The Twisted Web
Rebecca Bradley
Text copyright © 2018 Rebecca Bradley
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover art by Design for Writers.
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Prologue
The day felt like any other day. Work had given Drew a headache. The kids were unruly. It was the last week of school before the summer holidays and no one wanted to focus on lessons. The heat soaked through the glass windows as though they were sitting in a greenhouse and the smell of overripe hormonal teenagers swelled within the room. He attempted to open some windows but paint had sealed them shut. Only he had never noticed in the past because this was a new room to him and he’d never had the need to open them before because, well, the UK weather, you didn’t need to say any more, did you?
He'd been given the room after Mr Forbes had retired the previous year. Five years early. Citing the need to live his life while he was still young enough. The need to see the world. He knew what Forbes really wanted was to get away from these bloody kids. The little fuckers sucked the spirit straight out of you and he was right, he probably did need his life. It was kind of important to you.
So, here he was now, relieved to have made it through another day, with just two more left. Then six blissful weeks away from them. It wasn’t that he hated being a teacher. He loved it really. Or he used to love it and he loved the idea of infusing the adults of the future with the knowledge of today. To see where it would take them. Especially in his subject of computers. It was where the world lived and ended. It was where all the huge advances were being made. Though all the kids cared about were the games they could play. There was only the odd child or two who was interested, and this had gradually withered his soul away. Without the symbiotic nature of children needing to be fed, his need to feed them his knowledge dried up.
It was sad really.
Drew was desperate to make his mark and imprint on a child. Have them grow up, make something of themselves and say it was him, he was the teacher who had been the one to spur them on. He was that teacher.
As it was, he couldn’t even find that pupil. All he could do was turn up every day and do his job. Then wait for the end of day bell so he could release them all back to their homes, their gaming stations, their junk foods, their vacuous lives. And he would go home. To his wife and his children. Who, he adored, he did. He did his best by them. By his wife. They liked to do things together. Spend time as a family. He nurtured their brains. He loved them.
All this floated through his head as he meandered down the street, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, the summer sun resting on his skin.
In front of him, a street artist was busy at work. One of those who made it appear that the pavement was opening up in front of you, yawning open, the innards of the street below, the wires and the pipes exposed and cracking open. Water bursting forth and upwards. All with a few chalks which she had scattered around her like the hem of a skirt.
He was mesmerised by the image. It looked as though the submerged world was screaming to be allowed out.
People were gathered around the woman and the image. Camera phones wafted in the air. The pavement was choked as everyone stopped to stare.
He looked at the woman surrounded by her chalks, covered in coloured dust. How he would love to have a job so freeing. Or just to feel the love he once had for the career he had chosen. Instead of this heavy weight he carried around with him.
He looked down, marvelled at the detail. At the love that had gone into it. Stepped sideways into the road rather than across her masterpiece. The traffic was steady, aware of the crowd bulging out into their space.
It was difficult to walk and not continue to look down at the cracked-open pavement. The layers of earth, and as he looked closer, the creepy eyes that glowed from within darkened corners.
With each step he could hear a thrum that didn’t fit with the rest of the sound around him. It wasn’t the mumble of awed voices. It wasn’t the regular hum of traffic. This was different. He looked up.
In front of him, also on the road, was a young lad. Tracksuit bottoms, jacket and a woollen hat even though the sun was out. His clothes were dark but they looked dirty, uncared for.
Unclean.
Homeless. About nineteen years of age. His face, like many others, was also turned towards the image on the ground.
The thrum had turned into a roar. Drew looked past the young homeless man and saw a vehicle do a rapid and dangerous overtake. Revving hard. Coming towards them. The driver with a phone in his hand. The car too close to the kerb. He hadn’t noticed the bulge of people that distended out from the pavement. Drew stepped back onto the pavement. Gently. Aware still of the cracked-open street below his feet.
He looked at the young man who looked back at Drew confused as to why he’d decided to stand up on the edges of the chalk drawing. Completely oblivious to the vehicle behind him.
The car was racing forward and wasn’t going to stop. It was going to plough into the homeless guy. Everyone else had their backs turned.
Drew panicked, grabbed hold of the young man’s upper arm, which was slender under the bulk of his clothing, and yanked him sideways up onto the path. The vehicle turned left with a screech of tyres, disappearing out of view.
The homeless lad came flying towards and past Drew, his legs wheeling under him as he attempted to avoid kicking the woman sitting on the ground. He stumbled as he Bambi-hopped over her outstretched leg, arms windmilling before he fell in a heap on the ground, a bundle of bones in a bag of jersey material topped by a woollen hat. The artist’s mouth was agape, a sheen of fear glossing her face as the young man’s head smashed into the wall with a crunch.
‘What the fucking hell!’
To Drew the scream came out of nowhere. He was trying to focus on the boy on the ground. On what had just happened when the high-pitched screech fractured Drew’s confused mind.
He ignored it. Presumed the fury was about the vehicle that had driven like it was on a racing track. His thoughts were securely on the boy and if he was okay. With movements that felt sludge like he made a move forward. Panic started to rise and people rushed to the boy. People flapped and fussed. Crouched down beside him. Held his hand, checked his head.
And they pushed Drew out of the way.
He’d saved the boy’s life. He needed to make sure he had saved it and not injured him in the process. But he couldn’t get to him. The boy was utterly surrounded.
It was almost as though they were keeping him at bay.
As though they didn’t want Drew near the boy.
He had saved his life. Drew was confused.
A woman turned from where she was bent over the lad. ‘What did you do?’ Horror was etched on her face. Disgust. He didn’t understand it.
‘I saw it. I saw him do it,’ another shouted over to her.
And then a young lad behind him piped up, ‘I caught it all on my phone. I was taking a video of the chalk drawing. He won’t get away with this.’
1.
It was the crac
k of dawn and we had all been called in as there was an urgent job. The reason I knew it was urgent was because DCI Kevin Baxter was currently pacing about in my office, his face turning more and more red as he spoke.
‘You need to get out there now, Hannah.’ There was a strong smell of cigarettes oozing from him. He had obviously not long had one.
‘Yes, Sir, we’re just waiting on Martin, and once we’re all in and up to date we’re headed out. I believe uniform have the scene?’
I’d said the wrong thing. I knew this the minute the words were out of my mouth. He had already given me a precis over the phone when he called me in and now I’d said the words I could see how annoyed he was over the whole thing.
‘You know this is going to be a media nightmare, don’t you?’ He turned on his heel and faced me.
‘We make it clear that we didn’t do it and that it was a part of some sick ritual that the killer set up,’ I said trying to calm the situation by sitting down in the chair behind my desk.
‘I expect you to sort this out, you and your team. You have to clear this up and quickly. From what I’ve been told it’s all over social media.’
I rolled my eyes.
‘There’s no point in doing that, it’s the world in which we live. You have to get used to it.’ He spun around again and started to pace once more. I had a strong urge to roll my eyes at him again. Getting this wound up was not going to resolve a single issue. ‘Though the way it impacts on us never helps. Everyone has an opinion and they certainly have one this morning.’ He rubbed at his face. ‘You know the Chief is aware.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘I’m sure he would be. It’s the strangest one I’ve come across.’
‘The public actually think we left a dead body out for everyone to see and walked away for our breakfast or something. We need to get on top of this one and quickly.’ He looked towards my door. He was losing patience. ‘Where the hell is–’
‘Morning, Ma’am, Sir.’ Martin stuck his head around the door frame. ‘We’re all here and ready to go when you are. I hear we have a ready-made crime scene waiting for us.’ He had a smile across his face, nothing seemed to faze Martin but this wasn’t what Baxter needed right now.
‘Sort it out, Hannah.’ He was about ready to snap. I had to keep my cool. ‘They’re crucifying us. It’s a huge shit show. We need a strong presence out there. We need to show them this isn’t us, that we know how to look after a real crime scene. We did not leave a murder victim out on Market Square with crime scene tape around him and walk away.’ His voice rose. ‘I’m getting pressure on this already, get out there, show them how it’s really done and find the bastard who did this.’
2.
‘What the hell is this, Boss?’ asked Ross as I drove as fast as was possible through the steadily building morning traffic.
‘I don’t know.’ I didn’t have an answer, all I had were questions myself.
‘Did we do this?’
I let out a deep breath. After the conversation with Baxter I was under no illusion that the body we were travelling to was most definitely not one we had already been out to. And I needed to get there and deal with the shit-show as he’d described it, before more images made it on to Twitter. As far as I was aware with Twitter, if the images were up there, it was already too late. Evie Small, my friend, and our analyst, would be able to give me the definitive.
‘No, we didn’t do this, Ross. What we need to do now is control it and find out who did.’
A car pulled out in front of me. I pushed my hand down on my horn and cursed. Luckily, uniformed officers had been sent out ahead of us to close down and secure the scene. We would take it from them as soon as we arrived.
Ross whistled at the side of me. I stole a glance at him, his phone was in his hand. He saw me turn.
‘The images on Twitter,’ he said. ‘Unbelievable.’ He shook his head to support his disbelief.
‘How many?’ Traffic was getting thicker and I had no blue light. I slapped the steering wheeling in frustration. We needed to get there. I needed to see this. To figure out what had happened.
‘How many?’ Ross parroted back at me.
‘Yes. Images. How many images are there on Twitter?’
There was a moment of silence. I eased my foot off the gas to look across at him. He was looking puzzled.
‘Ross?’
‘Are you asking how many different shots there are or how many times each shot has been shared?’
I wasn’t on social media. I didn’t have the time. Even if I had, I wasn’t sure I’d have the inclination. All I had to share was the wine I drank and there were only so many times you could post that. And as for news, isn’t that what news websites were for? Or had I been left behind?
‘I don’t know what I’m asking, Ross.’ I turned right onto Friar Lane. ‘Give me a general idea of either.’
‘As far as I can see the scene has been photographed from different angles by multiple users and each photograph has been shared…’ he paused, ‘thousands of times.’
I pushed on my horn again and got the two-fingered salute for my trouble.
‘You know it’s trending don’t you, Boss?’
‘I had heard. And that means everyone is sharing it, yes?’ I wasn’t a user but I had a rough idea of how it worked because social media cropped up in so many investigations.
‘Pretty much.’
‘Great.’ This was what Baxter was in such a state about. The public talking and sharing this way, a way he couldn’t control.
I turned onto the pedestrianised area, slowed and kept my headlights on so people could see we were here. Though the commotion in front of us gave me no doubt that people were well aware that there would be a high police activity here today.
I slammed on the brakes as close to the scene as I could get. Ross jerked forward and put his arm out. I didn’t bother with an apology. It didn’t help my mood that we were on the back foot with this. I certainly hadn’t needed to be torn apart by Baxter before I’d put my hands on the job, just because someone above him, probably Detective Superintendent Catherine Walker, was on his case.
Martin and Pasha, two other detectives from my team, parked behind me. It was the beginning of December and it was strangely mild still. The sky was overcast but it was dry and pleasant. I saw Pasha shove her phone into her pocket. No doubt she’d been following this trending issue as well. It seemed to have everyone hooked. Even those who were now involved.
‘Shall we.’ It was more a command than a question. Martin grinned.
‘Looking forward to this one.’
I stared at him.
‘You know what I mean, Boss. Not the victim. The circumstances are interesting.’
I did know. After the pain and difficulty of informing a family of the brutal loss of a loved one, the investigation itself could stimulate an officer and keep them going no matter how many hours were needed of them.
Martin and I suited up in Tyvek suits, masks and booties and headed to the crime scene.
Ross and Pasha were here to talk to the crowd, to ascertain what time they had arrived, if they had been here earlier, what they had seen or heard. They were here to look for any witnesses.
Even though we now, it appeared, had thousands of witnesses on Twitter.
I provided our details to the officer on the outer cordon and stepped past him. Towards the crime scene.
Not just our crime scene. Whoever had left the victim on the steps of the Nottingham Council Building on The Old Market Square had set him up as a crime scene. They had surrounded him with marked police tape they had bought, as well as yellow number evidence markers and now we, the uniformed officers who had arrived here as the calls had come in complaining that we had left a body out unattended, had set up a taped cordon around that.
This was why there had been a trending hashtag on social media this morning.
Someone had left a body out in the open, right in the centre of Nottingham and set it up
as a fake crime scene and then walked away.
3.
At the top of the concrete steps, slumped against the left column on the centre archway, was a white male. His face narrow and pinched. A whisper of five o’clock shadow which looked like intrusive gloom on his bloodless face. His chin rested on his chest and he was wearing jeans, a knitted jumper and a large padded jacket.
The sun was only just starting to rise and there was a grey cast to the day.
‘So, were these effects placed here after he died of natural causes or are we dealing with something altogether more sinister?’ I asked the team as we moved closer.
Doug Howell, the crime scene manager, approached. ‘I’ve called out the pathologist. This isn’t looking like natural causes where he’s stopped for a sleep after a couple of beers and not woken up again.’
‘What do you have?’ I asked as I looked at the gathering held back by the real scene tape.
A CSI was photographing the tape that had been placed around the body before we arrived. As soon as he’d finished it would be collected up, taken to the lab and tested for prints.
‘I can’t see any obvious injuries but there are blood stains on his clothes. There’s no other blood at the site so I’d suggest this is a suspicious death and this is a dump site.’
I couldn’t agree with him more. Though Doug was still fairly new in the role as crime scene manager, he’d been a CSI himself until he was promoted. He was good at his job but second guessed his work and worried about the evidence continually until it made it to his lab where it would be secure.
‘Do we know which pathologist is on?’
Doug shook his head. ‘I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.’
The clock above us chimed seven a.m. More people would be moving about soon. We needed to get move ourselves.
I turned to Pasha and Ross. ‘Can you start talking to witnesses, see if we have any?’ I indicated to the looky-loos in the square in front of the council house.
The Twisted Web (Detective Hannah Robbins Crime Series book 4) Page 1
