Caffeine Nights Publishing
Shadow of the Beast
Michael Fowler
Fiction aimed at the heart
and the head...
Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2016
Copyright © Michael Fowler 2016
Michael Fowler has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work.
CONDITIONS OF SALE
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Published in Great Britain by
Caffeine Nights Publishing
4 Eton Close
Walderslade
Chatham
Kent
ME5 9AT
www.caffeinenights.com
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-910720-64-6
Also available as an eBook
Cover design by
Mark (Wills) Williams
Everything else by
Default, Luck and Accident
Michael Fowler was born and brought up in the Dearne Valley area of Yorkshire where he still lives with his wife.
At the age of 16 he left school with the ambition of going to art college but his parents’ financial circumstances meant he had to find work and so he joined the police.
He has never regretted that decision, serving as a police officer for thirty-two years, both in uniform and in plain clothes, working in CID, and undercover in Vice Squad and Drug Squad, he retired as an Inspector in charge of a busy CID in 2006.
Since leaving, Michael has embarked on two careers: he is an established author with two crime series to his name, DS Hunter Kerr and DS Scarlett Macey. and has also co-written a true crime story.
He is a member of the Crime Writers Association and International Thriller Writers.
Michael has also found considerable success as an artist, receiving numerous artistic accolades. Currently, his work can be found in the galleries of Spencer Coleman Fine Arts at Lincoln and Stamford.
Find out more at www.mjfowler.co.uk
Also Like Michael on Facebook.
THE DS HUNTER KERR TITLES
HEART OF THE DEMON
COLD DEATH
SECRETS OF THE DEAD
COMING, READY OR NOT
BLACK & BLUE (e-book novella)
REAP WHAT YOU SOW (short story)
THE SCARLETT MACEY SERIES
SCREAM, YOU DIE
OTHER NOVELS
CHASING GHOSTS (short book)
NON-FICTION
SAFECRACKER (The true story of Britain’s most infamous safe blower)
To Liz, my best friend, my shoulder to lean on, my one and only.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
AFTERWORD
Shadow of the Beast
CHAPTER ONE
September 2009
Not that they would ever find anything here, nevertheless, he always went through his safety checks with precision before entering his home; listening before turning the key in the lock, cracking the door just a fraction to see if the cotton had been broken between the bottom of the door and the jamb, before opening it fully. Today was no different.
Once inside his small kitchen-diner he trained his eyes over the scrupulously clean kitchen surfaces and floor looking for the tell-tale marks of uninvited guests. Through the open door he could see into the lounge and he scoured the room to see if anything was out of place. Only when satisfied that no one had visited him would he let the knife rest back in his pocket and set his shopping down on the table. He knew some would say this was paranoia but carelessness gets you caught. And he’d already been caught once. The final part of his sequence was checking his house phone. There had been three calls while he’d been out – all of them from the same number. On the last call a message had been left and he dialled to retrieve it.
‘‘Can you ring me please?’ That’s all the man had said before hanging up, but it had been delivered in such hurried fashion that it gave away the anxiousness in his voice. Breathing deeply, he deleted the call and then rang the number. It was picked up on the second ring.
‘‘Have you seen this week’s Chronicle?’
The voice was low yet forced and he guessed the man wasn’t alone in the office. He could just visualise him sat at his desk, sweat starting to form on his brow, chewing on the quick of his index finger, like he always did when he was stressed.
‘‘I have,” he steadily replied. He was conscious of the still sluggish drawl in his voice even after all the years of therapy. It was a lasting reminder of his stroke; that and the slight limp to his right leg.
‘They’ve started digging up the estate.’
‘I know.’
‘So what if they find them?’
‘They won’t.’
‘I fucking hope not, or we’re screwed.’
He couldn’t miss the raised note in the man’s voice now and sensed he was starting to panic. Catching his own racing heart, he replied ‘Don’t worry, they won’t.’ Then, with commanding tone he said, ‘Don’t do anything rash. Remember what I’ve always told you. Just carry on as normal and don’t draw attention to yourself. We meet at the same place like we normally do–okay?’
There was a couple of seconds silence down the line before the man replied with a sigh, ‘Yes, fine.’
‘Good. And don’t ring me unless it’s absolutely urgent.’
Cutting the call and replacing the handset he took a long look in the mirror. As usual, saliva had trickled from the right side of his mouth onto his chin. Once upon a time it would have formed in his beard, but these days he had kept himself clean shaven; he had removed his beard before his release to add to his disguise. He wiped the dribble away with the back of his hand, canting his head and pursing his lips as he took another look at himself. He couldn’t help but notice that the bags beneath his eyes had darkened this past week – a sign of the restless nights. He thought about the conversation he’d just ended and about what they had done together all those years ago. More important, he tried to recall how deep they had bu
ried the bodies.
CHAPTER TWO
In her stocking-feet Dawn Leggate faced the long mirror in the hall. She checked herself, stepping up on tiptoes, turning slightly, tightening her tummy. She liked what she saw. She thought that the new white blouse was the ideal choice for her knee-length skirt and, although it was more than she usually paid for a work top, she had to admit it certainly gave her the look she was after. Pressing close to the mirror, Dawn finger-brushed back her auburn-tinted hair, and following a few seconds of further scrutiny finally decided she was happy with her appearance and made her way to the kitchen, beating a path to the kettle. She needed a coffee. Last night’s garlic from the Italian still clung to her taste buds despite two swills of mouthwash. Grabbing the kettle, she shook it to check it held enough water and switched it on. Spooning coffee into a mug she looked at her watch. Seven twenty-five a.m. – in an hour and a half’s time she had to be at Ecclesfield Police Station – she was carrying out a review of a murder investigation – a shooting on one of Sheffield’s most notorious estates. The victim, Noel ‘Sonny’ Johnson, had been a well-known drug dealer, who had been ambushed outside his home six months ago and it bore all the hallmarks of an assassination by rival gang members. Dawn already knew from her pre-read material that the team investigating was pretty confident who had carried out the killing, but so far had been unable to get the hard evidence to put the perpetrators before court. Sure, arrests had been made, but everyone who had been nicked had kept tight-lipped, and the only evidence they had came from anonymous sources or informants and couldn’t be used in court. It also hadn’t helped that many of the significant witnesses were either scared of repercussions, or were anti-police and refusing to cooperate. The enquiry had put the Detective Superintendent running the investigation, together with the Force, under intense media scrutiny, as the spate of stories arising from the murder had likened the shooting to those occurring across the border in Manchester.
There had been pro-active work orchestrated in an effort to defend the Force’s reputation; Crime Manager, Michael Robshaw, her live-in partner, had organised several press conferences, repeatedly stating ‘that although shootings on the streets of Sheffield weren’t new, they certainly shouldn’t draw comparisons with the problems in Manchester’, but it had done nothing to prevent damaging headlines, many of which centred on the inability of the police to get to grips with the upsurge of gang-related violence linked to drugs.
These last few months Dawn had seen him casting aside the evening paper with disgust and witnessed the pressure building up; his sleep pattern had become more and more restless. His tossing and turning frequently disturbed her, keeping her awake–worrying. Dawn had wanted to help him, and even though she had her own pressing work schedule, because of her previous experience of conducting reviews, she had suggested to Michael that she go through the mass of information collected and conduct an assessment of the enquiry to ensure every angle had been covered and feed that back to the press to encourage more positive stories. Although she knew she would be putting herself under the spotlight as well, she felt it would be worth it if it got Michael back to being his usual self again.
Opening the fridge for the milk she switched on the small TV beside it. She wanted to catch the local news to see if there were any traffic snarl-ups that would delay her journey. The last thing she wanted was to be late. Punctuality was one of her idiosyncrasies. As she added milk to her coffee she momentarily diverted her gaze to a free-standing mirror on the work surface, she checked her make-up. She needed to ensure that she’d hidden the crow’s feet that had crept up on her this past year, while making sure she didn’t look too brassy. As a Detective Superintendent she had a professional role-playing image to maintain. She had seen too many women in the job be the brunt of alpha-male banter because they’d put too much slap on their face, and she was buggered if she was going to be one of those women. Cocking her head, she checked that her eye shadow and lipstick were not too dark and then returned to making her coffee. This is when she thought about having a cigarette, even though it had been two years and almost nine months since her last one. There had been many times since then when she had been tempted, especially following the ending of her marriage to that prick Jack. He had caused her all sorts of problems during their ensuing divorce but thanks to Michael’s support she had resisted. The nearest she’d come to hitting the fags again had been five months ago. That night still haunted her. She and Michael had caught Jack stalking her, believing him to be the hooded serial killer she was chasing at the time. Not only scaring the wits out of her, it had made her the brunt of Force headquarters gossip for weeks and she still hadn’t got over the pain of embarrassment he had heaped upon her professionally.
Suddenly her phone beeped: it was an incoming text. She scooped up her BlackBerry, detached it from its charger and activated the screen. It was Michael. At work. She read his text.
‘Have you seen the news?’
She flicked her attention to the soundless TV. The picture showed a skinny male reporter standing in front of wire-mesh fencing. There was a large yellow security sign fastened to one of the gates and she recognised it as the entranceway to the construction site at Chapel Meadows; a supermarket giant was building a new distribution centre there. Dawn was aware that its construction should have gone ahead eighteen months ago but had met local controversy and there had been a public enquiry. Judgment had gone in the supermarket group’s favour and three weeks ago the construction company had moved onto the land and begun clearing the site. This last week, driving past the place on her way to work, she had seen the landscape transformed, though not pleasing to the eye. There had been daily demolition of the derelict Victorian terracing taking place, and now they were starting on the old chapel, a large Gothic building, which, once upon a time, had been the hub of that community. Having frequently passed the boarded up, ugly fire-blackened building, she had to admit its demise wouldn’t be a sad thing.
She picked up the TV remote and turned up the sound.
‘We have some breaking news,’ the young reporter began, ‘I am here at the proposed multi-million-pound distribution centre that has caused much controversy here in Barnwell over the last eighteen months. Twenty minutes ago work stopped at this site after construction workers found human remains in the ruins of the old chapel behind me. It is not clear how long the remains have been there and the police have been contacted.’
For several seconds Dawn’s eyes remained glued to the TV, even after the broadcaster announced that there would be an update later and that he was now returning you back to the studio.
Human remains! Why on earth haven’t I been rung?
Setting down the TV remote, she speed-dialled a contact on her BlackBerry.
CHAPTER THREE
Surrounded by scum-topped puddles, shoulders hunched, hands tucked deep in his overcoat pockets, Detective Sergeant Hunter Kerr stood in the doorway of a Portakabin sheltering from the rain, staring out across an area the size of half a dozen football pitches which presently resembled a bomb-site. Among broken brickwork, roof tiles and trusses from demolished Victorian terracing stood a single white tent upon which he centred his bright blue eyes. Inside, forensic anthropologist Dr Anna Wilson was carrying out an examination of a human skull uncovered three hours ago by a JCB driver. The digger that had unearthed the remains hadn’t been moved since the find and loomed over the tent, its open jawed bucket frozen in mid-air. As Hunter eyed it he couldn’t help but think it looked like a mechanical dinosaur protecting its young.
Except for the driving rain, the scene before him was still. All work on the site had been halted three-and-a-half hours ago following the discovery of the skull. When he’d arrived he had found the demolition crew hovering around the human remains pestering Doctor Wilson and he’d had to order them to the cabin where he was now standing sentry until the forensic anthropologist’s investigation was over. Now the workmen were seated around trestle-tables supping hot
drinks, making the most of their time-out by telling not-so-politically-correct jokes that kept breaking into Hunter’s concentration. On more than one occasion over the last couple of hours he’d had to fight back the urge to laugh and when he had been unable to resist a smirk he had ensured he’d kept his back to them in order to maintain a professional bearing. In between the jokes he’d been asked half a dozen times by the site foreman, ‘How long are you going to be here? You do realise it’s costing the firm money. ’All he’d been able to respond with was a shrug of the shoulders and the unhelpful response of, ‘Until the doc’s finished her examination nothing on this site moves.’ He couldn’t think of anything else to say. This wasn’t what he was used to. In fact, he couldn’t understand why he’d been called out to attend; not to oversee the excavation of ancient bones. As far as he was concerned this was a uniform job. Why Dawn Leggate had singled him out for babysitting an anthropologist playing at being Howard Carter, he’d no idea. Besides that, he had other jobs to do he was half way through sorting his desk and boxing up his old files in preparation for next month’s move; he was presiding over the department’s transfer to a state-of-the-art facility on the edge of Barnwell which would host the Force Training Department and the Major Investigation Team, of which he was a member. Purpose built for handling serious crime it was going to be a big departure for the squad. He had already viewed the huge air-conditioned room earmarked for the team and he couldn’t wait to get in there. It was a far cry from their present accommodation in the outdated old sub-divisional headquarters that was always cold during the winter months and baking hot in summer.
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