Taken to Die: A chilling crime thriller (DCI Danny Flint Book 4)

by Trevor Negus

  This wasn’t the first time he had followed the Volvo. He knew that the second vehicle, a midnight blue Range Rover sport, would already be waiting in the car park.

  By the time he had left his motorcycle, replaced his crash helmet with a black woollen ski mask and walked stealthily through the woods, he could see the very attractive, dark-haired woman who had been driving the Volvo was already getting out of her car.

  The man in black stood in silence behind the cover of a large tree. He watched as the back door of the Range Rover opened.

  He heard a man’s voice say, ‘What kept you, sweetheart?’

  The woman giggled and said, ‘The usual thing! My boss is an absolute bastard!’

  Hitching up the pencil skirt of her pinstriped business suit and exposing white thighs over black stocking tops, the woman climbed into the rear of the Range Rover. She closed the door behind her.

  The man leaned a little further out from behind the tree and continued to observe the Range Rover. Using the deep shadows, he tiptoed closer to the vehicle.

  Eventually, he was standing almost directly beside the vehicle. Only the tinted privacy glass prevented him from seeing the activities of the two people inside.

  He couldn’t see anything, but he could hear the couple’s urgent fumblings coming from inside the vehicle. With a growing sense of frustration, he slowly moved back to the tree line, where he continued to stare at the vehicle, which had now begun to rock slowly. He could now hear gasps and moans of pleasure from inside the car. The sounds grew louder as the couple inside raced to a frantic climax.

  The rocking motion of the vehicle came to an abrupt stop. The moans emanating from inside diminished until once again an eerie silence enveloped the car park.

  After a few minutes, the back door of the Range Rover opened. Just as the moon emerged from behind the clouds, the woman stepped out of the vehicle.

  Now she was bathed in the stark lunar light, the man watching could see that her raven black hair, which had previously been tied back in a ponytail, was now loose and tousled.

  From behind the ski mask, his unblinking blue eyes stared as the woman smoothed down her pencil skirt. He was treated to another glimpse of white flesh above black stocking tops. Having smoothed down her skirt, the woman began hurriedly buttoning up her sheer blouse. Very quickly, she covered her full breasts, which had been fleetingly exposed.

  The man in black then heard the door on the far side of the Range Rover open and close. He retreated a step deeper into the woods. He observed a man who was fortysomething, short in stature with a small pot belly and collar-length, gelled-back hair walk around the rear of the vehicle and approach the woman.

  The man was wearing pinstriped suit trousers and a white shirt that was unbuttoned to the waist. The belt he wore and the top button of his trousers were undone.

  As he walked towards the woman, he was swinging her lacy black knickers around the index finger of his right hand. He laughed and said, ‘Aren’t you forgetting something, darling?’

  She giggled before replying, ‘You were so quick to take them off me, I thought you wanted to keep them.’

  Playfully, she made a grab for the lacy knickers, but he moved them swiftly out of her reach. He grabbed her wrist, pulled her towards him and kissed her hard on the mouth.

  The woman responded eagerly, kissing him back. As they kissed, she allowed her hand to slide down to his trousers. She playfully grabbed his crotch, stopped kissing him, and said, ‘Don’t tell me you’re ready to go again already?’

  With more urgency now, they kissed again. As they did so, he began to slowly walk her backwards, towards the front of the Volvo.

  Still watching from behind the tree, the man in black looked on, mesmerised, as the man with gelled hair lifted the woman onto the bonnet of the Volvo. He then positioned himself between her legs. He stopped kissing her and stood up straight, leaving her draped backwards over the bonnet. He unzipped his trousers, allowing them to slide down his legs to the ground, then pushed the woman’s pencil skirt up, once again exposing the white flesh at the top of her stockings.

  The sex was fast and furious, lasting just a few minutes before they both climaxed.

  The man watching from the woods felt a burning rage building inside him. He struggled inwardly to contain his temper as he watched the lovers get dressed again and enjoy a postcoital cigarette. He listened intently, trying to catch their muffled conversation as they leaned against the side of the Volvo.

  Managing to curtail his growing sense of anger and frustration, the man skulked further back into the shadows. He squatted behind a low bush and watched the couple embrace for one last kiss before they got into their respective vehicles.

  Watching from the darkness, the man heard the car engines start and saw the lights from both vehicles come on before they were driven slowly out of the car park.

  The Range Rover slowly followed the Volvo estate.

  With both vehicles now gone, the man in black remained motionless in the woods. From his squatting position, he had slumped forward on to all fours. Feeling suddenly nauseous, he ripped off the ski mask before dry retching. The muscles in his stomach cramped painfully. He could feel tears streaming down his face. His entire body physically convulsed, shaking in a silent, muted rage.

  Eventually, he calmed down and got back to his feet. He walked back through the pitch-dark woods to where he had left his motorcycle. He retrieved his full-face crash helmet from the seat and put it on before straddling the bike. He turned the ignition key and stamped down hard on the kickstart.

  The small engine fired into life the first time. He selected first gear before steering the motorcycle out of the woods and onto the dark unlit road. As he rode along the shadowy country lanes, towards his house, he vowed to get even.

  The tears now streaming down his face had nothing to do with the cold wind biting into his face as he sped away with the visor of his helmet open.

  As the cold wind frosted his face, he made a promise to himself. No matter how long it took, he would make them both suffer.

  He would ensure they both experienced exactly the same pain he was feeling right now.

  2

  8.15am, 21 September 1986

  Perry Road, Sherwood, Nottingham

  Danny Flint glanced down at the photograph once more. The face staring back at him was that of a man who had lived a hard life.

  Francis Corrigan was a fiftysomething bricklayer from Cork in Southern Ireland. His face was weather-beaten, and his skin had the ruddy tones of a man who had worked outdoors all his adult life. The face was dominated by a badly broken nose, and there was heavy scarring above both eyebrows. The man was obviously a fighter.

  Danny turned to the man sitting in the car next to him and said, ‘Are you sure this photo’s a good likeness?’

  Detective Sergeant Andy Wills said, ‘It’s the most recent one we have. It was taken when Corrigan was arrested for the ABH in March this year.’

  ‘And what time is he due for release?’

  ‘He’ll be released at eight thirty this morning.’

  ‘Does he have any idea what’s happening?’

  Andy shrugged. ‘I don’t know, boss. He may have an idea that something like this could be waiting for him. This has all been such a rushed job. When the Garda detective telephoned this morning, he wasn’t even sure they had got the right Francis Corrigan. It’s quite a common name, apparently.’

  ‘But they’re sure now?’

  Andy held up a piece of paper and said, ‘This is the fax they sent, outlining the details of the offence he’s wanted for in Cork. It’s a one-punch scenario. Corrigan and another man were having an argument in Flanagan’s Bar on Maylor Street, when Corrigan lashed out and punched this other man. When Sean Logan fell, he smashed his head on the kerb edge and died from his head injuries two days later. By that time, Corrigan had already travelled back over to England.’

  ‘So why the urgency now? Why couldn’t the
Garda have travelled over and dealt with this while Corrigan was still locked up in Nottingham prison?’

  ‘They only found the witness who identified Corrigan two days ago. By the time they found out that Corrigan was serving a custodial sentence here, he was due for release. Initially, they had no idea that he’d been locked up here for another assault.’

  Danny was thoughtful.

  He hated making gate arrests; they almost always ended in violent confrontations. He totally understood why that was the case. For a convicted criminal to be released, only to then be immediately confronted by police officers wanting to detain him again. Knowing that there was a real prospect of being sent back to prison. Why wouldn’t that person be pissed off?

  When the fax requesting the gate arrest of Francis Corrigan had arrived at the MCIU office that morning, the only detective in the office had been Andy Wills. Andy was aware that no other staff would be arriving until after nine o’clock that morning. Too late to effect the arrest.

  He was just about to go to the local CID office to try to get some staff when Danny had walked in.

  Andy had quickly explained the situation, and the two detectives had driven to HMP Nottingham and parked the car outside the imposing gates on Perry Road.

  Danny had been confident they would be able to utilise local uniformed officers to provide backup when they made the arrest.

  Now, as they sat waiting in their car outside the prison gates, there was no sign of that backup.

  Danny said, ‘Find out what’s happened to the uniforms.’

  Andy picked up the radio and said, ‘DS Wills to Sherwood Control. Can you tell me what time the two uniform staff you promised will be attending the prison for the gate arrest? The release time is very close now, and there’s no sign of your officers yet.’

  The reply was terse. ‘From Sherwood Control: The two staff who were travelling have had to divert to a serious RTA. We’ve got no other officers available to assist you at present. Over.’

  ‘From DS Wills. Understood. If any do become available, ask them to travel to the prison as soon as possible. We are anticipating this arrest could turn violent, and there are only two of us here at present. Over.’

  ‘From Control. Understood. Over.’

  Danny sighed. ‘Bloody marvellous.’

  He glanced at his watch; it was now eight twenty. In ten minutes, the smaller gate within the two large wooden gates would open, and Francis Corrigan would step outside for his very short taste of freedom.

  Danny looked at the battered face in the photograph and said, ‘I think we’re going to have our hands full here, Andy. Be ready for anything.’

  3

  9.00am, 21 September 1986

  Nottingham City Centre

  After battling through the morning rush hour traffic, Darren Treadgold parked his Suzuki motorcycle in the Broadmarsh Centre car park. He secured it with a bike lock, took off his helmet and made his way down the stairs.

  He hated his life.

  He knew he looked ridiculous riding his motorcycle. His huge, heavy frame perched precariously on the small machine. It was no wonder people howled with laughter and shouted derisive comments at him as he rode slowly by. He had no choice but to put up with the situation. Apart from stealing his elderly father’s car, it was the only way he could get into the city from his father’s house at West Bridgford. The car was expensive to run and very risky, as he only had a provisional driving licence. He knew how to drive the car, but had never passed his driving test. It was just one more thing in life he had failed at, in a long list of failures.

  He regarded himself as one of life’s underachievers and couldn’t see how that would ever change.

  He knew people regarded him as ugly. With his hooded, piggy eyes, a bulbous, prominent nose, and unkempt, lank, greasy hair, how was anybody ever going to find him attractive?

  It didn’t help that he was also morbidly obese and waddled when he walked. His personal hygiene was virtually non-existent, and, unsurprisingly, he was still single at forty-five years of age. Worst of all, he still lived at home with his profoundly deaf elderly father.

  The only positive in his life was that he had a half-decent job to go to every day.

  As supervisor of the McDonald’s fast-food restaurant on Angel Row in Nottingham, he could, to a great extent, pick and choose the hours he worked. That wasn’t the only perk. He could also help himself to any unsold burgers at the end of a late shift, at two o’clock in the morning.

  He adored the taste of the chain’s Big Mac burgers. He would often put an extra four or five in to cook just before the end of trading. That way, he was guaranteed a nice free snack when he finished work.

  The only other pleasure he had in his pathetic life was smoking cannabis.

  He loved the brief high and momentary escape from a dull, boring life that a joint gave him. He smoked weed whenever he could get hold of the banned substance. His main source of supply came from the scruffy hippies who frequented a squat just off the Arboretum. He used leftover burgers to ingratiate himself with the squatters who lived there. In return, they allowed him to visit their squat, buy gear, ‘skin up’ and smoke it on the premises.

  There was no way his father would allow him to smoke ‘that filth!’ in his house. He might be stone deaf, but there was nothing wrong with the miserable old bastard’s sense of smell.

  After becoming a regular visitor, Darren had recently attempted to use the squat for a far more sinister purpose.

  He was useless around mature, adult women. As a result, he had developed an unhealthy attraction to young, prepubescent schoolgirls. He would often spend time chatting to the young girls from the Nottingham High School who had walked down into town at lunchtime to get a burger from his restaurant. There was something about the cut of the uniform and the way the young girls hitched up their skirts, to make them that bit shorter, that he couldn’t resist. Lunchtimes in midweek were always his favourite times to be at work. He would always ensure that he was front of house at these times so he could ogle the young girls as they ate their lunch.

  He had befriended one such schoolgirl, who had seemed to be a bit of a loner. The pretty, blonde-haired girl always sat alone and seemed to be a bit of an outcast from her classmates. When he began talking to her, he soon realised why she was sitting on her own. She was completely wild.

  As soon as he mentioned smoking dope to her, she was like putty in his hands. She had readily agreed to meet with him, sometime in the future, if she could smoke his drugs.

  One afternoon, he had borrowed his father’s old Morris Oxford car and picked her up after school. She had been walking with two friends at first. When they had all gone their separate ways, at the junction of Mansfield Road and Forest Road East, he had moved in. She had recognised him immediately. With the promise of smoking a joint, she had readily got into his car. He had then driven her to the squat on The Arboretum, where they had spent hours alone in an upstairs room, talking and smoking dope together.

  Eventually, the young girl had become totally out of it. With a growing sense of excitement, Darren had placed his fat, sweaty palm on the bare thigh of the stoned young girl. It felt smooth and cool to his touch. He was about to slide his hand higher up her thigh and beneath her short skirt, when one of the squatters downstairs had shouted that the police were outside.

  He couldn’t be sure if the police were actively looking for the girl, who was still in her school uniform, and who would have been missing well over five hours by that time. But his instincts told him the police officers were there for exactly that reason. He panicked and didn’t hang around to find out. He left the squat, leaving the young, semi-conscious schoolgirl in the room upstairs.

  He had made good his escape through the broken-down back door as the two police officers came in through the front.

  The whole experience with the young girl had spooked him, but excited him at the same time. It had certainly whetted his appetite; he had desperately w
anted to move his hand further up the schoolgirl’s leg.

  Being a virgin at forty-five years of age was ridiculous. It was something he intended to change, one way or the other, very soon. He planned to get another young girl. Instead of taking her to the squat, this time he would take her back to the privacy of the unused attic room at his father’s house.

  It wouldn’t matter if she screamed the place down. His father was stone deaf, and the property at West Bridgford was positioned well away from any other houses and about fifty yards back from the road. If he planned it right and took the girl back to the house after a late shift, his father would be fast asleep.

  With that thought in his mind, he had a broad smile on his fat face as he walked into the fast-food restaurant to start his shift. He eagerly checked the roster to see when his next late shift was. The sooner he picked up another girl, the better. He would start using the car to get to work from now on. He knew he would need it to get the girl back to his house, and you never knew when an opportunity might present itself. He knew it would cost him a lot for petrol every week. Fuck the expense, he thought.

  He knew that no girl would go with him voluntarily, and he hated physical violence. Recently, he had visited the local library and read up on the use and properties of stupefying drugs. He learned that the easiest drug to get hold of was chloroform. All he had to do now was go to the chemist and purchase a small bottle of the drug. Everything would then be ready for him to snatch a young girl off the street and start his very first sexual adventure.

  For once in his miserable life, he felt in control. With an unusual air of confidence, he breezed past the young waitresses and cooking assistants, through the kitchens and into his office. He ignored their facial expressions and snide comments as they turned their noses up at the stench of body odour he gave off as he walked by.

  He knew his staff all referred to him as Fat Daz behind his back. He didn’t care anymore. As far as he was concerned, they could all fuck off.