Numb: A Dark Thriller

by Lee Stevens

  When the Audi was about a quarter of a mile onto the quiet road, McCabe called Howden again.

  “He’s almost there. You ready?” He paused. Nodded his head. “Good. You should see his headlights soon.” McCabe hung up, pulled on his balaclava and picked up the shotgun that had been resting at his feet.

  Riley felt a little relieved. If McCabe was taking the trouble to hide his identity, then the girls in the Audi had a good chance of surviving this.

  He took one hand off the wheel and pulled on his own balaclava and found the eye holes just in time to see the Audi suddenly spin out of control.

  Sparks flew from the exposed wheels rims, the tyres having burst. The police stinger had done its job and the Audi was slowing dramatically. No doubt Mark Dainton would be utterly confused at what had just happened. He’d be panicking that he’d hit something. His heart would be racing. The girls would probably be screaming.

  Riley kept following as Dainton’s car finally came to a halt in the middle of the road, sideways on. He saw Howden by the side of the road, stooped low, almost hidden by his dark clothing and masked face as he reined in the police stinger, clearing the road of the razor sharp barbs that had worked so effectively, allowing the van to pass safely.

  Riley screeched to a halt close to the Audi and left the engine running as he and McCabe jumped out.

  McCabe carried the shotgun with him. He raced to the driver’s door and pointed it at the window, yelling for Dainton to get out. Riley pulled open the left rear door and was hit by a blast of female screams.

  “Out!” he shouted at the two women. They were both blonde, both slim, both young and wearing next to nothing, and they both screamed louder as he grabbed them by the arms and yanked them out onto the road.

  Howden suddenly appeared by the Audi and dragged Dainton out onto the road as McCabe continued to scream at him, shoving the barrel of the shotgun against his head. Dainton was yelling something back and squirming around but Howden quickly subdued him with a few punches.

  “Give me your purses,” Riley demanded of the women.

  One was crying so much she could barely breathe let alone move. The other begged, “Please, don’t hurt us...” but Riley wasn’t listening. Time was of the essence and he had to get them out of here quick. If anyone came along, any witnesses, things could turn very nasty. McCabe wouldn’t take any chances.

  “Purses, now!”

  Both women jumped at his voice and handed over their handbags.

  As Howden stuffed a rag into Dainton’s mouth, taped his lips shut and then began to tie his wrists and feet together with wire, Riley pulled out the purses and routed for some ID.

  In one he found a driver’s licence. The ‘woman’ was seventeen. In the other he found a school bus-pass. Her friend was fifteen.

  Riley looked back at Mark Dainton. Howden was shoving a cloth sack over his head.

  “Okay,” Riley said to both girls. “Kerry Wells and Donna Black. We know your names and addresses.” He turned to the younger of the two. “We even know which school you go to.”

  The girl sobbed louder. Her friend now had tears streaming down her face as well.

  Riley put the ID’s back in the purses and placed those back in the handbags. He then found their mobile phones, took out the batteries and dumped the phones back in the bags. He put the batteries in his jacket pocket and handed them back their handbags.

  “We know who you are,” he said, “and where you live. Say a word about what happened tonight and we’ll come for you.”

  “We won’t,” the older girl swore. “We promise.”“Walk back the way you came and don’t look back.” When the girls hesitated, Riley pushed them away from the Audi. “Walk!”

  They did, and despite the shock, the bleak surroundings and chilly, damp weather, the two of them were a good hundred yards away within a matter of seconds.

  By now, Howden and McCabe were dragging Mark Dainton towards the van.

  “Sort the car out!” Howden called over.

  Riley jumped in the Audi and floored the accelerator. It moved slowly. The wheels screeched. The steering was jerky and he struggled to keep in a straight line.

  The lorry was parked up around the bend in the road and looked to be the same one which McCabe had driven the Aston Martin out of yesterday. The back was already open, the ramp down ready for him to drive up on. Howden had collected the lorry earlier from a garage whose owner was friendly with Nash and would be getting a nice little run-around to keep in return. Come tomorrow there would be no trace of it or its owner.

  Riley carefully drove inside the lorry and pulled on the Audi’s handbrake. Then he jumped out and had just slammed the heavy steel door shut as Howden appeared next to him.

  “Right,” Howden said, a little breathlessly and obviously in need of a nicotine fix. “Dainton’s nice and comfortable in the back of the van. I’ll meet you two back at the unit.” Then, carrying the stinger (another borrowed item from a friend of the firm’s who did business with the more less-than-honest police officers of the city) he jumped in the front cab of the lorry and sped off.

  Riley hurried back to the van, past the empty space in the road where the Audi had stood. Apart from a couple of skid marks, no one would be able to tell it was ever here this night. A real ‘now you see it now you don’t’ moment.

  He slid behind the wheel and pulled off the balaclava. Through the rear view mirror he could see the two girls disappearing into the dark, both of them probably affected for life by this ordeal and too terrified to tell their story.

  But at least they were safe.

  McCabe removed his balaclava and winked at Riley. They could hear Dainton rolling around in the back, helpless and terrified. His cries were muffled under the gag and the cloth sack.

  “Couldn’t have gone any better,” McCabe said.

  Riley didn’t reply as he drove off.

  The night was far from over.

  25

  The drive back to the industrial estate was uneventful. The traffic was so light that Riley was able to stay right behind Howden the whole way without any other vehicles coming between them and he only saw one police car, travelling in the opposite direction, and both occupants paid neither the lorry nor the van any attention.

  Half an hour after the job had gone down they were safely back on the south side of the river and on the industrial estate that was as dark and deserted as a ghost town. The units here were all used by small businesses, most of whose staff worked the nine ‘till five. Even those that opened earlier and closed later were shut up tight between ten at night and six in the morning. McCabe was the only one who worked that shift, when it was pitch dark and graveyard quiet.

  Howden parked the wagon by the side of the unit as Riley steered the van inside the loading doors that were already open. He and McCabe jumped out onto the concrete floor as Howden hurried inside and pressed the button that lowered the doors. They squeaked and cranked as they shut out the night.

  McCabe had used this place several times over the years to take care of various problem people; usually a grass or a rival. Its location was perfect, slap bang in the middle of the estate, surrounded by small factories and workshops. The only natural light came in through the small windows that ran along the top of the outer wall. Therefore no one could see in from outside without the use of a ladder or unless they were nine feet tall. Even then, the frosted glass would only allow them to see blurry shapes. There were also no security guards patrolling the area and unless there was a break-in on the estate the police would have no reason to pay any of the buildings a visit. Even then it would be after the crime was reported which would probably be on Monday morning. Yes, this place was ideal for McCabe’s work.

  Riley looked around the workshop, and even though it was spotless of blood and body tissue, it wasn’t hard to guess what sort of work actually went on in here.

  The room was fifty square feet. There was a table and chairs and a portable television in one corn
er. Nash and Turner were sat there, a bottle of whiskey between them (they’d headed straight here after McCabe had called them after doing the job and had opened the doors ready to receive their special guest). There was a selection of tools on a portable table in the opposite corner. In another was an oven, the kind used for heating metal or glass, with a huge chimney that disappeared up into the roof. In the centre of the room, next to a work bench, a length of thick, steel chain with handcuffs attached to one end hung from one of the ceiling rafters and connected to a pulley system on the back wall. A shorter length of chain was bolted to the floor beneath it and had home made manacles attached. Plastic sheeting had been laid out on the floor covering an area of about two square metres. There was also a smaller room behind this one, Riley knew, that contained a toilet, shower cubicle and a deep freezing unit. On the books, this place was used as a wrought iron workshop, one that made railings and gates and the odd sculpture – and McCabe certainly sculpted, but only on very specific materials, and none that were as hard or as inanimate as iron.

  “Get him out,” Nash ordered as he downed a shot of whisky and approached the van. He was still dressed in his tracksuit, still had the sling over his arm, still looked coked out of his skull and still had that vacant look in his eyes, that distant stare that made him look like he was missing his soul.

  Riley unlocked the back of the van and McCabe, still carrying the shotgun, yanked Mark Dainton out.

  He dragged him across the floor onto the plastic sheeting and when Dainton struggled McCabe punched him twice in the stomach to subdue him. Then, with Howden’s help, and with such speed it appeared as if they’d trained their whole lives for the task, they stripped Dainton of his clothes, fixed his wrists into the handcuffs and ankles into the manacles.

  Dainton twisted and writhed like a wounded snake as McCabe used the pulley system to lift him from the ground, stretching his arms straight up above his head, pulling the shorter chain attached to the manacles taught so that his bare feet were nine inches off the floor, leaving him suspended, unable to struggle and at their mercy.

  Nash walked closer and nodded at Howden to remove the sack from Dainton’s head.

  When Howden did so, Dainton jammed his eyes shut as the overhead fluorescent lights blinded him. When Nash ripped the tape from Dainton’s mouth, he spat out the gag and gasped for air.

  “You’re all... fucking dead!” he snarled, his eyes still closed. “Do you know... who I am?” His eyes flickered open. He tried to focus on Nash. “I’ll have you fucking killed! I’ll...”

  When he suddenly shut up, Riley guessed that Dainton’s vision had returned.

  “Whu... what’s going on?” He suddenly sounded scared, the bravado gone from his voice.

  Nash wasted no time and smashed his fist into Dainton’s nose, rocking his head back and crunching the bone.

  Dainton let out a yelp of pain that tailed off into a whine as blood began to pool from his nostrils almost instantly.

  McCabe smirked. Howden snorted a laugh. Turner remained quiet.

  Riley looked at the floor. He found no pleasure in witnessing this. The man strung up was a pathetic sight. He was all skin and bones – hardly any muscle at all, and due to the temperature inside the room his nipples were now bigger than his penis.

  “You’re in no position to make threats, you cunt,” Nash said, almost a whisper.

  When Dainton looked back at Nash, there was genuine terror in his eyes as well as tears.

  “Whu... what do you whu... want from me?” he asked, his voice shaking.

  “We’re here because of Michael,” Nash said calmly. Too calmly. As calmly as a crazy person might talk. “But I think you’ve guessed that by now.”

  “Who?”

  Nash smashed him in the nose again.

  There was no crack! this time. Just more blood, followed by sobs.

  “My son!” Nash yelled, his temper suddenly exploding out for all to see. “The one your fucking uncle had killed!”

  Dainton cried real tears. Rocked his head side to side to try and ease the pain seeing as he couldn’t put his hands to his face.

  Trying to ignore the blood running into his mouth he said, “I du... don’t know-”

  McCabe pointed the shotgun at his head and said, “If you’re just gonna deny it, then you’re just prolonging the agony, fuck-face.”

  “I du... don’t know anything about... your son,” Dainton told Nash, his words coming out quick and panting, like he’d just finished a marathon. His chest was falling and rising so much it looked like he may have a heart attack. If he did, it would probably be a blessing. “I don’t have mu... much to do with my unc... uncle now.”

  “We know,” Riley said. He felt he had to speak. Plus, there was something he had to get off his chest. Mark Dainton was going to die – there was no going back now - and Riley had to justify that to himself. Just like himself and the others would one day, little nephew Dainton was going to pay for past crimes. “You haven’t had much to do with your uncle for a few years, have you? And we know why. You’re dumb and you like the girls too much. You don’t like being turned down. Everyone knows that your uncle sacked you after you picked up a sixteen year old girl in a club and forced yourself on her after she changed her mind. You raped her and she had you arrested. But your uncle got you a good lawyer and that poor girl didn’t stand a chance in court. It was her word against yours and she eventually backed down and your arse was spared jail. Then good old Uncle Lenny paid you off and gave you a nice little allowance so that the police wouldn’t get involved in any of his businesses because he had a suspected rapist working for him. You got off easy but the girl became depressed, tried to take her life and ended up in a nut-house.”

  “Nu... no, no,” Dainton said, shaking his head. “I didn’t... rape anyone...”

  “But we know you did,” Riley said.

  “And that makes you a liar,” said McCabe. “And that’s why we don’t believe you when you say you don’t know anything about the shooting.”

  Dainton closed his eyes. Struggled in vein against the handcuffs and manacles.

  “I... du... don’t know anything-”

  Nash reached up with lightning speed. Grabbed Dainton by the hair and pulled his head down so that they were looking into each other’s eyes.

  “Look,” he snarled. “You are gonna tell us why your uncle tried to kill me. Then you’re also gonna tell us where he has his meetings, what business deals he has planned - everything.” He pushed Dainton’s head away before turning to McCabe. “Get started. Take as long as you have to. Just make him talk.”

  “Whu... what are you... gu... gonna do?” Dainton asked as Nash and Turner headed for the smaller door beside the loading bay.

  “Calm down,” McCabe told him. He walked to the table that held the tools and wheeled it into the centre of the room, stopping next to the pile of Dainton’s clothes. They’d be going in the oven later, once McCabe had checked them for any valuables to keep for himself like money or a good mobile phone. That was part of his routine; torture first, clothes and belongings dealt with later.

  Nash left. Before Turner followed him out, he turned to Riley and Howden.

  “Drop the wagon off at the garage,” he said, “and then come back here to help McCabe clear up.” When he was halfway out the door, he looked back once more. “Good job tonight, lads. Well done.”

  The door slammed closed after they left and Dainton began begging for his life as McCabe picked up a hammer. Riley wondered what the parent’s of that sixteen year old girl whose life had been destroyed by this man would think if they were here. Would they stay and watch? Would her father take a hammer himself and take part?

  Would Jamie Hudson’s father take revenge on me if he knew...?

  “Let’s go get rid of the Audi,” Howden said, snapping Riley from the depressing thought. “I’ll drive the wagon and you follow in your car.”

  “Yeah,” McCabe said over Dainton’s pleading. “
You two get yourselves away. I work better alone.”

  I bet you do, Riley thought as he and Howden left, and a second after the door closed behind them he heard McCabe slide the bolt into the lock, giving him the privacy he craved whilst doing the work he loved.

  “Do you think we’ll have time to go for a quick drink after dropping the car off?” Howden asked as he lit up a cigarette.

  Riley shrugged and walked to his car.

  He didn’t care. He just wanted to get away from the unit before the screaming started.

  26

  Alan Anderson, who owned the garage that the lorry had been borrowed from, knew Nash and Turner from way back when they were tough little teenagers who fought on the terraces on Saturday afternoons when football hooligans were all the rage. Back then he’d been quite a handful in a scuffle and by the time he was nineteen had been jailed for biting off the end of a rival supporter’s nose and swallowing it down so that the poor bloke couldn’t have it stitched back on. After his four years inside (out early for good behaviour) he’d went to work for his father who’d owned the garage at the time, and when the old man’s arteries were so clogged his heart finally gave way, the ex-con suddenly found himself with a decent little business to run and so had kept out of trouble. Well, out of trouble by not getting heavily involved in anything seriously dodgy. He still kept in touch with the wrong crowd and was still open to business that offered easy money. If you wanted a vehicle that couldn’t be traced, Anderson was the guy to see, and if you needed to get rid of a vehicle quickly, good old Al was the man.

  As Riley pulled into the forecourt behind the lorry, Anderson appeared at the office door and waved them around the back towards the workshop. He was a little, fat, bearded man whose belly was so large he was probably at his tallest when he lay on his back. His shirt sleeves were rolled up showing clumsy prison tattoos on both his forearms and his forefingers and thumbs on either hand were stained nicotine yellow. A self-rolled cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth and when the walking heart attack followed them around to the lock-up in what could only be described as a very slow jog, he started to cough and hack up phlegm after about three steps and began breathing heavier than an asthmatic pervert making his first dirty phone call.