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

by Trevor Negus

  ‘You’re right, sweetheart.’

  Sue sighed and said, ‘Can we get back to the movie now? This is my favourite bit, where the kids see Boo Radley for the first time.’

  Danny said nothing. He picked up his glass and took a long drink, feeling the fiery liquid hit the back of his throat hard.

  There was no chance that Gregory Peck, Boo Radley or anyone else could drag him away from his thoughts.

  13

  8.45am, 4 October 1986

  Nottingham City Centre

  The Volvo being driven by Angela Temple was crawling along at a snail’s pace. The traffic heading towards Nottingham city centre at this time of day was always heaviest on this stretch of Mansfield Road.

  She hated this journey.

  The fact that she had to drop her husband off, at the Newton Building of the Trent Polytechnic on Goldsmith Street, would mean that after negotiating the heavy traffic in the city centre, she would be late for work at Mulberry Chambers on the Ropewalk.

  Once again, the traffic came to a dead stop. She threw her head back, causing her long, raven black hair to be swept back off her face. With a cry born out of exasperation and frustration, she shouted, ‘For God’s sake! This fucking traffic!’

  Her husband, Brandon, who was sitting quietly in the passenger seat, cringed. He could already feel the tension coming from his beautiful wife and didn’t want to upset her further by saying the wrong thing.

  As far as most of their friends were concerned, Brandon and Angela were polar opposites. Apart from both being in their early thirties, the only thing they really had in common was that they had both graduated from Cambridge University with spectacular degrees.

  It had been the picturesque university, on the banks of the River Cam, where they had met, fallen in love and got married. Both had been brilliant scholars in their very different fields.

  After graduating, Brandon had gone on to do his master’s. He subsequently landed his dream job, working as a professor of Geological Studies at Nottingham Trent University.

  As a direct result of Brandon being offered that post, Angela had been forced to abandon her plans of furthering her career as a barrister at a prestigious London-based chambers. She was fortunate, though, to be offered a post as a junior at Mulberry Chambers in Nottingham.

  The pair of them together seemed to be a very odd couple to most who knew them.

  Angela was extremely glamourous. She was tall, with a slim figure; she always dressed impeccably, taking great pride in her appearance. Brandon, on the other hand, was quite short and slightly overweight, with tousled dark brown hair. He always appeared as though he had got dressed in a hurry, throwing on the nearest garments that came to hand. It was this quirky eccentricity that had first attracted Angela to him. That and his razor-sharp mind.

  Angela had felt a growing sense of anticipation all morning. Her sense of excitement had stemmed from the telephone call she’d received late last night from Dominic Whitchurch. He had asked her to be his second at an upcoming rape trial. She knew it would be a major opportunity for her to shine, working alongside such a well-respected barrister. Everyone who worked at the law firm knew that it was Dominic and his arrogant wife who were the real powers at Mulberry Chambers.

  That feeling of excitement had been somewhat dimmed by the knowledge that she was now going to be late for her meeting with Dominic. She wasn’t unduly worried about that; she knew he wouldn’t mind.

  It was just the bloody inconvenience of dropping her husband off every day that was grinding her down.

  Sensing his wife’s growing annoyance, Brandon said quietly, ‘Don’t worry about dropping me off for the rest of the week. I’ll take my motorcycle.’

  She snapped back, ‘How can you take the bike? The weather forecast has predicted heavy rain all bloody week!’

  ‘I’m going to buy a set of waterproofs today. I don’t think it’s fair dragging you through this traffic every day.’

  ‘Well, hallelujah!’ she said sarcastically.

  The rest of the journey was made in stony silence.

  Finally, they arrived outside the iconic Newton Building. She flicked on the indicator and steered the Volvo to the side of the road.

  Brandon grabbed his briefcase, leaned over and pecked his glamourous wife on the cheek. Angela did not reciprocate the tender moment. He got out of the car, turned and said through the open door, ‘Thanks, sweetheart. Will you be home on time tonight? I thought I’d cook us something. What do you fancy?’

  With a disinterested air, she replied, ‘Anything, I really don’t mind. Hopefully, I’ll be home on time. It all depends how work on this new brief with Dominic goes today. Bye, darling. Close the door; I’m late enough already.’

  He closed the door and stepped back from the car just as she sped away from the kerb edge.

  He stood in the rain, watching as the Volvo once more became engulfed in the heavy traffic.

  As the car went out of sight, he muttered under his breath, ‘Bloody Dominic.’

  14

  9.30am, 4 October 1986

  MCIU Offices, Mansfield, Nottinghamshire

  Danny Flint sat in his office, poring over the briefing reports from the previous night. His concentration was interrupted by the sound of raised voices coming from the main office.

  He put the report down, stood up and walked over to the window that separated his office from the main office. Peering through the venetian blinds, he could see and hear Detective Inspector Brian Hopkirk laying into DC Nigel Singleton. Both men had lost their tempers and were shouting at each other.

  Danny opened his office door, stepped into the main office and shouted, ‘That’s enough!’

  Both men immediately fell silent.

  Danny said, ‘In my office, both of you. Now!’

  The two detectives walked into Danny’s office, heads down.

  Danny kept them standing and said quietly, ‘What the hell was all that about? DC Singleton, you first.’

  Nigel Singleton was starting to get red blotches around his neck at the embarrassment of having to explain his outburst. He looked Danny squarely in the eye and said, ‘I was trying to explain to the DI that I would need a bit longer to complete the enquiry he’s asked me to do. I apologise for raising my voice, but I wasn’t being listened to, sir.’

  ‘What’s the enquiry?’

  ‘It’s for the Bowker murder, sir. DI Hopkirk asked me to check all manufacturers of crossbow bolts in the UK that make the type of bolt recovered from Andrew Bowker’s body. I was trying to explain how many manufacturers there are, that’s all.’

  ‘How much longer do you need?’

  ‘Working on my own? At least three more days. If I had someone to help me, we could get it done in half that time, sir.’

  ‘Okay, give Fran Jefferies my apologies and ask her to abandon her office manager’s tasks for today. She can help you with this enquiry. I know how important it is that we have that information. That will be all.’

  As the young detective started to turn away, Danny said, ‘Nigel, if I ever hear you showing that level of disrespect to a senior officer again, you’ll be off this Unit. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The young detective turned to Brian Hopkirk, held out his hand and said, ‘Sorry, boss.’

  The burly detective inspector took his detective’s hand, shook it and said, ‘No. I’m sorry, lad. I should have listened to what you were telling me. Go on, crack on with your work.’

  DC Singleton left the office, and Danny said, ‘Sit down, Brian.’

  As soon as the detective inspector had sat down, a still-seething Danny said quietly, ‘What the fuck was all that about?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I know how important getting that data together is, that’s all.’

  ‘Bollocks! That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it. What’s wrong? The Brian Hopkirk I value and trust would never talk to his staff like that. What’s going on?’

/>   ‘It’s personal.’

  Danny bit his lip. Holding onto his temper, he said, ‘It might have been personal once, but you’ve just brought it into work. So, I’ll ask you again. What the fuck’s going on?’

  Brian slumped in his chair and said, in barely a whisper, ‘My ex-wife’s getting married again.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake! You’ve been divorced for seven years. I really don’t see what the problem is.’

  ‘I’m not bothered about her getting married again. The man she intends to marry currently lives and works in Florida, that’s the bloody problem. They plan on living out there after they’re wed. That means they’ll be taking my daughter, Laura, with them. That’s what I’m struggling to come to terms with. Laura’s only thirteen years old. She’s still my baby girl.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Brian. When’s all this happening?’

  ‘In the next couple of months. It’s all been pretty sudden.’

  ‘Do you have any concerns about the new husband?’

  ‘None at all. I’ve met Graham a few times, and he is a hard-working, stand-up bloke. He’s got a responsible, well-paid job, and it’s obvious he really cares for Maggie and Laura. It’s just the distances involved. I’ve always had a brilliant relationship with Laura, and I desperately want that to continue. At the moment, I can see her regularly, and we do lots of things together. That will all stop when she moves to the States. I don’t mind telling you, I’m sick to my guts worrying about it.’

  ‘Do you need to take some time off work?’

  ‘If I’m being honest, I don’t think that would help. It’s going to happen. Me moping around at home isn’t going to stop it.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Maggie and told her how you’re feeling?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve talked things through. She has assured me everything will be fine, and that they will be coming back over to the UK on a regular basis. She’s also said that I’ll always be welcome to travel over to Florida and stay with them.’

  ‘That all sounds very positive.’

  ‘I know it could be a lot worse. The bottom line is, I love Laura with all my heart. It’s killing me, knowing I won’t be there for her anymore.’

  ‘Brian, that’s just plain wrong. I know you’ll always be there for her, and more importantly, so does Laura. Things will turn out okay, trust me.’

  Brian nodded and stood up.

  He stopped at the door, turned and said, ‘Thanks for listening, Danny. I’ll come to terms with things, and don’t worry about the job. I won’t be having any more tantrums. I’ll square things with young Nigel. He’s a bloody good detective who was just standing his ground. I was the one who was out of order.’

  Danny said, ‘Anytime you feel you need some time off, just ask. Okay? My door’s always open if you need to talk some more.’

  ‘Thanks. One more thing, can this conversation be kept between the two of us?’

  ‘Of course, that goes without saying. Take it easy.’

  15

  10.30am, 4 October 1986

  Foxhall Road, Forest Fields, Nottingham

  Sam Jamieson had planned to spend the day working from home. The weather outside was so abysmal, that now seemed like a very good decision. The rain was incessant and heavy. It had done nothing but rain for well over a week. Typical, when his only mode of transport was a bloody motorcycle. He should have known better. It was the start of Goose Fair this week, and traditionally, the famous fair was always plagued by foul and inclement weather.

  He was enjoying studying for his master’s degree in psychology, but the daily commute was becoming a drag. It was taking him an extra hour each day to get home and get dry after riding his motorcycle through the rain-soaked streets. A day spent at home, in his small, cosy flat, would be a welcome relief.

  The one-bedroomed flat in the large house in the Forest Fields area wasn’t the best. It was still a huge improvement on the small cell he had shared at the Armley jail for the last seven years.

  Sitting on the threadbare settee, nursing a mug of hot coffee, he looked at the work he had spread all over the floor. There were piles of reference books he had borrowed from the college library, as well as copious amounts of handwritten notes. He planned to write a paper on miscarriages of justice in the modern penal system. He felt uniquely qualified to write such a piece.

  He took another sip of the strong black coffee, then looked at the pinboard on the wall opposite. The board was full of photographs of Rebecca and Dominic Whitchurch. The images had been captured outside Mulberry Chambers on the Ropewalk, and in front of the beautiful detached house they owned on Richmond Drive in Mapperley Park.

  There was also a Polaroid photograph of the two of them standing beside a young, blonde-haired girl outside the Debenhams store on Long Row in the city centre. The three of them caught in a carefree smiling moment.

  There was a myriad of newspaper and magazine articles that chronicled the growing success of Mulberry Chambers. At the centre of the board was a close-up image of Rebecca Whitchurch. She was wearing her full Crown Court regalia, but with wig and brief in hand. He had taken the photograph covertly as she dashed between courtrooms at Nottingham Crown Court.

  Taking the photograph had been risky, but it had been worth it. One look at the self-importance and arrogance etched upon her smug face provided all the motivation he needed to remain on track.

  It was the first thing he saw every morning and the last thing he saw at night.

  Every time he stared at that one image, the urge for revenge grew even stronger. Just looking at the authoritarian bearing of the woman made him think of the daughter he had lost. The feeling it engendered inside him was a strange mixture of rage, sadness and peace.

  He had known for years what his destiny was going to be.

  Now he was finally able to carry that destiny through to its conclusion. That thought made him feel at peace with the retribution he was planning.

  The weeks since his release from prison had been a blur. After finding out there was an opportunity to study for his master’s degree, he had applied for and been accepted at Nottingham Trent University.

  He had enjoyed his psychology studies while incarcerated in the Armley jail and wanted to carry on with the subject now he was once again a free man.

  He had taken the decision to sever all ties with his hometown of Mansfield Woodhouse. There was nothing left for him there. He wanted nothing to do with his ex-wife or his family and old friends. He felt badly let down by all of them.

  The only time he would go back to the small mining village would be to visit Vanessa’s grave at the Leeming Lane cemetery.

  As soon as he had found the flat on Foxhall Road, he transported everything he owned from Mansfield Woodhouse to Nottingham. It hadn’t taken long; he didn’t own many possessions. Seven years of imprisonment had seen to that.

  Any spare time he had, between lectures at college and his studies at home, was spent keeping fit, running up and down the hills of Mapperley Park.

  He used the time he spent running to plan and prepare. It was the perfect opportunity to imagine different scenarios. While jogging through the deserted streets, he could mentally explore the pitfalls and problems various plans threw up. It afforded him the time to develop strategies to overcome those problems. All his thinking, as he ran, was geared to one purpose: how to exact the perfect revenge on Rebecca Whitchurch.

  He was pleased with how his preparations had gone so far. He felt ready to take it to the next level and actually make contact with the bitch.

  It was time.

  16

  12.30pm, 4 October 1986

  Elm Bank, Sherwood Rise, Nottingham

  Alina Moraru was close to tears.

  It was now two days since Emily Whitchurch had gone missing, and there was still no information from the police. The tension in the Whitchurch house was almost unbearable. As soon as she had finished her work for the day, Alina had taken the opportunity to get away from the house on
Richmond Drive.

  She had made the short walk through the leafy streets of Mapperley Park to the Sherwood Rise area of the city. She needed to spend some time with her boyfriend, Florin.

  As she walked up the garden path towards Florin’s small flat on Elm Bank, Alina was worried sick. She could think of nothing but the missing girl.

  It was raining hard, and by the time she arrived at Elm Bank, she was soaking wet. She had quickly dried off in the bathroom and put on the towelling robe she kept at the flat. She was moody and sullen. Since her arrival at the flat, she had hardly spoken a word to her boyfriend.

  Florin had noticed the strange mood Alina was in, and said brusquely, ‘I don’t know why you come here if all you’re going to do is sulk like a child.’

  Her voice cracking with emotion, tears not very far away, she replied, ‘Don’t you even want to know what’s wrong?’

  ‘Not really. If you want to tell me, you will.’

  Some days she wondered why she even bothered to be his girlfriend. Today was rapidly becoming one of those days.

  Alina had first met Florin Chirilov on a night out, drinking with friends at the Royal Children pub on Maid Marian Way, in the city. She had been instantly taken by the handsome stranger’s athletic build and the lustrous black hair that he wore tied back in a ponytail. Most of all, she loved his dark brown, soulful eyes. As soon as he had met her gaze and smiled, Alina had been smitten. One of her girlfriends had warned her that Florin was a charmer and bad to the bone.

  He had a reputation as a petty criminal and a womaniser. Alina was having none of it. She had readily accepted Florin’s advances over the rest of that evening.

  They had been together for almost four months now. Ever since she had landed the job as au pair for the Whitchurch family, things had become a little more serious. It had meant she could spend much more time with Florin. He had been very interested in her job at first and regularly asked about the family she was au pair for. He had laughed when she had told him what a brat the young girl was. He had said brusquely that if he were the girl’s father, he would soon straighten her out. He always became more attentive when Alina described the luxurious house on Richmond Drive. He was always interested in how wealthy her employers were.