Cold Winter Sun

by Forder, Tony J.

  Cold Winter Sun

  Tony J Forder

  Contents

  Also by Tony J Forder

  Prologue

  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

  A Note from Bloodhound Books

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Tony J Forder

  The DI Bliss Series

  Bad to the Bone (Book 1)

  The Sent of Guilt (Book 2)

  If Fear Wins (Book 3)

  Standalones

  Degrees of Darkness

  Other Mike Lynch Books

  Scream Blue Murder

  Copyright © 2018 Tony J Forder

  The right of Tony J Forder 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

  To my readers, supporters, and bloggers.

  Prologue

  The man with the shiny blue suit and the red Senco nail gun circled his prey like a shark sensing a floundering seal in the water. He took his time, casual strides echoing on the cold, tiled floor.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said to the man squirming in the wooden chair in the centre of the room.

  The man looked up at him but remained mute. Sweat dripped from his high hairline. His face was bloodied, already starting to balloon and darken and pucker. One eye was severely bloodshot, little white showing through the ugly inflammation. Both of his ankles were taped to separate chair legs. The adhesive tugged at stray hairs, but that was the least of his problems. He couldn’t reach down to adjust the tape because his wrists were nailed to his knees. The man’s skin glistened with sweat, and a thick mixture of blood, mucus and tears dripped slowly from his chin onto his lap. He had cried out when the nails went in; howls resulting from both the agonising pain of the moment, and the overwhelming fear of what was to come. But there was no point in continuing with his yowls of misery. No one was going to hear him, no matter how loud his shrieks, no matter how severe the suffering.

  The abattoir had stood idle for the better part of three years. Windows boarded up with treated wood or corrugated sheets of iron allowed little light to spill into the main areas where twenty men had once worked. In the centre of these vast rooms, steel hooks caked in dried blood still hung from the ceiling like macabre pendants, swaying menacingly whenever the building settled on its foundations or a stray breeze cut through gaps around the doors and windows. The scuttling of inquisitive creatures caused mournful echoes in the gloom, and the dense shadows seemed to retreat at the sound.

  Although the old abattoir itself was now nothing more than a bleak and empty shell, and the man in the shiny suit had need of neither secrecy nor quiet in this secluded location, he nonetheless chose to use the basement. There he had his own workbench of planed hardwood and stainless steel, as well as a narrow table upon which the tools of his trade sat gleaming beneath a bank of lights powered by a small generator. The work that he carried out there was often noisy, always satisfyingly messy, and he had discovered the basement to be perfect for both. Its cavernous rooms allowed for the most delightful echoes, while its slick tiled floor and drainage facilities made cleaning up afterwards a relatively simple affair.

  In the heart of the desert, alongside a dried-up creek that had once claimed almost as many lives as it had vehicles, nestled the old Harrold buildings, in which the man with the nail gun had carried out some of his very best work. Across the uninspiring terrain, the desolate site could be seen from several miles away and from all directions; an unobstructed view of a dark smudge on a grey landscape. Its inactivity was a stark and unwelcome reminder of more prosperous days, yet in time people would come to realise that it had been busy after all.

  ‘Tell me,’ Nail Gun said again. His movements were languid, his manner calm and unhurried. He was a patient man who enjoyed his work.

  ‘Tell you what?!’ the man in the chair screamed at him this time, throwing his head back and rocking from side to side. ‘I don’t understand what you want of me.’

  Nail Gun stopped walking. He peered down at his captive, and the corners of his mouth curled upwards. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  The man in the chair shook his head, sweat flying from his damp hair, pink ribbons of spittle from his lips. ‘You keep saying those two words. This is not fucking Marathon Man. If you tell me what you want me to tell you, then I’ll tell you what you want to know.’

  Nail Gun glanced across the room at a small, bony man standing back in the shadows, wielding a ballpein hammer as if it were an extension of his arm. His suit was equally shiny, only grey and ill-fitting.

  ‘Marathon Man?’ Nail Gun said, arching his eyebrows.

  ‘Lawrence Olivier film, boss,’ Ballpein said. ‘Nazi war criminals. He tortures a bloke asking only “Is it safe?”‘

  ‘Is it safe? Is what safe?’

  ‘Exactly, boss.’

  ‘Ah, I see. So, how?’

  ‘How what?’

  ‘How does he torture the man?’

  ‘Teeth, boss.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Nail Gun said. He regarded the man with the nails through his wrists and knees the way a sculptor might study a rough block of marble. ‘I’ve never done teeth before. You could be my first customer. No charge.’

  The bloodied man closed his eyes and wept, shoulders heaving. He was a big specimen, now shrunken by all he had endured. ‘Look, all you have to do is ask the question properly. Fully, so that I understand what it is you want from me.’

  Nail Gun nodded, pursing his lips. Glanced across at Ballpein. ‘Hear that? I’m being taught interrogation techniques by a man who couldn’t avoid having nails driven into his body this afternoon.’

  Ballpein nodded and shrugged expansively.

  ‘Tell me,’ Nail Gun said again, his eyes drilling into those of the man in the chair.

  ‘Tell you what, though? Tell you what?! I don’t fucking understand why you won’t just say what it is you want to know!’

  Nail Gun took a step closer and leaned in, holding the Senco tool like a pistol and aiming it directly between the other man’s fevered eyes. Nail Gun flashed a predatory smile moments before he spoke.

  ‘Tell me… everything.’

  1

  Standing by my canvas billet on the dome-like crest of a rise,
I gazed out across the silver waters of Lochs Burifa’ and Long which were both now pockmarked by falling snow. From this same vantage point I could often not only see as far as Dunnet Head, but also way beyond into the thrashing sea. It’s the furthest north you can go on mainland Britain without hitting water, and there were crisp, clear days when I was able to stare out across the foaming water at the Orkney Islands some six miles away.

  Today was not one of those days.

  The snow was falling like scattered confetti upon an already white landscape which for days now had formed frozen and compacted layers. It was light and fluffy, but it was dense and would not melt in the air. Prior to the snowstorms blowing in, the moorlands had been thick with heather and scrub, though fighting a daily battle with the harsh elements. Over the past few days I had hiked for miles through hollows and over rises, exercised until my body could take no more punishment, but I had also taken every opportunity to breathe in the frigid air and repair my mind. There were better seasons in which to visit a place of such natural beauty, but I had chosen this one deliberately.

  Over a number of years during which my life did not go according to plan, I had allowed myself to grow both weak and soft, and I believed I needed the mental and physical challenge of surviving out here for as long as I could find food. That particular task had become increasingly difficult over the past forty-eight hours, and as I gazed out of my tent at the thickening white wall falling upon the hoary landscape, I realised that from now on it would probably be impossible.

  The bleak Highland terrain I gazed upon had its own beauty in the depths of winter. The monochrome world I now inhabited, that perhaps now also inhabited me to some extent, was stark and impenetrable. My canvas would shield me from the worst of the elements, clothing protect me from the bone-numbing chill of it, and melted snow provide my liquid intake. But no animals stayed these parts when the ice, snow, and strong winds set in, which left the sea as my only remaining source of food. Of course, I could walk the few miles to the closest village and purchase whatever I needed, but that pretty much defeated the object.

  Which is? I asked myself for the hundredth time since my arrival. What exactly was the object of all this? Of removing myself from the daily grind and surviving like a recluse in such disagreeable conditions. Was this a further test of my character following the events of those few days back in the summer? Perhaps a way of examining the limits of my endurance. Was it conceivably a way to help sculpt the new version of myself? Or maybe it was a simple matter of seeking the kind of isolation that brought with it a level of mental clarity that could not be achieved in any other way.

  Same old questions.

  Same lack of answers.

  I lowered my gaze, the snow on the ground a blank canvas for my thoughts. I became so lost in them that I almost failed to hear my phone ringing. The signal up here was patchy at best, but I had it connected to a satellite module. Every day I switched the device on for exactly an hour, so as not to drain the battery too quickly. Even so, I was about to ignore the call and switch the phone off when I remembered I had not spoken to my daughter in a week. I took the device from my pocket, smiling when I saw her name on the screen.

  ‘Hiya, kiddo,’ I said brightly, despite my sombre mood caused by a sudden adrenaline purge. ‘Sorry I haven’t been–’

  ‘Mike, it’s me. Donna.’

  ‘Donna? What’s wrong? Is Wendy okay?’

  ‘Yes, she’s fine. This is not about her.’

  I exhaled a sigh of relief and saw my breath swarm and coil in the air before being snatched away by a gust of wind that took it back over my head and behind me. I was puzzled as to why my ex-wife was calling, but it didn’t matter so long as Wendy was all right.

  ‘Good,’ I said, putting a hand to my chest even though she could not see me. ‘I can cancel the coronary, then. So what’s up, Donna?’

  The line went quiet for a moment. It crackled and fizzed a couple of times before she spoke again.

  ‘Mike, there’s a problem.’

  I felt ice in my veins once more. ‘Donna, are you sure Wendy is okay?’

  ‘Yes, she’s good, Mike. Honestly.’

  ‘And you? Is this about you, Donna? Are you ill, or something?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. I’m sorry to be calling you, Mike. And now that I am, I’m actually second-guessing myself. Perhaps I shouldn’t bother you with this. It’s really not your problem after all.’

  I heard something in her voice that demanded my full attention. Since we had separated, and subsequently divorced, my ex-wife had asked me for nothing. Literally not a single thing. I paid child support, and from time to time sent Wendy extra money for things she wanted. But Donna had always steered clear of requesting either cash or favours from me. I got the sense this was going to be something consequential.

  ‘Donna, don’t worry about whose problem it is. If it was important enough for you to pick up the phone, then it’s important enough for you to tell me about it.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Thanks, Mike.’

  ‘No problem. Go on.’

  ‘I have a favour to ask. A pretty big one, actually.’

  A severe gust of wind blew in off the sea and found its way across the undulations and hollows, shifting snow along its path and tainting the air with salt particles. I brushed it off my face with a gloved hand.

  Donna’s words echoed inside my head. ‘Fire away,’ I told her. ‘Don’t hold back.’

  ‘You may regret saying that, Mike. Once you hear what it is.’

  I felt my eyebrows converge. It was unlike my ex-wife to be so uncertain of herself. Donna was a powerful force of nature, a determined character who spoke her mind and was rarely backwards in coming forwards. I wondered if she might be having problems in her marriage, then immediately dismissed the idea as laughable. I’m the last person she would discuss something as intimate as that with.

  Realising the silence had stretched out too long, and that she was waiting for a final confirmation of my interest, I said, ‘Donna, you’re starting to worry me. Just tell me what it is. We’ll deal with any fallout later.’

  She cleared her throat. ‘It’s probably nothing, but Drew is going out of his mind at the moment, as is his sister. Sheryl’s son, Vern, is missing. He went away on a two-week vacation, but that was three weeks ago and he hasn’t been heard from since. I feel so helpless, Mike, and for reasons even I don’t begin to understand, I said I would talk to you and ask if you had any ideas.’

  Now I understood her reticence. Drew was Donna’s second husband. I didn’t know a great deal about him other than the fact he ran a software company and was considered wealthy even by Los Angeles standards. Up until now I hadn’t even known he had a sister, let alone a nephew. I brushed aside any unease I might have had about the source of Donna’s concern, and instead considered the implications of what she had told me.

  ‘So it’s a full week since he should have returned?’ I said.

  ‘Yes. He left late on the Friday evening, and should have been back a fortnight later on the Saturday.’

  ‘So it’s also Saturday today?’

  There was a slight pause. I could imagine her face creasing with unease when she spoke next. ‘Mike, where are you? You haven’t spoken to Wendy this week, and you don’t even seem to know what day it is? Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m camping. The days got away from me is all.’

  There was no need to elaborate on the exacting environment I had chosen to go camping in. I thought about what she had told me. A week was a long time to be AWOL. And if Donna was reduced to contacting me, that suggested she was not getting a lot of help from the authorities out there.

  ‘I take it the police are not overly interested in Vern’s absence.’

  ‘Not really,’ Donna said. ‘He’s twenty-four. The fact that a man his age has not returned home after a two-week vacation is not regarded as a priority for law enforcement. They did some basic checks, but we felt they we
re just going through the motions.’

  ‘What about his employers?’

  ‘Drew is his employer.’

  ‘Okay. Tell me why you are convinced something is wrong. Wrong enough to call me. This sort of thing is out of character for Vern, I take it.’

  ‘Completely. He’s not the type to do something like this, especially without calling. He would not do that to Sheryl for one thing.’

  That was debatable for a twenty-four-year-old, I thought. At that age young men tended to follow something other than their head or their heart. Still, to neither contact family nor return to work without informing his employer did suggest something out of the ordinary might have occurred. I always felt that a lot could go wrong very quickly out in the US where guns are so readily available and alcohol is so cheap.

  ‘So what exactly do you know?’ I asked her. ‘Explain things to me in a little more detail, Donna.’

  ‘Vern went on a tour of Nevada. At least, that’s what he told us he was doing. We know he made it up to Vegas and checked out two days later. The hotel he was staying at told us that much. The idea was for him to camp after that. He didn’t provide any of us with an itinerary, and we don’t think he was going to use registered camping grounds.’