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

by Trevor Negus

  Very soon, he would be the one coming to work every day with a big smile on his face.

  4

  8.30am, 21 September 1986

  Perry Road, Sherwood, Nottingham

  Danny stood on one side of the small gate and Andy the other.

  They could hear the prison officer on the inside using the heavy keys to unlock the door. They could also hear laughter and a loud voice, full of Irish brogue, from the other side of the door. Francis Corrigan was obviously savouring his moment of release and was enjoying the craic with the prison officer.

  Danny turned to look at Andy Wills.

  The detective sergeant wore an anxious expression and whispered, ‘Where’s that bloody uniform backup?’

  Danny said, ‘Forget it. They’re not coming. Have you got your handcuffs ready?’

  Andy nodded.

  Suddenly, the small door opened, and Francis Corrigan stepped outside the prison walls.

  Andy stepped forward and grabbed one of the burly bricklayer’s arms. He said, ‘Francis Corrigan, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Sean Logan.’

  He had intended to say more to Corrigan, but the punch from the Irishman’s free hand landed flush in the detective’s mouth, knocking him backwards onto the floor.

  Corrigan growled, ‘I don’t fucking think so!’

  Seeing Andy get knocked down, Danny leapt forward to grab Corrigan. As he grabbed at Corrigan’s jacket, the man turned and aimed a headbutt towards Danny’s face.

  Danny saw it coming and managed to avoid the main force of the blow. Corrigan’s forehead still landed heavily on Danny’s right cheekbone, causing him to lose his grip on the suspect’s jacket.

  The moment he felt the detective lose his grip, Corrigan started to run away, along Perry Road.

  The road the prison stood on was long and straight, flanked by the high prison walls. There was nowhere for Corrigan to go, only in a straight line.

  Danny shouted at a slowly recovering Andy Wills, ‘Get the car and get on the radio! Tell control we need urgent backup. Now!’

  Danny then began to sprint after the lumbering Corrigan. Although Corrigan was a strong man and quick with his fists, he was also short and squat and no runner.

  As Danny quickly gained on the fleeing suspect, he could feel an all-too-familiar sharp pain in his right knee. He carried an old football injury that flared up as soon as he tried to run. He ignored the pain in his leg and the throbbing of his bruised cheekbone and closed on Corrigan.

  As he got to within a yard of the fleeing suspect, Danny could hear the high revs from the engine of the CID car as Andy drove it at speed along Perry Road.

  As he got to within grabbing distance of Corrigan, Danny shouted, ‘Come here, you bastard!’

  He half grabbed and half pushed Corrigan. Both men ended up sprawled on the pavement. Danny recovered the quicker of the two and grabbed Corrigan’s right arm, twisting it behind his back. He then used all his body weight to force Corrigan’s face down into the tarmac.

  He could hear running footsteps approaching and was relieved to hear Andy’s voice: ‘Let me see his wrist, boss.’

  Seconds later, the handcuffs were applied to Corrigan’s wrists, effectively securing the still-snarling suspect.

  As they continued to restrain the suspect, a police patrol car screamed to a halt across the road. Two uniform officers leapt out of the car and sprinted towards them.

  Danny stood slowly and said, ‘Everything’s under control, lads. Thanks for coming. Can you take the prisoner to Central nick? We’ll follow you down there.’

  The uniformed officer hauled Corrigan to his feet and said, ‘Who is he, and what’s he under arrest for, boss?’

  ‘His name’s Francis Corrigan, and he’s been detained on suspicion of murder. DS Wills will give the details of the arrest to the custody sergeant when we get to Central. Thanks, lads.’

  With a note of concern in his voice, the young officer said, ‘Are you two okay? Your cheek’s already swollen, and the sergeant’s mouth’s a right mess.’

  Danny grinned. ‘We’ll live. What I can tell you is this, I’m getting way too old for all this shit!’

  5

  11.00am, 21 September 1986

  MCIU Offices, Mansfield, Nottinghamshire

  Danny had left Andy in Nottingham to prepare the extradition file for Corrigan and had returned to the MCIU office. He was just pressing a cold, damp handkerchief on the livid purple bruise that had appeared on his cheekbone, when there was a very soft, polite knock on the office door. Without removing the cold compress, Danny shouted, ‘Come in!’

  When he looked up, he was shocked to see a very distressed Chief Superintendent Bill Wainwright.

  The granite-tough Scot had been Danny’s boss since the inception of the Major Crime Investigation Unit. He couldn’t ever remember seeing him look so upset.

  Danny stood up and walked over to Bill. ‘Christ! Whatever’s the matter, Bill? You look terrible. Sit down.’

  Bill Wainwright made no comment about the bruising on Danny’s face and just slumped into a chair. After a long pause, he finally said, ‘I’ve just come from King’s Mill Hospital. Miles Galton is dead.’

  Miles Galton had been the chief constable of Nottinghamshire Police for the last ten years. He had been instrumental in establishing the MCIU almost a year ago.

  It was now Danny’s turn to be shocked. He sat back down in his chair, stunned into silence.

  Eventually, Danny asked, ‘How? When?’

  Bill replied, ‘We were at a meeting at Mansfield District Council this morning, discussing plans for the upcoming visit of the Prime Minister. One minute, Miles was fine, laughing and joking. Then he suddenly clasped his arm across his chest and keeled over at the table.’

  Danny muttered, ‘Bloody hell.’

  Bill remained staring at his hands in his lap. He continued, ‘Everyone there suspected it was a heart attack straightaway. Someone called an ambulance, and I tried doing CPR along with a councillor who used to be a nurse. By the time the paramedics arrived, he’d gone. Truth be known, I think he was dead when he slumped at the table. He was only fifty-nine, for Christ’s sake, two years younger than me. I’ve just come from the mortuary at King’s Mill. Hope you don’t mind me turning up unannounced and dropping this news on you. I needed to take a minute and tell someone else before I drive over to Lowdham and inform his wife, Betty.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you? Do you want a cup of tea or a coffee first?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea; I’m struggling to get my head round what’s just happened.’

  Danny walked out of the office and saw DC Fran Jefferies at her desk. He said quietly, ‘Fran, if you’re not too busy, would you mind making two cups of tea and bringing them into my office, please?’

  ‘No problem. Is everything okay? You look white as a sheet.’

  ‘Thanks, Fran, I’m fine. I’ll tell you later.’

  Danny walked back into his office. He immediately noticed a distinct change in Bill Wainwright’s demeanour. He was sitting straighter, and there was now a determined glint in his grey eyes. The hard exterior was back. The dour Scot inside the man had regained control. He said firmly, ‘There’s going to be massive changes now.’

  Danny sat down and echoed, ‘Changes? In what way?’

  ‘Well, for a start, all promotions will be put on hold until a new chief’s been appointed. That’s always the way.’

  Noticing the bruising for the first time, Wainwright continued, ‘What the hell’s happened to your face?’

  Before Danny could explain, there was a knock on the door. He opened it, and Fran Jefferies walked into the office, carrying a tray of hot drinks.

  Bill Wainwright said, ‘Thanks, Detective, much appreciated.’

  Fran left, closing the door softly behind her.

  Bill took a long drink of the hot, sweet tea before saying, ‘I expect the deputy chief will get the job. I think when he tra
nsferred in from Devon and Cornwall last year, it was on the understanding that he would eventually replace Miles when he retired.’

  It was a statement rather than an invitation to comment, and Danny remained silent. He was still trying to take in the enormity of what he’d just been told. Now that his brain had processed the initial shock of what had happened, his thoughts turned towards the future of the MCIU.

  The specialist investigative team was very much the brainchild of Miles Galton. Would the new chief, whoever that might be, feel the same way?

  Bill took another sip of the tea and said, ‘Can I take you up on that offer, Danny? I think I’d like some support when I go over to Lowdham and tell Betty what’s happened.’

  ‘Of course. I’ve met Betty a few times, and I know it’s not going to be an easy task, breaking such devastating news to her.’

  ‘Thanks. Delivering a death message never gets any easier. I don’t mind telling you, it’s made me think this morning. I’m seriously considering bringing my own retirement forward.’

  Danny said nothing. He suddenly felt very uneasy about his own future and the future of the MCIU.

  6

  1.00 pm, 2 October 1986

  Mulberry Chambers, The Ropewalk, Nottingham

  Sebastien Dawson walked into the plush lounge area of the Mulberry Chambers refreshment rooms. Immediately, the barristers gathered there began to speak in hushed tones. The room was furnished with red leather chesterfield sofas fronted by walnut or mahogany coffee tables. It was the area where barristers would gather to take tea or coffee and discuss upcoming cases. It was also the place where they would congregate to be given new briefs.

  Dawson had been the barrister’s clerk at Mulberry Chambers for the last fifteen years; it was part of his role to select individual barristers for briefs that had been presented to Mulberry Chambers by solicitors wanting expert representation for their clients in the Crown Court.

  He was a large man in every sense of the word. He stood over six feet four inches and weighed well above twenty stone. The charcoal grey pinstriped trousers strained against an ever-expanding waistline; the gap between the trousers and black waistcoat was getting wider every month. He habitually wore garish-coloured bow ties that struggled to remain in place against the rolls of fat on his oversized neck.

  Sebastien Dawson’s downfall was a love of good food, red wine and malt whisky. Now in his early fifties, his brown eyes were becoming bloodshot, hidden by heavy lids above and deep bags below. His large nose had developed a distinctive red tinge at the end, with miniscule thread veins crisscrossing the very tip. Those veins on the end of his nose, in turn, drew attention to his permanently moist, fleshy red lips. His once-thick blonde hair was rapidly turning grey and becoming sparse.

  Although his appearance was generally dishevelled, beneath that ramshackle exterior was a mind that remained as sharp as a tack.

  He knew he wielded a lot of power in chambers and very adroitly played office politics to ensure it stayed that way.

  The brightest legal minds in Mulberry Chambers undoubtedly belonged to Dominic and Rebecca Whitchurch.

  The two barristers had met and fallen in love at Oxford University. They had married while both were completing their articles at a London-based law firm. As soon as they had been accepted to the bar, they had moved north and joined Mulberry Chambers on the Ropewalk in Nottingham. The reasons behind this move had all been carefully thought through by the astute young barristers.

  Rebecca had been heavily pregnant with their daughter, Emily, at the time of the move. The couple believed it would be much easier to become the leading lights in a provincial chambers rather than begin swimming with bigger fish in a London-based legal firm. They also believed that Nottingham would be a healthier place to raise their daughter.

  Their tactics had reaped immediate and tangible dividends. This had continued apace after the birth of Emily. Dominic and Rebecca had both been able to forge burgeoning reputations around the circuit in which they operated.

  Initially, Rebecca had concentrated on prosecution work. For the last six years, both barristers had achieved a deserved reputation as supreme defence advocates. There was definitely a race between the two of them to determine which one of the Whitchurch family would achieve silk first.

  Now in their early forties, the husband and wife team were both extremely smart in appearance and very career-minded. The tall, elegant Rebecca had always been proud of her natural beauty. She understood, and revelled in the fact, that she was a woman who was getting better with age. She took great care in everything about her appearance. She maintained her slim figure with regular yoga sessions, and her ash blonde hair was always cut in the latest style. Her fingernails were perfectly manicured and her makeup applied impeccably.

  For her to achieve everything she had wanted from her career, she had always employed nannies and au pairs to help look after her only child, Emily. From the time of her daughter’s birth, there had always been someone else on hand to help raise and care for the girl.

  She had always been career-driven, and becoming a mother hadn’t changed her outlook.

  Her husband, Dominic, despite his diminutive stature, had genuine presence. He wore beautifully cut suits that helped disguise the slight paunch he had developed over recent years. His collar-length dark hair was always gelled and slicked back off his face. He changed his dress wig twice a year because of the damage caused to the hairpiece by the gel.

  Along with their ever-growing reputations as brilliant defence barristers, Dominic and Rebecca were also known for being arrogant, aloof and downright nasty to the staff and junior members of Mulberry Chambers. On more than one occasion the head of chambers, Anthony Conway QC, had been asked to resolve complaints of harassment and bullying by the two senior barristers.

  The resolution of these complaints was always achieved in the same way. The matter would initially be swept under the carpet; then the junior barrister would be asked to leave Mulberry Chambers shortly afterwards.

  Anthony Conway could not afford to lose his two leading barristers. Dominic and Rebecca Whitchurch were the sole reason Mulberry Chambers had grown from fifteen to forty barristers within the past six years.

  Sebastien Dawson was fully aware of this and, as a result, always ensured that Dominic and Rebecca were offered the pick of cases coming into chambers – much to the chagrin of many of the younger, equally talented barristers.

  Today would be no different.

  Dawson had walked in, clutching four new briefs to allocate to the gathered barristers. He was delighted to see Dominic and Rebecca enjoying a pot of Earl Grey tea together. He had two very lucrative briefs that would be perfect for them. He totally disregarded the six other barristers all eagerly awaiting a brief, and walked directly over to the red leather sofa occupied by the Whitchurches.

  Standing in front of them, he said imperiously, ‘Good afternoon. I’ve new briefs here for each of you, your timetables permitting.’

  Dominic replied, ‘I’m fairly free at the moment. What have you got for me, Seb?’

  ‘I’ve a rape case that’s due to be heard in a week’s time at Leicester Crown Court. The trial’s expected to last for at least one week, maybe two. The instructing solicitors are Wahab and Patel, from Leicester. Their solicitor, Imran Patak, has done some sterling work preparing the brief. There are some very big holes in the Crown’s case that he’s highlighted. It’s most definitely a winnable case.’

  ‘Toss it here, Seb, I’ll take it. It will be good experience for one of the juniors to second chair on this one.’

  Dominic’s comment had made one of the young barristers, sitting on the next sofa, suddenly pay much more attention.

  Freddie Fletcher had been at Mulberry for less than a year, but was already growing increasingly frustrated at the poor-quality briefs coming his way. A second chair role alongside the great Dominic Whitchurch would do his fledgling career no harm at all.

  Never one to
hide his light under a bushel, Fletcher said loudly, ‘Dominic, I’m also free for the next few weeks. I’d be delighted to work alongside you so I could learn from you.’

  With a distinct air of disdain in his voice, Dominic Whitchurch said, ‘Thanks, but no thanks, Freddie. I’d already got wind this brief might be heading my way, and I’ve provisionally arranged for our learned friend Angela Temple to assist me. It’s always helpful for a jury to see a female barrister helping to defend a man charged with rape. Surely you can see that?’

  ‘Of course, I understand. No problem. Perhaps you would consider me in the future at another trial?’

  A smirking Whitchurch replied, ‘I’ll definitely bear you in mind.’

  Fletcher allowed a thin smile to pass his lips, but inside, he was raging. He couldn’t believe how he had been dismissed in such a condescending manner. Dominic Whitchurch was a complete bastard, and so was his snooty cow of a wife, who was now grinning at him like a Cheshire cat. She was revelling in her husband’s acerbic put-down of the young barrister.

  Rebecca Whitchurch might not have been so happy and smug had she known the real motives behind Dominic’s wish to have Angela Temple assisting him at the Leicester trial.

  Sebastien Dawson now turned his attention to Rebecca Whitchurch. ‘This brief is perfect for you, Rebecca. It’s an armed robbery case that’s due to be heard at Manchester Crown Court in the next couple of weeks. Again, the evidence being presented for the Crown is sketchy at best. Almost all of it is only circumstantial.’

  With a haughty air, she said, ‘I’ll have a look at it. I’m pretty free at the moment. I’ll read the brief and decide later if I need a junior with me. How long’s the trial expected to last?’

  ‘There are only two defendants, so two weeks at the most, I’d say. Our client’s accused of waiting outside the post office and acting as lookout for the robber inside. He claims he wasn’t involved at all and that the police have got it all wrong. It’s all in the brief.’