DEAD NASTY
A gripping crime thriller full of twists
(DI Calladine & DS Bayliss Book 6)
Helen H. Durrant
First published 2016
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.
©Helen H. Durrant
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THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.
CONTENTS
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
AVAILABLE NOW BY HELEN H. DURRANT
Glossary of English Slang for US readers
CHARACTER LIST
Prologue
Elsa Ramsden woke up with a start. She felt weird. Bad dream? Too much booze? No, not this time. This was something different.
She was in a strange room, dark and foul smelling. Panic churned in her belly. Every instinct told her to get out — fast. But she couldn’t move. One fearful look down told her why. Thick, black tape bound her to a chair. But the nightmare didn’t end there. A man wearing a hood with holes cut out for his eyes, was standing in front of her, staring. This had to be someone’s idea of joke. Except that it wasn’t funny.
“Who the fuck are you? What the hell am I doing here?” she spat at him.
He said nothing.
“Speak to me, freak!” she screamed at the hooded face, trying to wrench her hands free.
What had happened? The events of the past few days flashed through her head. And then she got it. “This is down to Gaby, isn’t it?” Anger at being tricked was an effective antidote to the fear. “She’s told her dad what we did. She’s got that murdering father of hers to set this up. I’m right, aren’t I?”
“If I were you, Elsa, I’d shut up and save my strength.”
He knew her name. The voice was disguised, but the accent was local. “I’ll bloody kill her! The bitch has gone too far. Trust Gaby Donnelly to pull a sick stunt like this. And all because of a stupid photo!”
He knelt down and put his hooded face close to hers. “This is all about you and me, Elsa. It has nothing to do with anyone else.”
He looked into her eyes. A few seconds of silence followed. Elsa couldn’t see anything but the hood and two dark eyes, but she knew he was grinning at her.
She hissed, “There is no you and me, creep! Why am I really here?”
He ran a finger down her cheek — a gesture of affection that made her cringe. He spoke softly, almost lovingly. “You’re here to die, Elsa.”
He meant it. This man was a nutter, and there was nothing Elsa could do. The realisation sliced through her guts like a dagger. Bile rose in her throat and she choked. Her head spun. Her headache and confusion told Elsa that she’d been drugged. This, and the fear, clouded her judgement. She couldn’t think straight.
“You’re kidding me! You have to be. You need to let me go.” The words tumbled out, though she knew it was no joke. “Tell Gaby or whoever, that it worked. I’m . . . scared. Alright? Scared out of my skull, and sorry. Job done.” Elsa’s voice faltered. She began to shake.
No reply. He moved into the shadows at the far end of the room. She couldn’t see him properly, but she did see the flare of a match. The apology had cut no ice. Time to fight back. She screamed, “Did you hear me, freak? Why don’t you fucking listen?”
“Language, Elsa.”
“This is down to Gaby, I know it. But she got everything that was coming to her. Stupid slag! It isn’t all one-sided, you know. She’s a vindictive cow.”
“Calm down.”
“Piss off!” she barked back, trying to wriggle free. “And tell Gaby to stuff it! I’m not frightened of her! Or you! You have to let me go.” Suddenly Elsa sneezed. Her chest was tightening. “I have asthma. There’s something in here I’m allergic to. I have to get out before I get worse.”
“In that case I’ll make this quick.” He was close again, leaning over her. And he had a hypodermic in his hand. “You don’t look well, Elsa. Your eyes are puffy and you’re wheezing.”
“I told you, I’m allergic to stuff. You, for a start!” She pulled against the tape again.
“You won’t have to worry for much longer. I’m going to put you out of your misery.” The laugh that followed these words cut right through her.
“You have to release me. Don’t you know who I am?”
He laughed again. “You’re just some stupid schoolgirl. No one likes you — you upset people. No one will care when you’re gone.”
Defiant, she pulled against the tape. “My family are right hard nuts. You must have heard of the Ramsdens. My brothers will do you proper if you don’t let me go.”
More laughter.
Somehow, Elsa had been stupid enough to walk right into this one. She yanked on the bindings again. “How did I get here? I was going to Megan’s.” She couldn’t work it out, her memory was hazy. She remembered being on her friend’s street and texting her to hurry up. What had happened after that?
He raised the syringe and she leaned away. “What’s in that thing?”
“Morphine.”
“Bugger off! Don’t put that thing anywhere near me.”
“You’re going to need it.”
There was a sharp scratch in her arm and her stomach clenched again in terror.
“Let the drug do its work.” He patted her hand. “Now, it’s time to put a few things right. No more cruel texts,” he ran his fingers gently over her cheeks and lips, “And no more harsh words.”
The feel of his fingers moving over her face made her feel sick.
“It will be better if you’re out of it for what comes next.”
What did that mean? She tried to talk, but the words wouldn’t come. “Let . . . let me go . . .” Her head lolled forward. Why couldn’t she speak? And what was that smell? Petrol, or something. She looked down. He’d wrapped a roll of cloth around her right hand and wrist and fastened it tight with tape. In her confused state it seemed as if things floated towards her, out of thin air. A bottle. He was pouring fluid onto the cloth.
One of her arms was free. He’d cut the tape binding her right wrist to the chair. This was Elsa’s chance, but only if she sharpened up. She took a deep breath, hoping to clear her head. Hit out, make the blow count. But she was too slow. His hand gripped her upper arm. The smell of petrol grew stronger, the fumes making her eyes water.
There was a sudden flare, as he lit another match. Then the penny dropped. Vomit rose in her throat. There was nothing she could do. As the cloth wrapped around her hand burst into flame, Elsa threw up. She heard him count — one . . . two . . . three.
But Elsa was unconscious before he finished.
Chapter 1
Tuesday
“You’ve made a big dent in your blood pressure, Tom.”
“I took all the advice everyone threw at me, doc. Been going to the gym and cut down on the booze.” Tom Calladine clapped his belly. “Lost nearly a stone and a half.”
Doc Hoyle’s face lit up in a smile. “Glad to hear it. For a while you had me worried, you were going downhill fast. But you’ve cracked it. I was half expecting you to just tickle around the edges of the healthy-living thing. But you’ve done great. You’re looking good, too. That’s a new suit you’ve got there.” He leaned forward and rubbed the cloth of Calladine’s jacket which was lying across the chair.
The detective smiled. “My old clothes don’t fit anymore, what with the diet and the gym. I have to admit, I do feel better.”
“Hair’s an improvement.”
“I’ve had it cut short again. Doesn’t show so much grey.”
“Everything you’ve done makes my job a whole lot easier. I don’t have to make up a fairy tale. The force would have you out on your arse if your fitness deteriorated below a certain level. What you have to do now is keep it up. At your age, Tom, too much beer and junk food just will take years off your life. Bob Bradshaw had a heart attack last week. He’s not a patient here, so I can tell you that.”
“I went to school with him!” Calladine exclaimed. “We were in the same year.”
“I know you were. It knocked me back with a wallop too. He’s another one who fell into the trap of putting his work first. He was always on the road in that truck of his. Took all his meals at motorway cafes. He’ll probably have to retire now.”
“Won’t suit him. He’s a worker, like us. What’s happened to you anyway? You’re doing more than ever here. Retirement not up to scratch?”
“I get bored. Two days a week, that’s quite enough retirement. Otherwise I go mad. I have the shed, go for walks with the wife, and we lunch out. It keeps me fresh. You not ready to give it a go yet? Do you good, you know.”
Calladine shook his head emphatically. “No way. Work suits me just fine.”
“Don’t forget holidays. It’s always good to have a break.”
“Actually, doc, we have been making plans.”
“You and that new woman of yours? I can’t say I blame you. But be careful. She’s not got the miles on the clock. She’s at least ten years younger than you.”
The doc was right of course. But Calladine didn’t want it shoving down his throat. He couldn’t help it if younger women were attracted to him. “What’re you writing?”
“Your medical report, and it’s all good. You’ve worked hard and you’re in tiptop condition. All you have to do now is keep up the good work.”
“I’ll do my best.
“My advice, if you’ll take it: don’t eat on the hoof. And none of those canteen breakfasts. Try to keep the booze to a minimum, and you should be fine.”
“I’ve got this far, there’ll be no slacking now. But it’s been hard. All that salad stuff played havoc with my guts at first. The gym’s great but it takes up time. But the worst was the Wheatsheaf, and the obligatory pint or two at the end of the day. But now I limit it to one, and then toddle off home.”
Calladine’s father had died far too young from heart problems. He was well aware that he needed to follow the doctor’s advice, and get things under control.
The doc shook his head. “I see it all the time. Blokes reach your age and still behave as if they were in their teens. You can get dressed now. I’ll send the report in by the end of the week. There should be no problems.”
“Thanks, doc. But you don’t look so hot yourself.”
“Backache — gardening all weekend. Overdid it.”
Calladine smiled as he did up his shirt. “Perhaps I should give you some advice. Tell you to rein it in a bit. Ruth is back today, by the way. Not a minute too soon either. The job hasn’t been the same without her. I felt as if I was working with one arm tied behind my back.”
“I enjoyed the christening. It was good to see the old team. Julian’s done well for himself, hasn’t he? He and Imogen make a grand couple.”
“They’re buying a house on that development where Zoe and Jo live. Can’t be long now until they move in. That’ll be the next bash — the house-warming.”
* * *
Calladine entered the main office with a smile on his face. He was looking forward to having his partner back. Imogen and Rocco were great but they just weren’t the same. The vibe was different. “Where is she then?” There was no sign of her and the morning was rattling on.
“Not arrived yet, sir. It’ll be Harry. Ruth was saying only last week that he doesn’t like nursery much. Howls the place down each time she leaves him,” Imogen said.
“Poor little bugger. How old is he — six months?”
“It’s a difficult decision. But I don’t see Ruth as a stay-at-home mum, do you?”
Calladine shook his head. He knew Ruth would find it hard.
Imogen whistled. “Liking the suit, and the new look, sir.”
Joyce cleared her throat and looked him up and down. “Looking good . . . DCI Birch wants to see you, said to tell you the minute you arrived. And DC Rockliffe has gone out on a shout.”
“Anything interesting?”
“I’m not sure, sir. DCI Birch had a word with him and then he left.”
“Did Birch say what she wants me for?”
“No — but she didn’t look happy.”
Calladine turned on his heel and made his way down the corridor. An unhappy Rhona Birch first thing on a Tuesday morning wasn’t good. He hoped it was nothing he’d done. He wasn’t in the mood for a bollocking. He knocked on her office door.
“Come in, Calladine. Sit down.”
“You wanted to see me, ma’am?”
Her appearance was as severe as ever. A dark grey suit, buttoned-up shirt, short haircut and no make-up. But were getting used to her. Rhona Birch had been with them a while now. She was okay in the main, but Calladine was still no nearer working out what made her tick. She was a closed book and her personal life a total mystery.
“First things first. We have a missing eighteen-year-old girl. DC Rockliffe has gone to speak to the family.”
“Probably gone off in a huff. If we’re lucky she’ll turn up soon enough.”
“Let’s hope you’re right. But that’s not why I asked to see you. Take a look at this.” She handed him a slim folder. “We’ve been asked to keep an eye out. This individual was released from Strangeways a couple of months ago. He’s local. I see from the report that you know him.”
Calladine looked at the image in front of him. “Craig Donnelly. Released! How did that happen? That piece of work was supposed to spend the rest of his natural under lock and key. I worked on the investigation that put him away. Believe me, ma’am, it was no picnic.” He shuddered. “Youngsters were his thing. He’d target some girl and make himself a damn nuisance. For months all we got were complaints. Until Annabelle Roper.” He fell silent, his eyes fixed on the first page of the file. “It all changed with her. I was a sergeant at the time, working for DI Reynolds. He’s retired now. Anyway, that case upset us both. Reynolds had to go off sick for weeks. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the way that girl looked when we found her.” He flicked through the pages in the folder.
“Even after all this time it still makes very uncomfortable reading. Donnelly hacked her to shreds. She was almost unrecognisable. Annabelle Roper was a big girl, grossly overweight. Donnelly planned to put her in a wheelie bin and leave her for the rubbish collection. He couldn’t make her fit so he used a cleaver to take off her limbs and her head. It was clumsily done. The pathologist reckoned she was still alive when he cut off her right arm. We found her naked, except for a school tie strung around what was left of her neck.”
Birch frowned. “Not nice. Final cause of death? Blood loss due to having her limbs severed?”
“N
o.” Calladine paused. The memory was painful and all too vivid. He didn’t have to consult the file. What had been done to that girl had given him nightmares for weeks. “After removing her right arm, he cut out her tongue. She choked to death on her own blood. The rest of the cutting up was done post-mortem.”
Birch’s response was a single word. "Hobfield?”
“Oddly enough, no. He is from Lowermill, the Beech Lane development. It’s at the top end of the village. The houses were built in the late sixties. Detached, large gardens — change hands for a packet these days.”
“How did he afford to live there?”
“His wife had money. Her father was a surgeon. She is an accountant with a large firm. God knows what she was doing with him.”
“Is he likely to go back to her? Did he and his wife stay together?”
“She dumped him the second he went inside, and who could blame her? But Donnelly is a mad bastard. He’ll have scores to settle. One of those is bound to involve his ex-missus for not standing by him. He protested his innocence all through the trial. The papers even took up his case and ran with it for a while. But the evidence was all there. He was guilty alright.” Calladine fell silent. Bad memories, some of the worst. “They had a child too. She must be grown up now.”
“Gabrielle. She’s seventeen.”
“I don’t understand what he’s doing out. He killed a girl in the most awful way. He put her through hell, and now he’s free. The judge at the trial said he was a danger to society. What happened?”
“Apparently he’s a changed man. About five years ago he showed remorse. Accepted what he’d done. Then he got religion. Donnelly even studied for the clergy. Took exams, the lot. Some do-gooder priest supported and backed him. Now he’s out on license, with a job and a place to live. All down to the church.”
“Which church?”
“St James’s in Leesdon.”
“So now he’s our problem.”
“That depends on what he does and where he goes. I suggest you talk to the vicar, the Reverend Michael Livings.”
Dead Nasty Page 1