Long Gone

by Paul Pilkington

  LONG GONE

  DCI PAUL CULLEN MYSTERIES BOOK 1

  PAUL PILKINGTON

  Copyright © 2019 by Paul Pilkington

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  British English spelling and grammar is used throughout.

  Cover design by Jeanine Henning.

  For AP

  ALSO BY PAUL PILKINGTON

  Emma Holden Trilogy:

  The One You Love

  The One You Fear

  The One You Trust

  Standalone Mysteries:

  Someone to Save You

  I Heard You

  For Your Own Protection

  DCI Paul Cullen Mysteries:

  Long Gone

  Fallen Angel

  CONTENTS

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part II

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Part III

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Part IV

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Epilogue

  DETECTIVE CULLEN WILL RETURN

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  PART I

  1

  Monday morning

  DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR Paul Cullen gripped tight hold of the overhead hand support as the packed tube train jerked to a stop. Caught off balance, he swayed against the back of the woman who was pressed close to him and mouthed an embarrassed sorry as she turned. Even just a nudge couldn’t be pleasant from a six foot three, fourteen stone police officer. Apology accepted, his attention turned back to the young man he’d been watching for the past few minutes on this journey below London towards Euston.

  ‘Apologies for the slight delay as we’re held at this red signal,’ the driver announced to the weary commuters over the inadequate speaker system. ‘Hopefully we’ll be on our way in the next minute or so.’

  The young guy under Cullen’s informal surveillance was standing against one of the glass panels, next to the sliding external doors, side-on to Cullen. From his vantage point across the carriage, the guy wearing a bright yellow construction worker style jacket looked to be really tight in to a young woman, his crotch sometimes brushing against her rear.

  There weren’t any signs that they were a couple – no communication between them, no acknowledgement of the other’s presence.

  Was the physical contact deliberate?

  There was a time when the thought wouldn’t have occurred to him. But not any longer. Such crime was a real problem on the tube network. London was no different to any other city on the planet, where heaving rush-hour transportation systems offered the chance for offenders to take advantage of the sardine-like conditions on trains, trams and buses and ‘have a feel’.

  And there were plenty of people, a depressing number, ready to use the conditions on the London Underground for their own pleasure. Almost always men. Young, old, suited City types, t-shirted tourists, teachers.

  Operation Archangel had caught all these, and more.

  Involving hundreds of uniformed and plain clothes officers from the British Transport Police stationed across the capital’s rail network, Operation Archangel had been remarkably successful at identifying and catching offenders who had previously got away with crimes that had often left women and girls terribly traumatised.

  For Cullen, as lead officer for the operation, the sheer number of offenders who had been caught in just a few months was satisfying and depressing in equal measure.

  Was this another one?

  The Northern Line train jerked again as it rocked forwards, not far now from Euston. This was Cullen’s daily commute. An early-morning, packed overground train from just outside the M25 into Waterloo, then onto the tube. Alighting a couple of stations early, the fifteen-minute walk from Euston to the British Transport Police Headquarters in Camden Town gave him precious time to think – about ongoing cases and, in recent months, about how to rescue his marriage.

  But at least there was now a solution in sight.

  The train emerged into the bright light of the station as Cullen kept his gaze on the man. People around him began shifting into position for disembarkation as the train’s brakes screeched. The guy bent down and picked up the rucksack that had been wedged between his feet. He was about to disembark.

  If he were going to do anything more obvious, it would be now.

  Cullen allowed people to slide past on either side of him as he watched on. The adrenalin was really pumping now. He craned his neck to keep eye contact with the two people. The train juddered to a stop and, just before the doors swished open, it happened.

  The guy's hand snaked around the girl’s waist and slithered up her right side. The girl, still with her back to him, reacted instantly, shrugging him off in disgust and shrinking back into the carriage, her face full of shock.

  The guy darted out through the doors, not looking back.

  Cullen had just a few seconds.

  He moved quickly towards her as the rest of the passengers exited. ‘That man, did he assault you?’

  She was tearful. ‘Yeah, he did.’

  ‘Don’t worry, he won’t get away with it.’ Cullen looked across at the doors. He didn't have much time. People were already boarding. He shoved a hand into his pocket and placed the card in her palm.

  ‘Paul Cullen. British Transport Police. Call me.’

  And then, against the tide of incoming commuters, he headed for the doors.

  A MASS of people flowed onto the train, clutching bags, carrying cases or hand in hand with children. For such a large guy, Paul Cullen weaved impressively around the incomers, apologising as he went, his chances of disembarking and giving chase to the offender slipping away. Just as he reached the exit, the warning beep to indicate the doors were about to close sounded. He threw out a powerful hand, jamming the door open. Straining against him, the door resisted. Cullen thrust his right foot to its base, bumped the doors open with a shoulder charge and, as expected, initiated the tube train’s safety mechanism. All the doors slid open.

  He
slipped out onto the now quieter platform. The eyes of an old couple directly ahead were on him, their anxiety obvious, before they looked away.

  ‘Oi!’

  Cullen looked up as a visibly annoyed underground worker strode towards him, wagging a finger.

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  There was no time to show ID. ‘Paul Cullen. British Transport Police. Operation Archangel.’

  ‘Oh,’ the man said, standing down and flushing crimson. He would be well aware of the high-profile police operation. ‘Well, sorry, officer.’

  ‘Sorry to delay the train.’

  ‘That’s fine… can I…’

  But Cullen was already off down the platform, flashing past the still-waiting train. The man he was pursuing had long gone. But there was still a chance of intercepting him, even if he had left the station – especially with his distinctive jacket.

  But the opportunity faded with each passing second.

  Soon the guy would disappear into London’s maze of people-filled streets.

  Fortunately the platform was quiet, and Cullen hit a strong stride around the corner and up the well-worn stairs: quicker and quieter than the escalator. All the time, he scanned for the neon jacket.

  Out on the concourse he reached the back markers from the train he had just left. A young family of American tourists talking excitedly about the day ahead, an old man, head down, with a walking stick, an elderly lady with a wheeled shopping trolley, bumping it over the uneven floor.

  No sign of the man in the neon jacket.

  Still he remained hopeful that he was closing the gap, given that the guy didn’t know he was after him and presumably wouldn’t be hurrying.

  But if he were getting on a bus directly outside the station...

  He picked up the pace.

  This was one reason why he loved his job.

  You never knew what was coming.

  He scanned through the ticket barriers and out into the main concourse of Euston’s mainline overground station, trying to spot the guy. To the right the electronic boards displayed the 9:35am train to Edinburgh, via his home town of Wigan: the town made famous by George Orwell, with its tiny pier by the canal.

  He thought momentarily of Sarah. She would be packing at home, finalising things for her journey up North.

  Would she ever come back?

  Snapping his attention back to the task at hand, he spotted two uniformed officers over to his left.

  Both recognised him as he approached.

  ‘Sir.’

  Cullen didn’t have time for pleasantries. ‘A young black guy in a bright yellow neon jacket. Like a construction worker’s. Have you seen him?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘He would have come up the escalator from the tube. Just a minute or so ago.’ He looked around again, but still no sign.

  Unless he’d connected with another service underground...

  Damn.

  Both officers shook their heads.

  ‘Sorry, we’ve just been helping a member of the public who’d lost their bag. Really sorry, sir.’

  Cullen suppressed his frustration. It wasn’t their fault. ‘Can you put a call out, black male, short dark hair, yellow neon jacket, in the vicinity of Euston station or travelling from there on the network. Suspected sexual assault. He might be long gone, but worth a shot.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Cullen moved towards the exit, still not giving up, as he heard one of the officers radio through his instructions.

  And there he was, exiting the pastry shop just outside the station, paper bag up towards his mouth.

  Cullen jogged towards him, adrenalin pumping, his prey in his sights. He waited until the man was just a few metres away and came at him from the side.

  ‘Hey!’

  The man’s head snapped sideways in surprise.

  ‘Police. Can I…’

  The man shot off at speed, as if the words had been the firing of a starting gun in an Olympic sprint final. Cullen gave chase, nearly slipping on the bag that the man had dropped to the ground. He thought he heard a girl shout from behind as he pursued the man down the path from the station, but he couldn’t really take anything in apart from his goal.

  ‘Stop!’ he shouted, as the man increased the distance between them.

  But he didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Bemused passers-by turned their heads as the two men continued their race.

  The man, now quite a few metres ahead of him, approached the always-busy main road that traversed the front of the station, connecting North London’s great mainline stations of Paddington, Euston, St. Pancras and King’s Cross. The crossing was on red, with several people waiting as four lanes of London traffic rushed by.

  Maybe he would turn sharp left and continue along Euston Road, try to outrun him and then dart into one of the many side roads.

  But Cullen thought not.

  He would more than likely take the much riskier but potentially more effective option.

  And he did.

  The man hardly slowed as he reached the crossing, darting through the first lane of traffic, a black taxi blasting its horn as it was forced to push on the brakes.

  Cullen, too, reached the crossing, heart pounding as he stood shoulder to shoulder with the other pedestrians, willing the lights to go green. But they remained steadfastly red.

  Another horn blared as the man stepped out in front of a delivery van coming from the opposite direction of the taxi, this time causing the vehicle to come to a complete stop. Several horns blared as the ripple from the sudden braking stopped three more vehicles behind.

  Cullen dismissed the idea of traversing the dangerous road himself. He didn’t fancy his chances. And a dead detective would never catch the guy. Surely the lights would turn any second.

  But not in time.

  Maybe the man’s attention had been taken up by the near-miss with the van, or maybe he was so close to the other side that his concentration had faltered.

  He stepped right in front of the oncoming red double-decker bus.

  With a shocking thud the man was propelled along the road from the force of the impact, skimming along the tarmac and into the oncoming traffic. An articulated lorry coming from the opposite direction crunched over his body, dragging it under its large wheels as it slammed to a halt with a hiss just in front of them.

  Surely the guy had no chance.

  Screams rang out from both sides of the road as Cullen hurried up to the vehicle. The man’s body – he was just a boy, really, maybe nineteen or twenty – was crushed and broken, his face twisted in shock.

  There was blood everywhere.

  Cullen cradled his head, supporting the limp and lifeless neck, looking him in his dead, questioning eyes. Just seconds ago this person had been in flight, full of life, but now the lights were out.

  ‘Oh my God, oh my God! He’s… oh no, please no, please…’

  Cullen turned to see the girl skid to a stop, feet from him. It was the victim from the tube carriage.

  Her face was twisted in despair and shock, tears gushing. A woman who had been waiting at the crossing instinctively placed an arm around her back.

  ‘He’s dead. Oh my God, he’s dead!’

  Cullen didn’t understand.

  ‘My boyfriend!’ the girl screamed at him, her eyes flaring with sudden anger. ‘You’ve murdered my boyfriend!’

  2

  Previous Friday evening

  NATALIE LONG GAZED at the Edwardian building in London’s Mayfair and took a deep breath before moving to the door and pressing the security intercom.

  ‘Brand New. How can I help?’

  ‘Hi, I’m here for the selection weekend. It’s Natalie Long.’

  In the moment’s pause Natalie convinced herself that there had been some embarrassing mistake. The selection letter had been posted out to her accidentally. Maybe there had been some mix-up with the mail merge, and she was supposed to get the brush-off version, the one that said than
ks but no thanks. She’d have to return to Bristol with her tail between her legs…

  ‘Natalie, do come in.’

  She brushed down her shirt and pushed open the grand door, emerging into a brightly lit reception room, with a chandelier sparkling above like some UFO about to land.

  This place was other-worldly. She could already see that.

  To the smell of vanilla and something exotic she couldn’t put her finger on, Natalie signed in at the reception desk, beaming.