Cut The Threads: A Serial Killer Thriller That Will Keep You Hooked (DS Marnie Hammond Book 2)

by Robin Roughley

  ‘So, either he’s making a fortune and doesn’t have to get in at a normal time or business is slow?’ Marnie enquired.

  The woman frowned at her and turned the key. ‘Arnie does all right,’ she said, as she pushed the door open, then her eyes sprang wide when she saw the office had been ransacked. ‘Shit, we’ve been bloody robbed!’ the woman gasped, stepping through the door with Marnie at her shoulder.

  Over to the left stood two tall, grey, metal cabinets, the doors open, the contents scattered across the floor pink, red, and green files lay atop of one another, white pages spilling out, trampled and torn.

  As soon as Marnie spotted the door at the far side of the room she brushed past the secretary. Bev stepped inside and closed the door behind her, while the woman ran a hand through her dark hair, her face set in a scowl.

  ‘I bet he forgot to set the bloody alarm, he’s always doing that,’ she said with a sigh.

  Ignoring her, Marnie crossed the room and pushed open the door, the room had a desk in it, the drawers open, the contents had been dragged out and dumped on the floor, it was the same with the filing cabinet in the corner, the swivel chair had been pushed to one side to allow access. On the desk stood a computer, the screen had been smashed as if someone had drove a fist into the monitor.

  ‘Christ, Arnie will flip when he finds out about this.’

  Marnie glanced at her, she was chewing her bottom lip, leaving a coating of red lipstick on her teeth.

  Walking across the room Marnie pulled open the door to reveal a small kitchen with a kettle and microwave on the worktop, the back door was standing open.

  Marnie glanced at the broken lock, the timber splintered leaving the wood shining amongst the black paint. Stepping through the door brought her into a small flagged yard encased by a tall, red brick wall with a padlocked gate to the left.

  Whoever had broken into the property must have come over the wall which, considering it looked to be about eight feet tall, was no easy feat.

  ‘I mean, what the hell am I meant to tell Arnie?’

  Marnie looked over her shoulder to find the secretary standing in the open doorway.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

  The woman looked affronted at the question. ‘Alison Greer.’

  ‘Has this happened before?’

  ‘No way,’ she replied with a shake of the head.

  ‘Perhaps you should give Mr Phelps a call and explain what’s happened?’

  Alison Greer’s face twitched and then she rooted around in her designer bag and pulled out her phone. ‘He’s gonna go bloody spare when he hears about this.’ She finished tapping the screen with a talon-like purple nail.

  Marnie eased past her and made her way back into Phelps’s office, Bev stood in the doorway to reception, hands on hips as she eyed the scattering of files on the carpeted floor.

  ‘Whoever broke in must have been looking for something specific,’ Bev said.

  ‘Yes, but what?’ Marnie answered, as she dipped down and picked half a dozen thin files up from the floor.

  ‘Do you think it was Conway?’

  Marnie dropped the files onto the desk before looking at Bev. ‘You can count on it,’ she replied as Alison Greer walked into the room.

  ‘Arnie’s not answering his phone,’ she said with a frown.

  ‘Where does he live?’ Marnie asked.

  The woman sighed and folded her arms. ‘I’ll send him an email,’ she replied.

  Marnie moved away from the desk. ‘You’ll tell me his address.’

  Greer looked at the woman in front of her and scowled. ‘Look, he could be here any minute, so …’

  ‘My colleague can stay here in case he arrives but I still want his address,’ Marnie insisted.

  ‘But—’

  ‘I won’t ask again,’ she demanded as she took a step closer to the woman.

  Alison winced when she saw the anger in Marnie’s eyes. ‘He lives over in Rakes village, just off Platt Lane, the second detached house on the left, it has two small lion statues either side of the gates,’ she hurriedly replied.

  Marnie nodded in satisfaction before turning away. ‘You stay here, Bev, if Phelps turns up then give me a call.’

  ‘Will do, boss,’ she replied as Marnie hurried from the room. Seconds later, they heard the front door open and then close.

  ‘You want to put the kettle on while we wait?’ Bev asked.

  Alison Greer spun away, her face blushed red with anger. Bev smiled as she vanished into the small kitchen. ‘Milk and two sugars!’ she shouted after her. Greer didn’t reply.

  55

  Jimmy Rae sat by the side of the hospital bed, his big frame wedged into a padded chair, eyes locked on Chelsea’s battered face.

  She looked at him with bemused tears trailing down her cheeks, her skin deathly pale, her hands gripping the crisp, white sheet in fear.

  ‘Was it the same cunt who did for Tam?’ Rae demanded, his chest rising and falling with anger.

  When Chelsea shook her head, he frowned. ‘What do you mean no, it bloody has to be?’

  ‘I’m telling you it wasn’t him, Jimmy, this bastard asked me all about Tam, he knew he was dead but he wasn’t the bastard who did it.’

  Rae looked at his late friend’s sister, the scowl growing ever deeper. ‘Then who the fuck was he?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she gasped. ‘But he wanted to know all about you and—’

  ‘What did you tell him?’ Rae could feel the anger turning to fury and planted his hands on the arm of the chair. Chelsea cringed back into the pillows as Rae loomed forwards.

  ‘I didn’t tell him anything, Jimmy, I kept my mouth shut, I—’

  ‘You wouldn’t lie to me would you, Chelsea?’ his voice came out as a vicious hiss.

  Chelsea shook her head rapidly from side to side. ‘It was my prick of a husband, he was the one spouting his mouth off, not me.’

  ‘Fucking bastard!’

  ‘This guy kept going on about you and Tam and I told Joe to keep his mouth shut but he wouldn’t listen and then …’

  When Rae snapped up a hand Chelsea closed her mouth with a clack. ‘What did your cunt husband tell him?’

  Chelsea licked her dry cracked lips as Rae slowly stood up from the chair.

  ‘He was telling him where you lived and what you did for a living,’ she lied. ‘I tried to get to him to shut him up, Jimmy, but the bastard hit me and I was out cold and then the next thing I know he’s pouring a bucket of water over my head and Joe was on the deck and then the bastard cut me, Jimmy, he fucking cut me!’ her voice rose in a quiver of fear, the tears ran from her eyes afresh.

  Jimmy leaned further over the bed and narrowed his eyes. ‘And what did you tell him when he tipped the bucket of water over your head?’

  Chelsea tried to shrink further back into the pillows but all at once she had nowhere to go. She could smell the whisky on Rae’s breath, see the madness in his eyes as he loomed over her.

  ‘You see the thing is, by rights that cunt of a husband of yours should have been clueless about me and what I do for a living.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘And yet you’ve just said he was spilling his guts to this tosser.’

  Chelsea closed her mouth as she realised her mistake. ‘I—’

  ‘Now, I know Tam hated that spineless bastard and he would never have given him the steam off his shit let alone blab about me or the lads, so that leaves you, darling,’ he snarled.

  ‘No, no, you’re wrong, Jimmy, I never said a thing about any of this, I—’

  ‘But you said it was your fucking husband who was running off at the mouth,’ he jabbed a finger into her petrified face. ‘You said he was the one doing all the talking while you tried to shut him up.’

  Chelsea screwed her eyes closed in terror, she pictured the brown-eyed man crouching in front of her, the knife dripping blood – her blood – onto the wet, tiled floor. Then the hot-wire pain as he lashed out, the
blade sizzling across her flesh, the agony springing her mouth wide, the scream building and then the knife had been hovering an inch from her left eye, the scream had died and Chelsea Whitlow had told the dark-eyed man everything he wanted to know about Jimmy Rae and her brother’s dealings.

  ‘What else did this bastard ask you about?’ Rae demanded.

  Chelsea was afraid to open her eyes, knowing she would see the accusation in his eyes, knowing he would see the lie in hers.

  Then through the pain and fear she remembered two names. ‘He kept asking me about someone called Hall,’ she whispered as she cracked open her eyes.

  As expected, Rae was glaring down at her, his nostrils flaring, the sweat standing on his brow as the heat in the room became intolerable.

  ‘Hall?’ he repeated, his breath hot in Chelsea’s face.

  She managed to nod. ‘The guy kept asking me about people called John and Rowan Hall. I told him I’d never heard of them but he still cut me again and I blacked out with the pain,’ she whimpered, swallowing the remembered terror.

  Rae eased back from the bed, his face creased in a thoughtful frown. ‘I’ve heard that name before,’ he rumbled to himself as his frown grew deeper.

  Chelsea kept her mouth closed, afraid to say the wrong thing and have Jimmy turn his hate-filled stare on her again. When she saw his eyes open wide, she let out the thin stream of air that had been held at bay behind her clamped lips.

  ‘I read it in the paper about six weeks ago, the Halls are father and daughter and they fucking vanished into thin air,’ he said, looking down at Chelsea. ‘But what the fuck was this scumbag doing at your house asking about these two?’

  Chelsea couldn’t speak, her throat seemed to shrink with fear, her vision swam in and out of focus until big Jimmy Rae was nothing more than a lumbering, blurred shape looming over her, the stuff of nightmares.

  ‘Chelsea,’ he hissed.

  She tried to respond but couldn't, the pain and fatigue were back and the blackness opened up in her mind, a huge, dark, cavernous space that swallowed her whole. Chelsea spiralled down into the void screaming all the way, leaving Rae with his hands bunched and teeth clamped.

  ‘Stupid fucking bitch,’ he snarled, thumping the bed before turning and stalking from the room.

  56

  Marnie eased off the gas as she spotted the detached house on the left; driving through the open gates, guarded by stone lions, her eyes widened at the size of the place. The driveway was long and tarmacked, leading to a turning circle at the front of the twin-bay windowed property. As she drove forward the house seemed to grow larger and more imposing in its strict symmetrical build, the roof dipped twice forming a huge W shape, she could see two attic windows set left and right. As she pulled up in front and turned off the engine she looked over to the left, the doors to the double garage stood open, a gleaming Jaguar the only car in the large space.

  Snapping out of the seat belt, she climbed out before turning her attention to the house, the front door was made of mellow oak set with shining metal studs in the woodwork. Ivy was battling for supremacy with a large wisteria that arched over both windows before branching upwards towards the eaves, softening the stark, angular brickwork.

  Moving over to the door, she looked for a bell, finding none she lifted the heavy brass knocker and rapped it against the metal plate three times before standing back and waiting.

  The seconds stretched out and Marnie frowned before stepping forward and going through the same routine.

  A few seconds later, she gave up; moving over to the window she glanced in but seeing no one carried on down the side of the house.

  Twenty long strides later, she reached the rear of the house, her eyes taking in the huge orangery attached to the back of the property, opening onto a patio, then the lawn took over, pristine, not a weed in sight, slightly undulating, before ending in a wide flower bed, with the occasional feature shrub and erotic statues bordered by a large, stout fence.

  She took in the huge hot tub then turned and looked through the window of the orangery, complete with hothouse palms; two cream sofas stood at either end of the glass-walled room leading through to a huge kitchen, the marble tiles flowing from one room to the next.

  Beyond that she could see a long hallway leading to the front door. Marnie turned away from the house and walked across the patio and onto the lawn, after ten yards she turned and looked back at the building. There were six windows above, the blinds open, the windowsills bare.

  Pulling out her phone, she speed-dialled Bev, heading back towards the house, only this time she cut to the right.

  ‘Any luck, boss?’ Bev asked as Marnie reached the patio.

  ‘I’m at the house but there’s no sign of Phelps,’ she explained as she made her way alongside the house. ‘Although there is a Jag in the garage.’

  ‘Well, he hasn’t turned up here yet.’

  ‘OK, if he shows up then keep him there and give me a call.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Marnie slipped the phone into her pocket as she emerged at the front of the house, the garage to her right. She stopped for a moment to look at the gleaming Jaguar.

  As far as she was aware Phelps only had the one office in town but when you looked at the size of the house and grounds and the car it pointed to someone who had plenty of cash.

  She thought of Chelsea snarling at her, eyes alight with spite and confidence, convinced that the elusive Phelps would put Marnie in her place.

  Which meant that she was used to calling on the services of the solicitor, which suggested a close relationship, and Marnie doubted whether Joe Public would threaten a police officer with a solicitor just for the fun of it.

  She moved back to the front of the house, going to the window on the left. The space was filled with a huge sofa that curled around an ornate fireplace, the wall above taken over by an enormous television. The walls themselves were panelled with oak, the ceiling studded with tiny lights.

  Marnie moved right, passing the front door; when she saw the thin strip of coloured braid in the flowerbed she stopped in surprise. Easing to her haunches she reached down and, using a latex glove, plucked it from the soil, it was just three entwined coloured strips of lace, the small clasp had broken, the material frayed in places as if the bracelet had spent a lot of time on the owner’s wrist. Standing up, the lace now in an evidence bag, Marnie looked around the garden, her brow creased in confusion and then she was heading towards the car, her pace quickening as the clouds continued to build in the sky, promising more rain.

  Back at her car, she leaned in and opened the glove compartment. Lifting out the pink diary she flicked it open. Tom Conway smiled out at her, Rowan Hall was on his shoulders, her face split with a huge grin, her arms stretched towards the perfect, blue sky.

  On her right wrist, she wore a bracelet made up of three brightly-coloured, entwined threads.

  ‘Shit.’ She stepped back out of the car and looked towards the house, a worried expression on her face as the first spots of rain fell from the thunderous clouds above.

  57

  Williams eased back into the sumptuous leather of the Chesterfield, he gazed out through the huge window at the rain falling from the slate-grey sky. In one corner of the room a grandfather clocked ticked the seconds away, the air felt warm and stale as if the owner of the house rarely opened the windows to let the fresh air in.

  When the panelled door to the left opened, Williams didn’t turn to see who was entering the room but continued looking out of the window to the garden beyond, a garden smothered with dense bushes and towering trees, cutting light from the room and dripping water from their leaves onto the grass.

  Only when he heard the squeak of a wheel did he turn his head.

  The woman smiled at him as she pushed the hostess trolley across the room. She was dressed in an immaculate, black, twin set with a string of pearls hanging around her neck, her shoes plain and sensible, her dark, unruly hair flecked with
strands of grey, her face narrow and devoid of makeup.

  She looked like your typical middle-aged woman who was tipping over into the elderly bracket – that was until she fixed you with those gimlet eyes and then you realised that the soul inside the aging body was poisonous with malice.

  ‘Shall I be mother, Mr Williams?’ she asked with a smile that never touched her startling eyes.

  Williams shrugged and a look of annoyance flashed across her face as if his lack of verbal response was unacceptable.

  ‘Sugar, milk?’

  ‘One sugar and a splash of milk please,’ he replied.

  The clock in the corner chimed. He watched as she made the tea, there was no shake in her hand as she tilted the teapot, pouring the tea into the fancy cup. Even when she placed the cup on the saucer and handed it over there was no rattle of China, not a drop spilt in the saucer.

  ‘Thank you.’

  This time she smiled as if pleased with the show of manners. He waited until she had made her own drink and sat down opposite in the matching chair, the cup and saucer resting in her slender hands.

  ‘Bring me up to date, Mr Williams,’ she instructed, taking a sip from the drink.

  Williams started to talk, occasionally the woman would nod in satisfaction; by the time he had finished she was smiling.

  ‘So, the girl has been moved?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, she’s with the solicitor but don’t worry, I’ve told him to take her to the house.’

  ‘Good. And the police?’ she enquired.

  Williams saw the subtle change in her demeanour, her thin lips twisted into the smallest of snarls, her eyes hardening.

  ‘They’ve found the girl’s father, so that’s why I thought it best to have her moved.’

  ‘Can they trace her to Phelps?’ she asked, before taking another sip of tea.

  Williams pursed his lips. ‘My source told me that they are looking into Rae, they think after the death of Whitlow that there’s a turf war going on.’