack hoped it was good enough for promotion to Superintendent this year. It would give him a big boost to his salary, and also to his police pension, based on his final salary at leaving. Unlike many police officers who denied being racists and freemasons Jack made no secrets about his affiliations. If you didn’t like it then you could lump it was one of his mantras.
This current situation needed resolving quick. Otherwise, Jack may lose his next pay rise at the next annual appraisal. He could suffer throughout his retirement just because of it. Jack must solve this case. Not just because of the money, he had plenty enough for what he needed. No, it was his pride. Jack Ford always won. Jack was a winner, and everything about his appearance let people know it.
No officer attending his Masonic Lodge owned a six hundred pound Armani suit except him. Or an eight hundred pound Prada overcoat either. Jack wore solid gold cufflinks inlaid with the Union Jack plus a matching tie clip. His wristwatch was a made to order Rolex. The Cross of St. George on the face made up of small red rubies on a white gold background. Jack made no secrets about his politics, being a fierce advocate of right-wing Nationalism.
Jack Ford could have invented the term of power dressing and he looked the business too with rugged handsome features and bright blue eyes. Jack was an outdoor type with a tan acquired from many years of playing competitive Golf. His hair was a silvery white, thinning on top and he would not look out of place commanding a Panzer rolling across Russia during the Second World War. With such natural good looks, he would have made a good poster boy for the Nazi’s.
He was not averse to dealing with violence by reciprocal violence. Criminals in his town knew the meaning of what goes around comes around. His success was phenomenal, in part due to the enforcement employed by Andrew Wilson his Detective Sergeant. Even if attained by questionable methods of policing.
Ford let his thoughts drift back to the previous week. It started with just one or two burglaries, a few car thefts, one violent mugging and a handful of drug abuse offences by the local dope fiends and crack heads. So far it was a typical week for the local police.
Then two people were both reported missing on the same night. The first report came in from a Lindsay Walker. She was phoned on Thursday evening by the local hospital just after a quarter past ten. One of Kerry’s fellow staff nurses on the night shift asked where the hell Kerry was. She should have been on duty at ten o’clock to relieve her but did not arrive. Kerry left their flat at twenty minutes to eight. She intended to visit her friend Julie before going to work. When Lindsay phoned Julie to check, she found that Kerry did not stop by that evening. Lindsay waited for some time before the hospital back at eleven thirty to see if Kerry arrived. Finding there was still no sign of her, Lindsay called the police.
The unhelpful desk clerk at the police station sounded bored. He suggested that her friend Kerry may have met up with an old boyfriend or something like that. She should call back the next day if her friend did not turn up in the morning. He added that young girls often go missing for a few hours. Usually, there is nothing to fear. Lindsay was not impressed, telling him so. He was adamant that persons were not missing until after twenty-four hours. Six minutes and twenty seconds after the station clerk put the phone down the second missing report came in. The caller was once again a disturbed woman.
This one was called Mrs Sarah Kempston. Mrs Kempston’s tale was uncannily similar. Her husband David went out to fill up his Mercedes car with diesel at the local Shell filling station and to buy a sandwich.
David left at about the same time that Coronation Street came on at seven-thirty, as he hated all soap operas. Four hours passed during which time Sarah became frantic with worry. Her missing husband didn't take his mobile phone with him, as he had left it charging. Sarah could not attempt to contact him, not knowing what to do for the best so she decided to inform the police.
The clerk listened to Sarah with more compassion than the aggressive nurse who just pissed him off minutes before. This anxious lady had a husky sort of voice he found appealing. Sarah Kempston has this effect on every man. She knew it, but could never understand it. The only ones uninterested were gay or else needed a guide dog.
The clerk identified himself as Steve. He told Sarah he would check with the hospital. Steve said he would call her back soon. She seemed relieved when Steve said no road accidents involving a Mercedes had occurred. It was a clear cloudless night, the first break in the rain for a long while. With a bright full moon not seen for months, driving conditions were excellent.
In fact, just over three hours earlier in his shift a couple of loonies had phoned in. They reported seeing a dazzling bright light in the sky.
Steve assumed they were referring to the full moon. He detected slurred voices, told them both to piss off. Get a life.
‘Damn druggies in this town have nothing better to do these days,’ Steve muttered as he slammed the phone down.
Steve's colleague, Sam on the day shift came on at five thirty relieving him. At seven thirty a man called in to report a red Vauxhall Corsa car abandoned blocking his driveway. He released the handbrake and moved it aside to get to work as it wasn't locked. The clerk phoned a tow truck company used to remove vehicles parked in the wrong place. Sam instructed a patrol car to log the cars details, which he assumed was stolen.
3
When PC Danny Quill arrived at the scene, he examined the small red Vauxhall Corsa. He discovered it undamaged with a full tank of fuel that ruled out a joyriding incident. Danny witnessed the results of joyriding often. Stolen vehicles often driven by dope heads until running out of fuel and being smashed to pieces. Some were set alight by the mindless idiots. This one was different.
Looking inside the small hatchback, the young officer spotted a ladies handbag. It was a silver imitation Dolce & Gabbana. One of the cheap copies that people often bought on package holidays abroad in Turkey at a fraction of the original expensive designer prices. Feeling strange as he looked inside the handbag, as any heterosexual man would. Danny found the usual range of ladies essentials.
There were three tampons, one of them a super plus, two lipsticks and one half empty packet of chewing gum. He found a petrol receipt in a small black purse containing a Visa debit card a Debenhams store card. In an outside pocket on the handbag, Danny also found a Samsung mobile phone. The name on the debit card said that the bag belonged to a Miss Kerry Harrison. Then he checked the car’s registration against the police computer. It confirmed that the vehicle belonged to her.
Then the desk clerk called and told him that this young twenty-two-year-old nurse was missing, reported by her friend the night before. The young officer examining the car felt concerned for her safety.
Detective Constable Paul Roberts questioned Kerry’s flatmate Lindsay Walker later that Friday evening. Trying to find out what Kerry was wearing when she left for work. To determine who her boyfriend was. He asked about any distinctive marks or tattoos.
Paul even tried to ask Lindsay out on a date, as he was only two years older than her. He said he liked women in nurse’s uniforms. Paul also admitted he fancied female traffic wardens too, but then Lindsay threw him out. By late Friday night, there was still no sign of Kerry, or of David Kempston; both were missing.
On Saturday afternoon DC Roberts dropped into the police station to check on developments. He bumped into his close friend Danny Quill. Danny, a uniformed constable, joined the force a few months earlier, just finishing his initial training. He was a big, pleasant twenty-year-old suffering from severe acne. Paul got on with him well. They shared a love of winding each other up, enjoying the internal rivalry. It always exists between the uniformed and plain clothes departments in the police force. They never missed an opportunity for any verbal attack on each other. Paul greeted Danny.
‘Hello, you spotty faced twat, how are you doing?’ Danny grinned at him and replied.
‘I will be a lot happier next Monday night when we kick your filthy Scouse arses at football. We will beat you by at least three goals to nil!’ Paul then said.
‘You have got no chance mate the league title is as good as ours already. Manchester United have rested on their laurels for long enough.’
Danny Quill was a passionate Manchester United supporter. Much of their friendship revolved around this love of football that they both shared. They hated the others team of choice. Changing the subject, Paul inquired.
‘So what’s happening in your young, exciting life at the moment Danny boy?’
‘Not much I just received a call in from a farmer I have to check out. Someone has dumped a Mercedes amongst his pigs; he wants it shifting. It will involve a lot more bloody paperwork. I am getting all the shitty jobs that no one else wants just because I am the youngest; it isn’t fair mate,’ Danny moaned.
‘Well Danny boy, best go off down there then. You never know some fresh country air may do your spotty face a bit of good!’ Roberts teased.
‘I might have a bit of acne at the moment mate. That will go in no time. Then all the chicks will be mine for the taking. I will be shagging for England, just you wait and see. But you my ginger freckle faced friend...’ Danny paused for effect, to think up a horrible reply.
‘You have always been ugly; you will always be ugly. Not even a twenty-pound whore on the street will ever look at you twice, you pint-sized sack of shit!’ Feeling delighted with his verbal assault Danny strode out the station whistling. Not hearing Robert's final rabid comments.
Danny climbed into his red striped white BMW police car and sped off. He drove out to the farm, which was four miles out of town, passing through wide-open fields and occasional colourful patches of woodland. Everyone in the USA talks about New England in the fall. But yet, early May in Good Old England is a beautiful time, Danny thought. Flowering cherry trees were in full blossom for weeks. Many were releasing a fragrant cascade of pale pink petals, carried away by the prevailing south-westerly wind.
Bright yellow gorse bushes lined the roads for many weeks now. The grass verges were alive with bright dandelions. The hedgerows were full of hawthorn bushes adorned with lovely white blossom. It was the first day without rain for ages. The entire world looked good to him today. A lot of the surrounding area planted with yellow rapeseed gave off a pungent odour on the wind.
Danny could see a lot of healthy looking pigs in surrounding fields. Little custom built houses made for them out of corrugated plastic. These dwellings were each about six feet long, four feet wide and three feet high with curved roofs. They reminded Danny of miniatures of the old Anderson air raid shelters from World War Two.
On arriving at the remote farm, Danny met the farmer and landowner Fred Wilkes. Fred was a giant of a man standing six feet eight inches tall weighing over two hundred and fifty pounds. Despite his bulk, the farmer could move fast, striding up to Danny’s car with a broad smile on his face. Danny climbed from the car feeling like a dwarf next to the ruddy-faced giant.
‘Good afternoon Mr Wilkes. I am Police Constable Daniel Quill. I understand you have found an abandoned vehicle on your property, is that correct?’ Danny asked trying ever so hard to sound like a real police officer.
‘Yes, that’s about right son. I hope you have brought some proper boots with you, though!’ The giant of a man laughed as he looked at the nervous young police officer, noticing Danny’s well-polished black Doctor Marten’s shoes.
‘It’s done nothing but bloody rain for the best part of three months, all the land around here is like a swamp right now. Even my little beauties have been taking up swimming lessons,’ Wilkes joked, his eyes crinkling with another smile.
‘Who are your little beauties?’ Danny queried with a bemused expression on his face.
‘Yes, that's what I like to call my lovely little pigs. Those lovelies have never been as wet. I was even going to ask the missus to make them all bathing caps you know!’ Danny watched the huge man burst into laughter again at his joke. He smiled to humour him, not daring to cause any offence.
‘Come up to the house lad; I’ll get you some wellies,’ Wilkes offered. Danny followed the farmer back to the large old country farmhouse. He could hear a part of the famed orchestra in the country playing in the background. Somewhere two dogs were barking at each other. Chickens squabbled away at the end of the large farmyard. A noisy tractor approached from a distant rutted lane. All around Danny was the pervasive smell of pig manure. It stunk of shit. Danny was given some green Wellington boots, albeit two sizes too big. The odd duo set off out into the fields. They could hear the distant rumble of heavy trucks on the M180 motorway.
It cleaved Wilkes property in half decades before. Wilkes farmed two separa
te sections of land. It was a result of a compulsory purchase order from the highways department. Wilkes used one part to grow rapeseed for its oil. The other part closest to the farmhouse was used to raise some of Lincolnshire's best pigs. Many of which were going to end up as Lincolnshire's finest sausages. Danny, surprised at the vitality of the big man, ran to keep pace with him. His rubber boots squelched with every step. The wet earth, churned by pigs foraging for tidbits, threatened to suck them off his feet.
A group of seven large pigs spotted the two men approach. The large animals trotted towards them with a group of tiny piglets following behind. Fred Wilkes must have noticed the young constable’s apprehension at the approaching pigs. He said to Danny.
‘You need not be afraid of my beauties young Daniel; they just want a stroke, and a bit of love like anybody else does. Just treat them as if they were little puppies. You will be all right.’
Despite Fred’s assurances, Danny could not equate these grunting, muddy beasts with any puppies he’d seen. He could remember a film called Hannibal where pigs were starved and trained to eat people alive. Danny was still full of trepidation when the first pig to reach him nuzzled up against his hand. It began to lick his fingers. He patted the animal with his hand on its head, the large sow grunting with her appreciation. Encouraged by this, Danny stroked her under her hairy chin in the same way as you would a dog. She snorted again with pleasure. The sow looked up at Danny, and he noticed the female pig’s tiny little eyes gleamed at him with delight.
Looking into the friendly creatures eyes this close-up, Danny knew he would never eat a bacon sandwich again. He couldn't without seeing those trusting tiny eyes looking at him this way.