DETECTIVES
CALLADINE & BAYLISS
BOOKS 1-3
HELEN H. DURRANT
THREE ENTHRALLING CRIME MYSTERIES
CLICK ON THE BOOK YOU WANT TO READ
Book 1: DEAD WRONG
Book 2: DEAD SILENT
Book 3: DEAD LIST
TABLE OF CONTENTS FOR ALL BOOKS
BOOK 1: DEAD WRONG
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
BOOK 2: DEAD SILENT
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
BOOK 3: DEAD LIST
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
AVAILABLE NOW BY HELEN H. DURRANT
Glossary of English Slang for US readers
BOOK 1: DEAD WRONG
A gripping detective thriller full of suspense
Helen H. Durrant
First published 2015
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.
Prologue
The torrent of kids crashed, pushed and clattered their way down the school staircase, and the air was filled with expletives.
“Ian! You stupid bastard!” Gavin Hurst wailed. “You’ll cripple me with those bloody boots.”
Ian Callum Edwards gave his friend a sharp shove as he bent down to rub his lower leg.
“There’s the kid,” he pointed gleefully, ignoring Gavin. “Let’s have him.”
The kid in question had stopped halfway up the stairs and was eyeing the pair with trepidation. Gavin Hurst and Ian were bad news, and he was the current object of their bullying attentions.
“Never mind the kid, what about my fucking ankles,” Gavin protested, getting his own back by pushing Ian against the wall.
“Sod your feet; let’s get the kid — have some fun.” Ian glowered back. “For the last hour he’s been sat in that classroom picking his fat nose — almost made me retch, filthy retard!”
David Morpeth clenched his fists together nervously and lumbered down the staircase towards them, his face red from the exertion.
“Too much for you, fat boy?” Gavin Hurst taunted, thrusting his face into the boy’s as he tried to squeeze past. “Where’s your bodyguard today? Finally got tired of molly-coddling you?”
“Leave . . . me . . . alone.” Morpeth’s voice quivered, “Because if you don’t, you’ll be in big trouble.”
“Sounds like fat boy’s trying to scare us,” Ian whooped at Gavin, while his mate blocked David’s way. “Are you scared, Gav? Cos I’m not. I think we should teach this no-mark a lesson in manners — what d’you say?”
David lowered his head and closed his eyes. He was trying to think. His brother, Michael, had told him what to say to these two, but he’d forgotten.
“Do you like my new boots?” Ian demanded, lifting his knee and practically thrusting it in the boy’s face. “Got ’em cheap. Cheap and nasty, that’s my boots.” He aimed a sharp kick at the boy, catching him in the shins.
David Morpeth screeched, shrinking back against the stair-rail.
“Not so brave now, are you, fat boy? Not without big brother to hold your hand.”
Another kick, followed by a couple of slaps around the face.
“Pity we’ve got no more paint; could have done a proper job this time. Kelly’s off, so no one here to clean you up. What do you say, fat boy, want to come to the caretaker’s shed and we’ll look for some? We can colour you a different shade this time — you’d look good in green.” He laughed. “Green and sickly — what d’you say?”
David was shaking. He looked from one face to the other. Did they mean that? Would they really do all that again — cover him in all that awful paint?
“If you don’t leave me alone I’ll tell Sir,” He’d finally remembered the sentence his older brother had rehearsed with him.
But the words didn’t have the expected effect. The pair simply laughed out loud, and then they started to pull at the boy’s clothing, loosening his shirt from the waistband of his pants and tearing at the buttons on his jacket.
“Which Sir would that be then? That stupid sod who calls himself the head?” Ian roared, shaking his head. “Bloody shower, the lot of them. Got no balls. Believe me, fat boy, they won’t take us on, and especially not for your sake — loser!”
Ian grabbed hold of the boy’s tie and tried to spin him around. David’s eyes were glued to the floor as he tried to avoid the worst of those heavy boots. He was wheezing and his chest felt heavy. He was starting to get an asthma attack. He needed his inhaler, and quick.
He didn’t have the breath to speak, or to shout, and he felt dizzy. His eyes searched around wildly, looking for help. But there was no one else around. The other kids gave the pair a wide berth. No one wanted to get mixed up in what went on in Ian and Gavin’s version of the world. Better not to look.
Gavin pushed the boy to Ian, who spun him again and pushed him back. They were all three perched precariously on a couple of stairs. David Morpeth was clumsy by nature — this could only go on for a few minutes before he fell.
But David took a deep breath and tried to escape. He intended to hurry down the rest of the staircase and out of harm’s way — but Gavin Hurst was too fast for him. He took hold of David’s jacket and threw him towards Ian. But instead of taking hold of the boy, Ian stuck out a booted foot, kicked him in the backside an
d sent him hurtling down the remainder of the steps.
Chapter 1
He was cold, cold to the bone, and there was pain too. Sharp, stabbing pains shot up and down his arm, and yet his fingers were numb; the pain there was all switched off. He turned his head, just a little, and tried to focus his eyes. He had to make this stop — he had to sort out his hand.
He blinked; no way could this be happening. He was standing naked in what looked like a stone cellar. How had he got here? His mind was a blank; he racked his brain, but there was nothing. He was bound to something cold and hard against a stone wall. Pulling hard against whatever was holding him, he tried to yell out. That didn’t work either; his mouth was stuffed with something that tasted foul.
He hung his head, almost resting his chin on his chest for a few seconds. He needed to work this out, but his head was spinning. Perhaps he was dreaming. Perhaps he’d taken some bad gear and was hallucinating? It happened to his best mate often enough. The stupid sod was always off his head, and now it was his turn. That must be it. He inhaled deeply, and turned to look again at the source of the pain. This time it was easier — this time he could see with perfect clarity. This was no dream.
He squinted in disbelief. This was a nightmare. All the fingers of his right hand were gone.
The movement distracted the man in white paper overalls and he looked up. The lad flinched with surprise as they locked eyes. Who was he and where had he come from? Why was he dressed like that and why was he doing this to him? The man was stood in the centre of the cellar and seemed to be reading a newspaper — the local rag? He was turning the pages in quick succession, getting progressively angrier each time. Why, what did he expect to see written there?
“There’s nothing,” the man shouted. “They’re bloody useless — still no mention of either of you.” He threw the paper to the floor in disgust, watching the greedy newsprint soak up the stale urine that had gathered in a foetid puddle under the young man’s feet. “You know what this means?” he folded his arms. “It means that all this has been for nothing; and it’ll stay that way unless I change tactics.”
The man was a nutter, that was it, and a clever nutter too because it would take someone with unusual talent to corner him. He had to get out — and quick.
“Be still, maggot brain! I need to think,” the man barked at the naked, struggling figure. “The press can’t ignore this; I won’t let them,” he assured the lad. “And as for your families,” he scoffed, “incredible as it seems, no one has missed you yet.” He placed his hands on his hips and moved closer to his captive. “Sad, eh? Not even that thin-lipped, dyed blonde who calls herself your mother has bothered to come looking.”
Who did this nutter think he was? This wasn’t how folk behaved around him and he was becoming more and more angry. He wanted to roar a reply, to scream at him, to use his fists and beat this bastard into the ground. No one spoke to him like that, they wouldn’t dare. But he couldn’t — he was helpless.
“Surely someone out there must wonder what’s happened to you,” the voice taunted. “Doesn’t anyone wonder why you’re not lurking in the estate alleyways dealing dope anymore?
This was stupid — how had he got into this mess? The lad closed his eyes, he needed to think. He tried to reassure himself that it would be okay. But would it? Not if no one knew he was here it wouldn’t.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” his captor said softly. “You see I’d expected publicity, bags of it. I’d expected the local paper to be asking questions by now. People don’t go missing every day, not even in this godforsaken community. So tell me, where the hell are the headlines, bad boy?”
The gag in his mouth meant he couldn’t say anything so he simply gurgled a frustrated reply and pulled again on the ties.
“I’ve never done this sort of thing before,” his captor confided, moving even closer to the lad. “So I’m bound to make mistakes. As far as killing goes, I’m a rank amateur. What d’you think? I’ll just have to try harder, won’t I?
The pain, the anger, and the tirade of words was all too much and he slipped into semi-consciousness again.
“I’d wake up if I were you,” were the words that dragged him back. As the lad’s head lolled forwards again, the man sneered, “Wake up, or you’ll miss all the fun.”
The young man was trying to stay conscious. For fuck’s sake, he needed his wits about him, but the pain was excruciating.
“As it is, I’ve had to start without you.”
More of the nutter’s sniggering and he could feel the bastard’s breath on his wounded hand.
“No matter — I haven’t done the other one yet.” And the snigger grew into a demonic chuckle.
The sound cut into the young man’s very soul.
“I’m afraid it had to be done, and it’s no more than you deserve. You and the others need to be punished.”
Punished — was that what was going on? But for what and why like this? He’d never done anything like this to anyone, never even come close. Had he been able to, the youth would have made the bastard talk, but as it was, he was unlikely to ever know.
The lad was stood upright, tied to metal girders set against the wall, gagged and barely conscious. Another weak moan issued through the filthy gag stretched between his teeth. He tried to move his limbs against the harsh grip of the cable ties, but the movement caused them to bite deeper into his flesh, worsening the pain.
“I’ve come to the conclusion, maggot brain, that this situation calls for some upgrading,” the voice droned on. “I need to do something that won’t fail to get us talked about.” The words were directed at the limp, shivering mass as if he expected a suggestion. “Keeping you here isn’t enough.”
The lad felt hot suddenly, a fever? His captor’s voice sounded far away and was suddenly lighter. Had he realised this was all a big mistake? Would he let him go?
“Guess what? You caused so much trouble when you were free that no one wants you back. At least if they do, they’re not telling the police, or anyone else for that matter.”
The young man wanted to switch him off — he was like a persistent insect buzzing in his ear. Obviously he’d expected much more than this silence. He must have expected the folk of that damned estate to rise up and come looking for him. He’d obviously relied on there being press involvement. But all he’d got was a big fat nothing. If his situation hadn’t been so horrific, he would have laughed in the fool’s face.
He watched the man clad in white coveralls rub his head as if trying to encourage an idea, release a genie. He would be doubly dangerous now. He wanted results and was losing patience. The look, the body language, it was something the lad recognised. His captor was simmering, ready to blow. Seconds later these assumptions were confirmed as the man snatched up a hammer from the metal bench and slammed it down hard. It made a resounding crash, and the young man shrank in terror. Next time that might be his head.
Tied tight or not, he was shaking with fright, but the sharp clunk of steel on steel also served to clear his mind. He tried to mumble something, some words of appeal to this bastard’s better nature, but the gag turned the words into muffled gibberish.
“No one’s noticed he’s disappeared yet either.” The captor glanced at the bundle stashed in a corner of the cellar. “I can’t wait forever for them to wake up to the fact that you’re missing too.”
So he’d got his mate as well. He tried to push the fabric from his mouth with his tongue and mumbled louder. He coughed. He hadn’t had any food or drink for what seemed like days. His mouth was so dry that the gag stuck to his teeth, almost solid by now and rancid. He wanted to explain that of course he would be missed, his other mates and Kelly, they’d be worried about him.
“No one’s bothered about either of you. Don’t you find that rather sad?”
He was frantically trying to free himself now by pulling forward hard. His last hope was Kelly. He knew she’d be bothered. She always came looking for him whe
n he disappeared. But would she be in time?
He was afraid, but that wasn’t the only reason why he was shaking. He knew his body would by now be dealing with the heroin withdrawal. Why didn’t this fucking bastard just let him go? None of this was his fault. Whatever he was supposed to have done, he certainly didn’t deserve this.
The trembling had started and it would get worse. Normally nothing scared him, but now he was terrified. He didn’t know how long he’d been here; he hadn’t been conscious all the time, but he knew he wouldn’t get out alive, not without a bloody miracle.
He watched as the man in the white coveralls studied an array of objects he had on his metal bench. The youth squinted — he could make out a whole lot of stuff on there: the contents of the average toolbox, plus a few things you’d use in the garden. With a little relief, he noted that there was no gun. Mind you, at least that would be quick.
His stomach somersaulted as the man picked up the heavy-duty secateurs and fondled them gently with his latex-gloved hands. They’d be sharp, the lad reasoned with a shudder. Had he used them to cut the fingers from his right hand? He watched as the man took a cloth and wiped the secateurs with meticulous care. Perhaps he had, and it looked very much like he was about to use them again.
“You’ll be leaving me soon,” were the next words the young man heard. And to accompany them the snap as the man used the secateurs to cut into a small piece of dowel. Obviously satisfied that they were up to the job, he advanced towards his captive.
“I’m not going to pretend, this is going to hurt. But I need your fingers for my little plan. You do want to be free of this place, and from me, don’t you?”
Yes, but not this way. The lad shook his head, he was frantic. He thrashed about as much as he could in an effort to struggle free. He made a weak fist with his good hand, pulling hard against the girders. He could only shriek through the gag, as the ties embedded themselves deeper into his thin arms. He felt the warm blood trickle over his wrists and knew it was useless.
He couldn’t see properly in the gloom. He couldn’t scream and struggling was too hard and painful. Suddenly he retched, feeling the bitter vomit escape around the gag before dripping slowly down his body. He felt the warm flow of the vile-smelling fluid trickle over his belly, and he knew he would die here, naked, cold, and filthy.
Bayliss & Calladine Box Set Page 1
