A flush of cold sweat covered his back as he paused, silently waiting in the twilight. Suddenly, a shadow at the top of the stairs startled him and he gasped as he stared at the dark grey blur. Had it been there all the time and he hadn’t noticed? Was his imagination playing tricks on him? Since the time he had enrolled as a Police Constable a little over four years ago he had witnessed many dead bodies. Most had met their end in road traffic accidents or they were homeless and hypothermia had taken them while they had huddled in a shop doorway. Then there were the suicides and the murders, brutal stomach churning scenes most fledgling officers struggled to expel from their minds. He had never found the emotional side to be a problem, in fact quite the opposite, finding them more fascinating than gruesome. Yet this was different. Standing alone in the priest’s house, his body at his feet devoid of the usual white forensic suits, flashing blue lights and police tape bringing a clinical ambience to the scene, he felt vulnerable.
Forcing himself to look away, he scanned the hallway walls for a light switch and found one next to the front door. He flicked it down but no light appeared. Panic rose within his chest, forcing him to take fast, shallow breaths. He pushed the switch back up then down, hoping the action would trigger the hallway light to burst into life but still the darkness remained.
“Who’s there?” he shouted, assertively. “This is Detective Constable Harris, show yourself.”
The shadowy figure didn’t move, throwing Phil into a frenzy of fight or flight emotions as he continued to watch for any movement. He squinted, trying to decipher if the shadow was merely a trick of the light and he was doing nothing more than talking to himself. Several minutes passed since he called up the stairs and there had been no movement, forcing him to come to the conclusion a power cut brought on by the weather had caused the power supply to cut off. It would be a reasonable explanation as to why the phone line had gone dead and it satisfied his logic. His heart rate calmed, restoring his breathing to its usual rhythm and he turned back toward to the door to continue his original plan. A flash of lightning illuminated the handle as he reached forward to turn it and he turned to look at the priest lying on the floor still in the same position. Another flash and his eyes shot up to where he had seen the shapeless grey blur, now a sharp outline of a figure.
“Who’s there? Show yourself, now. I can see you.”
Darkness swallowed the fleeting image and a rumble of thunder filled the silence. Male, tall, broad shouldered with a stocky build – the split second vision imprinted into his memory. Phil felt himself trembling as fear gripped and twisted his stomach, the adrenaline making his mouth dry. Should he pursue the intruder, arrest and cuff him? With no back up and no means to call for help his gut instinct railed against the option. Not wanting to leave the house and allow the intruder a clear passage to escape, he moved quickly and softly into the kitchen to find something to arm himself, his natural instinct to search the kitchen worktops. The knives stood in their wooden block by the hob. Grabbing one from the back, he held it up to the window only to find it was a bread knife with a rounded end. He slid it back and picked another. A large meat knife with a serrated edge outlined in the dim light and he clutched its handle as he made his way back down the hall.
“Game’s up!” he shouted. “I’ll give you five seconds to come down peaceably.”
He stopped himself issuing the ultimatum of him coming up the stairs to arrest the intruder, not wanting to commit himself and tempt the man to call his bluff.
“The police know I’m here and they’re on their way.”
He waited at the foot of the stairs, peering up from the hall cautiously in case the intruder had a weapon. The shadow had disappeared. He waited for the next flash of lightening to illuminate the landing to help him establish the man’s location and a silence fell once again as he listened for any creaks from the floorboards above. Suddenly, the flash came. Phil looked up, searching for signs the figure was still there and his vision flicked down to the bottom of the stairs. Wide-eyed, he reeled back in shock and disbelief.
“Where’s he gone?”
He pushed his foot forward in search of Father Michael’s body, the floor now plunged back into darkness.
“What the…?”
Terror took over him at the realisation the body had gone and whoever had moved it must be close by. He checked his phone again for a signal but it showed no bars.
“Damn,” he hissed under his breath.
Spinning around, he waved the knife into the darkness in a desperate attempt to ward off the attacker but it met with no resistance. Was he going crazy? Had the prolonged stress and endless nights of insomnia finally broken his mind? Nothing in his police training had equipped him to deal with this scene. No protocol. No robotic checklist. Danger felt imminent as the atmosphere bore down on him and he was finding it increasingly hard to breathe. The instinct to run propelled him to the door and he frantically fumbled for the handle, wrenching it open and stumbling out. Ozone filled his nose as he gasped for breath, stepping backwards away from the wide open door. The sound of heavy drops of rain beat against the glossy black glass in the windows, drowning out the silence. Stranded between the house and his car, the relief from being outside was soon replaced with one of vulnerability. He glanced over to the church, its doors firmly shut and offering no sanctuary. He turned to run, heading for the car park beyond the church, checking over his shoulder as he tried to gather speed on the slippery pea gravel. He slid as he took the corner of the church, falling on one knee and jarring its wounded muscle and he ran with his keys in his hand ready to unlock the car and jump inside. He scrambled to his feet, relieved to see the rear of his car as it came into view.
“Nearly there,” he whispered between panting.
A few more steps and his car came into full view but as he got closer another vehicle appeared. His first instinct was to rush over, tell them who he was and get help but as the registration plate came into focus, he stopped.
“It can’t be…”
An urgency gripped him as he gauged the distance between reaching his car and the dark grey transit van which stood in his path. The headlights flicked onto full beam, blinding him with their brilliant glare and he raised his arm to shield the light from his eyes while he made a dash to his car. The engine in the transit revved and its wheels crunched as it accelerated across the gravel, heading straight towards him.
“Jesus!” Phil yelled, trying hard to run faster but the movement of the gravel beneath his feet and injured leg prevented him from getting the traction he needed.
He repeatedly pressed the key fob not wanting to waste even a second of precious time and the orange indicator lights flashed to guide his way. Terror surged through his body, pushing him forward, determined to reach the car, jump inside and lock the doors. With only a couple of metres left to his destination, he lunged at the handle, flinging the car door open and throwing himself inside with his legs still hanging down onto the gravel as they scrambled to catch up with his body. Suddenly, strong hands grabbed the collar of his jacket and he felt himself being thrown out of the car and through the air, landing face down on the gravel.
“I’m a police officer,” he shouted. “Back off now, else I’ll arrest you for assault and—“
A heavy boot stamped down between his shoulder blades, pinning him to the floor and rendering him helpless as a cover was aggressively forced over his head.
“Get off! Let me go,” he shouted through the hood and he fought hard against the grip around his wrists and they were being bound.
The boot connected sharply into his stomach, winding him and making it impossible for him to shout for help.
“Shut up or you’ll get one in the head,” a deep voice with an accent, ordered.
Hands lifted him up under his arms which were now tied firmly behind his back and he felt himself being lifted off his feet. His natural sense of direction told him he was heading for the van and he knew once they had him inside he
would have no chance of escape. If they were going to kill him, he was going to make sure it happened right here not at a secondary crime scene. He threw his head back to slam the attacker in his face and he felt a sharp impact as his skull connected with the man’s chin.
“Bastard!” the man yelled and Phil felt himself being thrown to the ground.
Another kick, harder this time knocked out another lung full of air but Phil was determined to get up. With his hands behind his back he pressed his face into the gravel and pulled his knees up to his chest until he had enough leverage to push himself up onto his knees. Suddenly, a thump so hard it was if he had been struck by a brick landed on the side of his face, knocking him flat on his back.
“You’re gonna pay for that.”
A hand grabbed his jacket and he felt the top half of his body rise from the ground as a fist and punched him over and over until his body went limp.
Chapter Thirty
Distant voices mumbled, just loud enough to filter through his subconscious. The floor was made up of high shine black onyx tiles infused with flecks of gold and they filled his trance-like vision as if he was in a repetitive dream. An ice cold jet of water shocked him into consciousness, its pressure pressing on the bruises and administering a painful throb.
“Ah, Mr Harris. Good to see you back with us.”
A well-spoken voice greeted him and he blinked, frantically trying to clear the watery blur from his vision.
“Who are you?” Phil said, squinting against the bright light to identify the silhouette stood in front.
“Wrong question,” the voice replied, moving away from the light and circling him. “The right question to ask is, ‘why am I here?’.”
The pain in the side of Phil’s face started to feel more intense and he instinctively tried to raise his hand to feel the damage but found himself helpless. The cable ties dug into his wrists as he twisted to break free.
“Okay. Why am I here?” he asked, to appease his captor.
The man gave out a slight snort at his willingness to comply and appeared into view. Phil looked up, expecting to recognise him but he wasn’t familiar. He expected to see a thug, a hard man, but instead the man was tall and slender, dressed in a finest quality navy suit. His blonde hair was precisely cut and tousled back off his clean shaven angular face and Phil could tell he had money and education behind him.
“I don’t know you.”
The man leant up against a desk, crossed his legs and folded his arms.
“My name is Peter Montague and my employer is Andor Varga. I believe you’ve been taking a keen interest in his business, especially the one operating from St. Jude’s.”
Phil didn’t reply but managed a nod, then he noticed another man stood over in the corner of the room. Yasin Baranski, the hired thug, gave him a cold, sarcastic smile as he walked across the room in his direction and stood behind him. Phil craned his neck to see where he had gone, not comfortable knowing he was out of sight, but Yasin’s arm slid across his throat rendering him even more helpless. Panic surged through him, lighting up every one of his senses. Was this the end? Would Yasin wedge his neck inside his vice-like arm and crush his windpipe? The pressure increased and Phil tensed every muscle in his neck, forcing his chin downward to protect his throat. His feet slid wildly on the high sheen tiles, irrationally trying to get a grip although it was a pointless reaction. Blood rushed to his face, forcing the veins in his temples to bulge with the strain as he grunted through clenched teeth. Suddenly, just when he felt he hadn’t the strength to stave off the grip and about to pass out, Yasin released his choke hold. Phil coughed and spluttered, gasping furiously to inhale as much air as possible into his oxygen-starved lungs. A hand gripped his face, pulling it upwards.
“Lucky for you Mr Varga is a reasonable man,” Montague said, coldly. “Anyone else would have been disposed of long ago but it seems you have a friend in a very high place.”
“Friend? Who?” Phil croaked.
The man released his hand and walked calmly back to the desk and resumed his pose.
“Someone we have a use for and who thinks you’re better to us alive.”
Phil wracked his brain to think who the person could be but the stress of the situation held any critical thinking at bay.
“You’re a good detective by all accounts. Your only mistake was to get too close to our operations with Anthony Fletcher. If we hadn’t intervened you would have made our business very tricky.”
“What’s your business?” Phil asked, between panting.
“Let’s just say we are an organisation who give people what they want. We’re facilitators. Suppliers of people.”
“You mean traffickers,” Phil quipped. “So, what do you want with me?”
“Mr Varga feels a man with your talents and position would be an asset to our organisation. We already have a great many influential people who, let’s say…make the running of our operations a great deal easier.”
“You mean, like Detective Sergeant Cook?”
Peter Montague frowned at the mention of the name and Phil noticed there was no hint of recognition.
“Sergeant Cook? I think you’re mistaken.”
Phil tugged at the restraints around his wrists but the cable ties were locked on, tight. Even if by some miracle he managed to release them, Yasin’s ominous presence a few metres behind him would render any chance of escape useless.
“You want me to become corrupt?” Phil asked, his tone suggesting he found the idea to be ludicrous.
The man observed him with an unflinching calm then reached into the breast pocket of his tailored suit and pulled out some photographs.
“Corrupt is a dirty word, Phil. I would prefer to call it selective detective work.”
His eyes dropped down to the photographs in his hand and he flicked through them as if looking at holiday snaps. The corners of his lips curled, giving just a hint of a cruel smile.
“Of course, we don’t expect you to go unrewarded for your efforts. Mr Varga is a very generous and influential man and believes in paying his debts.”
“I don’t want anything from you or your boss,” Phil replied, sharply. “The only deal I’ll make with you is not breathing a word about this meeting. You go your way and I’ll go mine. St Jude’s will never be mentioned again.”
The man threw his head back and let out a brief laugh.
“Now we both know that won’t happen, don’t we? However, I can see you need a little motivation, so allow me to present you with a deal.”
Pushing himself off the desk, he walked over to Phil until he stood directly in front of him, then squatted down onto his heels.
“In return for your compliance, Mr Varga is offering to reinstate your life. You see, we know everything, Phil. We know you’re struggling for money after the IVF drained your bank account. The loan you’re struggling to pay for the treatment. How the plans to move to your dream house have fallen by the wayside along with the missed promotion. We’ve been watching you for a long time, since the Fletcher case”
Phil’s eyes widened as the man reeled off information about him which no one else knew. It instantly made him feel small, as if his whole life was somehow being managed and manipulated with him having no control over events.
“You can’t fix it,” he hissed.
The man let out another sneer as Phil’s naivety triggered a sense of amusement and he shook his head.
“We can fix anything.”
He lifted the photographs up to Phil’s face and smiled as he watched his reaction.
“Poor Katherine. She’s no idea of the terrible news she’s going to have to hear once she wakes up.”
“Bastard! Keep away from my wife or so help me I’ll—“
“You’ll do what?”
Phil struggled and kicked, the rage from seeing photographs of Katherine as she lay in the hospital bed turning his fear into white hot rage. Yasin’s arm wrapped around his neck to restrain him and he fought,
thrashing from side to side in the chair to break free.
“You’ve got two choices, Phil. We can either see to it that poor Katherine takes an unexpected turn for the worse, leaving you alone to face your crumbling career with crippling debts for company. Along with your DNA on the priest’s body which is being stored in a safe place. Or…”
The man paused and he tapped the side of Phil’s face then stood up.
“Or, what?” Phil hissed, still struggling to break free from Yasin’s deathly hold.
“Or, you can see the pleasure on your wife’s face when she holds her new born baby in her arms while you tell her you’ve cracked a high profile case and received a promotion.”
Phil ceased his struggling. The shock of the man’s words rendering him mute.
“You see? We have the power to grant you everything your heart desires, Phil. Our people are everywhere. They’re in the police, the hospitals, even in the courts.”
The man rested the photographs on Phil’s knee and left the room. Yasin followed, leaving him alone to think through his options with the images of Katherine serving as a means of persuasion. Despite his thoughts being a whirl of confusion compounded with the concussion from the beating, he soon realised he had little choice but to agree to their terms, at least for now.
An hour passed by. He had watched the clock on the wall, slowly ticking until the minute hand had completed its full circle and the man, accompanied by Yasin reappeared.
“I trust you’ve come to a decision?” he said in a business-like manner.
Phil became aware of Yasin stood directly behind him, waiting quietly for Montague to give him his instructions.
“Do we have a deal?”
Phil reluctantly nodded. Twenty-four hours ago he had begged to go back in time. He had a strong suspicion the mystery person who had delivered the fake cat to Katherine had been Yasin. Her description along with the vehicle being a van was too much of a coincidence. He regretted not being home with her at the time, not taking her to the hospital, falling asleep when usually he would be awake and pacing the house.
The Death of Me Page 19