No Way Out: an edge of your seat crime thriller

by DC Brockwell

  Beattie looked down at a semi-conscious Danny, willing him to wake so she could show him just how angry she was with him. At least he hadn’t managed to make it too far past the top of the stairs. Her idea of throwing shards of glass on the barn floor was genius; the bees weren’t allowed outside of their rooms clothed, so they could only make a run for it naked. Bare feet plus glass… it had certainly put paid to Danny’s escape attempt. “Chain him up!” she ordered.

  Danny groaned, and Beattie watched as two of her guards pulled him to his feet, placing his hands in cuffs that dangled from the rafters in the ceiling. When they let go of him, Danny slumped a little, the cuffs around his wrists keeping him upright.

  “What you want us do to him?” one of the guards asked.

  “Leave him be for now.” She was going to wait until he was awake before she unleashed her fury. He was going to pay for this, but he was going to pay when he was fully conscious. “I’ll come and get you when it’s time.”

  Nodding, the two guards left room two of C Wing, leaving her alone with Danny. She walked around him, staring at his half-conscious face, waiting for him to open his eyes. Although he’d lost a lot of blood, she knew he’d wake soon, and then she would show him what true pain was. Around and around she went, hoping his eyes would open.

  Finally, she decided to leave him for a couple of hours and check on him later.

  Outside, she walked past three support staff trying to mop up the trail of Danny’s blood that stretched the length of the carpet – from the top of the stairs, all the way through the bar, past the rooms, to room two of C Wing. The entire carpet was ruined, and she’d only had it fitted a year earlier. It was yet another reason why she was so furious with him.

  Still seething, she took three long deep breaths, attempting to calm her mind, not that it worked. When she saw one of her support staff putting no effort with her cloth, she told them, “Make sure you really get in there and soak it up.”

  All she wanted to do was go back to bed, but with Alan still away, it wasn’t an option. She’d already had a crap morning – what with Danny’s escape attempt, the two girls fighting, and having to cancel Danny’s clients at short notice – and that wasn’t even including her dad telling her the NCA were outside the farm taking photos for their investigation.

  It was little wonder she wasn’t rocking back and forth, drooling, with the amount of pressure she was under.

  Beattie wandered into her office and closed the door behind her, needing a couple of hours to rejuvenate. Sitting on her chair, she stared at the PC monitor, thinking maybe some retail therapy might help. She needed some new clothes, so she clicked on her favourite online store icon and scrolled through tops and underwear.

  In a couple of hours, she would be ready to see Danny…

  Lennox watched as the Director General of the NCA, Michael Wells, walked from his home and headed along his drive to his Mercedes SLC Roadster. He continued watching as the lean grey-haired man stepped inside his car and backed out of the long gravelled driveway.

  Sighing, Lennox observed the decadence that law enforcement had bestowed upon Wells. The Director General’s home was spectacular from a distance. He expected it would be as lavish on the interior as well. Maybe obeying the law wasn’t for suckers; it seemed working for the NCA had its perks, he thought, as his target turned at the end of his driveway and sped off down the winding country road. After waiting for five seconds, Lennox followed.

  The previous night he’d met with Rothstein, who had assigned him with this detail. He was told he must run Wells off the road, killing him. If the crash didn’t kill him, then he was to finish it himself. He didn’t ask Rothstein why; it wasn’t his place to question his boss’s orders. All he’d managed to get from Rothstein was that it was of the highest priority.

  Lennox had driven along the road Wells lived on a number of times and knew all the steep turns well. He knew, therefore, exactly where to bump the old boy off the road. It was going to be a long boring day of mostly waiting in his motor, a stolen Ford Ranger 4x4 that Rothstein had provided especially for the job. It was a beast to drive.

  As Lennox followed Wells along the curvy country road, he thought about Beattie. He’d noticed how hurt she looked when he’d backed off and told her he couldn’t go through with it, though he’d wanted to. He could feel how much she’d wanted it too; she’d been pulling him to her, gripping him through his jeans. She wanted it as much as he did.

  Without thinking Lennox slowed, following Wells’ lead. They came to a junction, and he had no choice; he had to pull up behind his target’s car. A sweet ride. He liked Mercedes, especially the Roadsters. He’d thought about buying one himself, although he’d ended up settling for the Shogun for practical reasons.

  After forty-five minutes, the Director General pulled in at a hotel miles away from the NCA HQ building. The hotel – an independent boutique – was situated along a busy A-road, out in the middle of nowhere.

  Lennox pulled into a conveniently placed lay-by over the road from the hotel and watched Wells enter the reception through the revolving doors.

  Lennox rested his head against the seat and sighed. Now all he had to do was wait…

  Assistant Commissioner Peter Franks picked up his disposable pre-paid mobile phone and answered, cutting off the shrill ringtone. He was sitting at his desk, the door to his office closed. “Clive, I was expecting your call. How did it go with Detective Maqsood this morning?”

  “It went as expected,” Adams replied. “She’s suspended pending an investigation by the IOPC.”

  Franks leaned back in his chair with a smile. “The IOPC? How did that happen? I was only expecting an internal disciplinary hearing.”

  “Blind luck. It turns out she pissed off someone she interviewed, and they twigged that she must be off-duty. They said they saw her drive away in a red Fiesta.”

  “That’s perfect.” Franks turned his chair a hundred and eighty degrees and looked out of the window at the tall buildings in the distance. “Very fortuitous for us, I must say.”

  “Anyway, she’s out of the picture, so are we all square?”

  “Yeah, that’s all I need from you, Clive. Thank you for your co-operation.” He hung up and placed the phone in his uniform jacket inside pocket. Then he turned back around and stared at his monitor.

  Franks’ meeting with the Assistant Director General, Graham Holmes, had gone well. Holmes was a pragmatist and believed in what Franks had proposed; it had taken him all of half an hour to get Holmes to agree to his plan. As soon as the DG was out of the way, Holmes would step up and replace him. Franks had spoken to Holmes about having to put a hold on the Rothstein operation, and he’d accepted that too. It couldn’t have gone any better.

  Of forty-one police and crime commissioners in the UK, he had fifteen ready to go for the project. Each PCC had a chief constable under their influence, and every chief constable had their subordinates. Franks had his supplier ready and Rothstein would run logistics on importing the narcotics. He also had his dealers waiting and poised to take over sections of the UK. The country’s drug trade would be split up into the South East, the South West, London, the Midlands, the North West, and the North East. It was all starting to come together.

  Taking out his disposable phone again, he dialled the commissioner’s second number. “We are a go,” Franks said, before flipping the phone shut with a smile…

  39

  Cara Mooney rolled over and felt the pillow next to her. Lucy – her one and only true love – had left her over a year earlier, yet it still took a while to remember in the mornings. Rolling back over, Cara stared up at the yellow-stained ceiling.

  The feeling of elation she’d felt after butchering Chris had waned, and now all she was left with was a numbness she couldn’t exorcise. She needed to get that feeling back. The previous night she’d sent Beattie a text saying she would definitely be interested again, any time another of her bees needed taking care of. Beattie h
ad sent a reply, saying that next time she would let her join an auction. An auction was out of the question; Cara couldn’t afford it.

  She had tried a number of remedies. None of them worked. She’d tried drinking away the feeling, smoking it away, and the previous night she’d tried getting so smashed on heroin that she couldn’t remember anything. She’d fucked her drug dealer and his two friends the night before, but even that couldn’t compare to the feeling of liberty she’d found in slaughtering that Bee, Christopher. She would do anything to feel that way again.

  Deciding to get up, she pulled the duvet off her and sat up, naked. Her head was groggy, but she felt fine, which surprised her considering she’d pumped her veins with all that vile shit. The needle was on the floor on top of her dress, next to the rubber tourniquet.

  She walked naked through her flat, which was a fucking dump. Her bedroom had clothes all over the floor, and her lounge looked like a party had just finished, with bottles of spirits and cans of lager everywhere she looked. There were packets of crisps and pizza boxes covering the coffee table and she couldn’t see the sofa for some nasty bastard lying on it.

  “Get the fuck out of my flat!” Cara shouted at the naked guy. “I know you can hear me – get the fuck up and get out!”

  She looked down at the man. He was skinny, with greasy dark spiky hair and a weaselly face. She couldn’t remember a thing from the previous night. The last thing she did remember was getting home from the pub, pissed off at feeling shit, before she’d sat on her sofa and injected herself. When did this loser get in her flat? She couldn’t work it out.

  The unwanted guest rose, rubbing his face and eyes. Finally, after taking off his rubber tourniquet, he said, “Come on, Cara, I haven’t got anywhere to go.”

  “Not my fucking problem, mate. Now, get the fuck out!”

  She grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the front door, opening it and pushing him out before slamming the door in his face. She heard him shout, “What about my clothes?” Irritated, she found his dirty clothes, picked them up, and carried them to the door where she flung them at him. “Just be grateful I gave them back, now fuck off!”

  The smell emanating from the kitchen was putrid; she thought someone must’ve died in there. Someone had to clean this shit up, and it wasn’t going to be her.

  About the only room she could stand was the bathroom, and after heading inside she looked in the mirror at her reflection. Considering the battering she’d given herself, she didn’t look bad at all. She still had nice, long blonde hair and a pretty face – albeit with more bags under her eyes than she wanted – but overall, not bad. She was just the right weight, and she still had a nice flat belly.

  The most attractive thing about her though, was her eagle tattoo on her right breast. It was a full-frontal picture of the bird landing, about to grab something with its talons. She loved it – she had an affinity with birds of prey – and, since Beattie had let her butcher Chris, Cara felt like an eagle. After all, she was a bird of prey.

  She stepped into the shower cubicle and turned on the taps, feeling the jets of warm water prod and probe her head, shoulders, and neck, as her thoughts turned to her gorgeous Lucy, the bitch! It amazed Cara how quickly she could go from pure love to pure hate while thinking about the same person.

  Lucy Davis was the only person Cara had ever truly loved. She’d never loved her dad – he was in prison for raping her and her sister – and she’d certainly never loved her druggie mum, who’d sat back and let it happen, so long as she got her fix, she didn’t care.

  Cara shook her head. That was enough thinking about them; they didn’t deserve her thoughts, not one.

  When she’d met Lucy during her first spell in a rehab clinic, she’d been smitten immediately. Lucy was everything she’d ever desired in a person; she was cute, kind, and smart – the whole package – and it didn’t hurt that she was sexy as hell too. They’d hit it off straight away, and once they’d both completed their stint at rehab, they’d started a romantic relationship A year after that they’d moved in together, to this shithole flat.

  She thought back to how the flat used to be. Lucy liked it tidy, where she was more carefree about cleanliness. It had caused a few arguments in their four-year relationship. They’d christened the lounge on their first night by making love on the floor. Cara had been genuinely happy for the first time in her entire life in this shithole of a flat, but of course it hadn’t been a pit back then.

  She stepped out of the shower. Drying herself, she thought back to how Lucy had changed. Her work as a Daily Telegraph columnist had Lucy working stupid hours, which left little time for her, and eventually the bitch had chosen a career over her. She’d tried to get Lucy reinvested in their relationship by making sure Lucy knew she was around. She used to bring her lunch at the office, and wait for her to finish work, but Lucy hadn’t liked her doing that, and it had caused huge arguments. Ungrateful bitch!

  And then, one day, Cara came home to find that Lucy had packed up all her stuff and disappeared. Lucy had left her a note saying she needed help, that she was stalking her, and Cara couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe the love of her life had just left without so much as a goodbye.

  Of course, she’d gone looking for her only love, but when she’d finally managed to pluck up the courage to speak to her, Lucy had called the police. The next thing Cara knew, she had a county court injunction against her – stating she must stop her harassing behaviour – and Lucy took out a civil court action against her. All this, just because she wanted to talk to her! That was all – she wanted to talk and gain closure. Bitch!

  A sudden feeling of panic overwhelmed her and a second later she realised she was going to throw up. Crouching over the toilet, she threw up three times, nothing but black liquid appearing in the toilet bowl. She was coming down.

  When she felt able, she wearily walked back to the bedroom, lay down on the bed, and curled up in a ball under the duvet. She felt terrible. She was shivering, while dripping with sweat. Maybe she’d caught something?

  As she drifted off to sleep, she started thinking again of ways to get that feeling back…

  40

  Nasreen parked her car outside Mina’s school gates, got out, and stood and waited for the bell to ring. She was wearing her mid-grey and blue salwar kameez. She was taking Mina to the mosque straight after school, so she’d brought Mina’s salwar kameez to change into. Mina’s little suit looked so cute on her, Nasreen thought she would burst with pride. Her husband would have been so proud of their baby too.

  She felt embarrassed when, standing with all the other mums, she realised she couldn’t remember any of their names. Her nanny would know. It illustrated just how much Nasreen worked, and how much of Mina’s life she’d already missed out on.

  Finally, the bell rang, and all the small children came running out to meet their parents. Nasreen saw her baby running towards her, and she bent down and greeted Mina with a big hug and kiss.

  “Where’s Katerina?” was the first question Mina asked.

  “I’ve given her the afternoon off, sweetheart,” Nasreen replied, hurt that her daughter wanted to see her nanny when she was here. “It’s just you and me this afternoon. We’re going to the mosque for an hour, and then – if you’re a good girl – I’ll take you to McDonalds after, okay?”

  That certainly got her daughter’s spirits up; Mina shouted, “Yay!” and jumped up and down. Mina was so cute when she was excited, Nasreen thought, as she led her daughter to the car.

  On the way to the mosque, Nasreen listened to Mina rabbit on about what she’d done in class, watching her through the rear-view mirror while also focusing on the chaotic roads. At the same time, Nasreen was thinking about the meeting she had arranged for the following morning, with the mother of a prostitute who went missing ten years earlier.

  After Nasreen had returned home from being suspended, she’d sorted all the files out on her dining room table, going through the
case files she’d fortuitously photocopied the previous week – as though she’d known she would need them – and finding two disappearances with similar circumstances to those of Danny and Julian. If she had to, she’d speak to every single family member of these missing sex workers. She was getting close to finding Danny, she knew it.

  “Mummy, will Katerina be picking me up from school tomorrow, or will you?”

  “I don’t know yet, baby. I’ve got some unexpected time off from work, so I’ll be around more for a few days,” she replied, not sure what the expression on Mina’s face meant. “Don’t you like Mummy picking you up from school?”

  Mina said that she loved it when she picked her up, but the question still bugged her. What she was really saying was that she wanted Katerina to pick her up, and while it hurt, Nasreen couldn’t be too surprised. She hadn’t been around enough, she knew. Some days Mina was lucky if she saw her mother for an hour a day. It was like that with her line of work, though – long unsociable hours.

  Nasreen parked the car, let Mina out, and then took her daughter’s change of clothing from the boot before walking with Mina, hand in hand, to the mosque’s lavatories, where she waited for Mina to change.

  When the little girl came out of the cubicle, Nasreen wanted to cry with joy. Mina had lovely long shiny black hair and a cheeky round face, and she looked so cute in her navy blue and rose-pink salwar kameez. Mina had said it made her feel like a princess when she’d tried it on in the shop, and she certainly looked like one.

  Looking at her watch, Nasreen saw it was four o’clock. In her mosque, Asr was prayed at 17:09, so she had just over an hour to socialise with the other mosque visitors. She knew about ten people in the foyer, and she’d been meaning to catch up with them for some time. One friend of hers, Ghayda, an Indian woman, had a daughter the same age as Mina, so she would let her daughter play with Ananya while she chatted with Ghayda.