Suspended Retribution: a spell-binding serial killer thriller (DI Rosalind Kray Book 3)

by Rob Ashman

  Suspended Retribution

  Rob Ashman

  Contents

  Also By Rob Ashman

  Preface

  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

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2018 Rob Ashman

  The right of Rob Ashman to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Also By Rob Ashman

  The Mechanic Trilogy

  Those That Remain ( Book 1)

  In Your Name ( Book 2)

  Pay The Penance ( Book 3)

  DI Rosalind Kray Series

  Faceless ( Book 1)

  This Little Piggy ( Book 2)

  Praise for Rob Ashman

  "Five stars from me, would have been six if Amazon and Goodreads went up that high!!" Donna Maguire - Donnas Book Blog

  "Faceless is fast paced, it’s twisted and it packs one hell of a punch into every page!" Sharon Bairden - Chapter In My Life

  "I’ll definitely be reading more from this author in the future. Loved it." Philomena Callan - Cheekypee Reads And Reviews

  "The story is very fast paced with lots happening and lots of twists and turns that kept me on the edge of my seat, sometimes quite literally!" Joanna Park - Over The Rainbow Book Blog

  "Faceless is a fantastic, jaw-dropping journey as I was introduced to DI Roz Kray." Yvonne Bastian - Me And My Books

  "It is jam packed with tension and OMG moments in fact there is nothing not to like and is the best book I have read this year so far...." Shell Baker - Chelle's Book Reviews

  "This is a seriously addictive read. There were so many shocking twists and revelations..." Lorna Cassidy - On The Shelf Reviews

  "Dark, nauseating, intense, destructive, yet incredibly written..." Kaisha Holloway - The Writing Garnet

  "If you want a seriously twisted and deranged serial killer thriller, then look not further!" Jessica Robins - Jessicamap Reviews

  "His writing is so slick that you cannot help but be drawn into this fascinating novel." Kate Eveleigh - Portable Magic

  "...it’s a read that will keep you guessing from page to page..." Jo Turner - Life Of Cri.me

  "A brilliant start to a brand new upcoming series that is bound to blow us all away!" Gemma Myers - Between The Pages Book Club

  "My jaw is on the floor, but I loved every single second of this fabulously sadistic read." Katie Jones - Katie's Book Cave

  "Faceless is a gritty, compelling and thrilling serial killer thriller that kept me utterly engrossed..." Eva Merckx - Novel Deelights

  "The story itself is exciting and addictive in the way a good thriller should be." Susan Corcoran - Booksaremycwtches

  "A super unique and thrilling story line that had me feel uncomfortable even in a room full of people." Susan Hampson - Books From Dusk Till Dawn

  "Faceless is a rollercoaster of a ride with twists and turns at every corner." Caroline Vincent - Bits About Books

  "I love Ashman’s books and recommend anyone that loves a good, bloody, and gory thriller to check them out." Jessica Bronder - JBronder Book Reviews

  "One thing I will say for Rob Ashman OMG he certainly knows how to catch the reader’s attention, with a opening chapter that’s guaranteed to make you squirm you find yourself eagerly devouring chapter after thrilling chapter." Lorraine Rugman - The Book Review Cafe

  "A strong foundation of engaging characters and compelling plotlines with superbly executed twists means that I always know I’m in for a cracking read when I pick up one of his books." Sharon Bairden - Chapter In My Life

  "His style of writing is easy to follow and I could see this as a gripping T.V drama." Nicki Murphy - Nicki's Book Blog

  "I can honestly say that Rob has fast become one of my favourite authors and I’m waiting with bated breath for the next installation in this new series." Debbie Binnersley - My Eclectic Reads

  "The storyline was well thought out, in fact it was an epic storyline that sucked me right in from start to finish." Philomena Callan - Cheekypee Reads And Reviews

  "This was one dark and twisted book!" Berit Lohn - Audio Killed The Bookmark

  "Definitely five stars from me – this is another book that will definitely be in my top reads of the year..." Donna Maguire - Donnas Book Blog

  "This Little Piggy has quadrupled my intense satisfaction for a high octane story which delves deep inside my very imagination..." Diane Hogg - Sweet Little Book Blog

  "Always gritty, graphic, and guaranteed to make some readers squirm, but that never stops a thriller fan!" Jessica Robins - Jessicamap Reviews

  For Jeff, who is a never-ending source of ideas and plotlines, none of which would ever make it into print.

  Preface

  ‘We donned our battle gear to protect our citizens, and our way of life, from those who sought to destroy it. When all along the powers that be couldn’t give a toss about either.

  ‘When the final reckoning comes I will be able to say I stood up for what was right; when you chose to remain seated, content to let it happen.

  ‘If you had done your job, there would be no need for me.

  ‘You failed … there is every need for me.’

  1

  'I fought for my country but I never fought for this,' I mutter the words through clenched teeth. My fury growing with every step. I tug my hood forward and dig my hands deep into my pockets, trying to clear my mind and focus on the task in hand. It’s cold and the stars are on parade. I like the cold, I can’t ever see myself
returning to a hot country. Not after Afghanistan.

  I cross the road and turn down Bloomfield Crescent, flanked either side by semi-detached properties in a suburb of Blackpool, pretending to be more affluent than it is. The car comes into view, parked at the side of the road, and I run through the procedure in my head; rubber, window, hook, lock, twist and away. I’ve practiced as many times as I could, or to be more precise, as many times as I could find cars that fitted the bill. I enjoyed spending my Saturday afternoons trawling the breakers yards. It was the same story every time.

  ‘Excuse me, mate, I’m looking for an old banger for my son to learn to drive. You know the sort, something that runs okay but won’t break my wallet when he wrecks it.’ I would say to the man in the filthy overalls.

  ‘Try at the back, over by the fence, mate, there’s a few you might be interested in.’

  They always seemed to be stored ‘over by the fence’. I honed my skills on as many as I could find, putting into practice what I had learned from the Internet. When I had exhausted the scrap yards the next step was to find one that was kept outside somebody’s house and not behind high fencing topped with barbed wire. Bloomfield Crescent provided just the ticket.

  It was the right age, the right size and most importantly it was parked on a street with no CCTV. Perfect.

  I quicken my stride closing in on the vehicle, trying to keep my anger in check, I need to stay calm and controlled. My eyes scan the road ahead for movement. Nothing. I draw level with the driver’s door and crouch down, a final look around before I go to work.

  I force the flat end of the chisel between the window and the rubber trim running around the outside. It slides into position and I lever the tool against the door sill, prising the glass towards me. With my other hand, I feed the wire loop through the gap and hook it onto the door knob. One subtle flick of my wrist and the door clicks open.

  I jump in and hit the switch to kill the interior light, my senses are assaulted by a gagging mixture of cigarette smoke and lavender air freshener. The driver’s seat slides back as far as it will go to accommodate my long legs. I take a Pozidrive screwdriver and a hammer from inside my coat. The tip of the screwdriver fits into the ignition lock and I deliver two heavy blows to the handle. The screwdriver smashes through the tumblers in the lock. One more should do it. I thump it home.

  I twist the screwdriver and the dashboard lights up, another turn and the engine tells me it’s ready to go. I pull away from the kerb and drive off.

  My knuckles taut and white under the orange glow from the streetlights. I realise that I’m grinding my teeth. All I can see is that little girl with her mum. My blood begins to boil.

  I look down and see I’m doing well over the speed limit, I ease my foot off the accelerator and suck in a few deep breaths. Getting pulled over for speeding is definitely not part of the plan. For the rest of the journey I rehearse the next steps, over and over in my head. In no time I find myself outside the Hawk’s Head pub, pull the car over to the side and step out. I remove my jacket and drape it over the steering wheel to hide the offending screwdriver. The cold bites at my skin through my clothes.

  I put my shoulder against the door and shove it open, the bar is hot and smells of old socks. The low ceiling and flaking walls does nothing to welcome me in and the guy behind the bar looks like he’s straight out of an episode of Shameless. I order a beer and sit in the corner away from the gaggle of men gathered around the massive TV on the wall. There is a football game playing but no one is the least bit interested. A speaker the size of an armchair bangs out a song that I don’t recognise above my head. I scan the crowd and realise that dressed in jeans and a shirt I stand out like a spare prick at a wedding - there are more tracksuits on display than at an Olympic track day.

  Then I see him, dressed in a grey hoodie with a heavy gold chain hanging around his neck. Dangling from the end is an oversized crucifix, an ironic symbol given the man wearing it. He’s holding court amongst his brain-dead cronies; telling his jokes and recounting his tales to the delight of his adoring followers. I want to sip my beer but I can’t unclench my fist. I put my hands in my lap and try to relax, this is proving harder than I thought.

  He elbows his way to the bar and I hear him shout his order.

  ‘Oi, Jim! Ten pints of Stella mate, and don’t spare the horses my man.’

  The crowd behind him whoop and holler their approval. He turns with his hands raised in triumph. He has a lot to celebrate.

  He takes a roll of bank notes fat enough to choke a horse from his pocket and peels off a couple of twenties.

  ‘Make it eleven, I’m fucking thirsty,’ he calls out.

  The guys behind him go berserk, shouting and punching the air. I finally manage to pick up my pint and take a sip. The sudden change in temperature irritates my cheek. My eye twitches as I pull out a handkerchief and dab it against my face. Even now, after all this time, I still struggle to resist the temptation to rake my fingernails across the offending skin to alleviate the irritation – which of course it never does. I take the medicated cloth away and look at the surface in the dim light – it is clear. That’s five weeks now.

  I’ve seen enough, sink the rest of my beer in two large gulps and head for the door, the cold of the night tugs at my cheek again and it itches like a bastard. I hold the hanky to my face and walk across the road to the car.

  All I have to do now is wait. The time ticks by and my breath begins to condense in the air, the windows glaze over with frost. I switch on the heater to keep them clear. When it’s time to go I have to be ready. I watch the door to the pub and wait. The digits on the clock click over to 11.30pm.

  The door flies open and five men spill out onto the pavement. He’s in the middle of them doling out gangster rapper style handshakes and man-hugs. My adrenaline spikes.

  They spend the next five minutes saying their exaggerated goodbyes and eventually he peels off and staggers down the road on his own. He is well oiled and needs the full width of the pavement to avoid stepping into the road. I start the engine and pull away slowly with my lights off.

  I cruise behind him, keeping a safe distance, and watch as he weaves his way down the street, bouncing off the occasional car or hedge. He hangs a right into Clinton Avenue. This is where things get serious. I have to be flexible, adapt to the situation, no amount of planning can predict the next three minutes.

  He leans into the corner and hugs the wall. He’s taking two steps forward and one to the side trying to negotiate the bend. Then he stops, unzips his jeans and takes a piss against the brickwork. He disappears in a cloud of steam. Then, with a quick shake, he’s off again zig-zagging his way up the pavement.

  I close the gap between us, edging the car forward. Any minute now.

  He reels to his left and stumbles into the road.

  Shit! He normally crosses to the other side much further on, it catches me by surprise. I gun the engine and, despite the age of the car, it lurches forward, gathering speed. He hears the roar and stops in the middle of the road, his body twisted at the waist, staring in my direction.

  The car accelerates hard. I hit the switch and the headlights come on full beam. He puts his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes. The engine screams in protest as I max out the low gear.

  I can see his face, parchment white in the glare of the lights.

  I want him to see me coming.

  2

  Acting Detective Chief Inspector Rosalind Kray cruised to a stop at the side of the road. Up ahead she could see the flapping yellow tape strung across the mouth of the junction and behind it the blue lights of a squad car danced off the windows of the surrounding houses.

  Stepping from the car, she pulled her coat around her to ward off the cold. She signed her name on the clipboard and the uniformed officer nodded as she ducked under the tape.

  The other end of the street was blocked in the same way, the flashing blue lights gave the place an eighties disco vibe. Up ahead, K
ray could see a knot of white suited people standing in the middle of the road, the glare from the array of lights on either side making them fluoresce against the dark. Despite it being almost one o’clock in the morning every house had someone silhouetted in the front door or at a window, craning their necks for a better view.