by Emmy Ellis
Forced to Kill - Text copyright © Emmy Ellis 2019
Cover Art by Emmy Ellis @ studioenp.com © 2019
All Rights Reserved
Forced to Kill is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
The author respectfully recognises the use of any and all trademarks.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.
Warning: The unauthorised reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s written permission.
Chapter One
Getting calls from the dead in the middle of the night wasn’t Oliver Banks’ idea of fun.
He stared down at the body resting in the mulch, the limbs at odd angles. Her blonde hair, splayed against a backdrop of soggy leaves, stood out starkly in the beam of his pencil-slim torch. Christ, what kind of people did this to another human being? Crazy bastards, that was who. Oliver had dealt with them before, had seen bodies like this too many times to count, and here he was again, lured out by the voices in his head and the unexplainable knowledge that someone had been murdered.
The woman, early thirties he reckoned, looked as though she’d been out walking. Mud-encrusted hiking boots, one tightly tied, the other undone, laces rigid, dried-out worm skins. Had the killer been interrupted in taking the boot off? And why the fuck would he have wanted to do that anyway?
Sometimes it was pointless questioning the idiosyncrasies of the warped. Sometimes they just did things. No reason. Just because.
He studied the woman’s jeans. Mud splatters soiled the denim from the top of her boots to her thighs. Had she run through one of the many boggy areas in this godforsaken field? Had she tried to get away from the bastard who’d done this to her? Oliver hadn’t been given any details other than the site and the fact that a dead body was there. He’d hauled his arse out of bed then dressed quickly, stuffing his hair under a beanie.
His battered trainers had sunk into the ground and would leave perfect imprints.
Fuck.
He shifted his gaze back to the woman, whose stomach was exposed, her black T-shirt bunched to just below her breasts. The perfect, taut skin showed the woman had taken care of herself, had maybe visited a gym regularly. What a damn waste of a life. Her jacket, a black windbreaker, the fronts open, would have done nothing to keep off the winter chill. She had no hat or scarf, no gloves either, unless whoever had killed her had taken them away. Another oddity that wouldn’t be a surprise. Killers took the strangest trophies.
There were no marks on her neck or face, no obvious signs of how she’d been killed. No bruising, no knife wounds, no blood. If it wasn’t for her arms and legs clearly being broken, the woman might have appeared to have just fallen down and died.
He closed his eyes, aware morning would be here all too soon, that someone walking their dog might well discover the body. Or not. The recent rains had rendered this field a bit treacherous, and if she wasn’t looked at soon by SOCO and another burst of rain lashed down, evidence would be washed away. Oliver had turned his ankle when traipsing over the ground, a hidden pothole that he’d called all the names under the sun. If anyone chose to walk here, they were mental.
“Were you mental walking here?” He directed his torch beam at the woman’s face. “Or were you brought here?”
He swept an arc of light over the grass either side of the body. Yes, there they were in a patch of exposed mud, the footprints of the victim and also someone else, who had a larger size, undoubtedly those of a man. And it was always a man, wasn’t it? At least it had been in Oliver’s experience. The grass was trampled so much in places it had been ripped up. The footprints, prominent in a muddy swathe, were dotted about, but a mass of them, like two people had stood together and tussled.
“So you put up a fight.” Oliver hunkered down and studied the woman’s nails. Pristine, acrylic, long. “But it seems you didn’t get to scratch him. That’s a bit of a shit, isn’t it?”
Female laughter echoed inside his head, delicate and sweet. At last, she’d made contact again. He’d been waiting for it, had thought the victim would never break through a second time, but there she was, giggling.
“What kept you?” Oliver asked, saddened that once again he’d be speaking to someone he’d never get to meet in life. Someone who’d never use her body to help express herself. Someone who’d been snuffed out because another human being had decided on it. “Fucking arsehole.”
The giggle came again, then a sigh. Then a sob.
Shit.
“You can see yourself here?”
Oliver sensed her spirit had just caught up with the recent events. She’d realised she was dead, left in a field for someone to find or for a wild animal to feast on. Or to rot, never to be seen again, unless you counted bones. Not something anyone envisaged for themselves at the best of times, but there it was, a bold, vile fact of life. Sometimes people got offed and didn’t get a decent burial.
“Sorry if you heard my thoughts there. I need to work on my empathy skills. Work on keeping you out when I’m thinking shit like that.” Oliver switched off his torch, suddenly unable to look at the body now her spirit was with him. It wasn’t just a body anymore but a person, one who was in his mind and would hopefully help him track the killer. “Listen, you can either stay here or find somewhere else to be, but if you reach out, I’ll be listening. If you want me to help, I can. It’s just that…” He glanced at the horizon, obscured by a line of gnarly, leafless trees. “I have to call this in so the coppers can get you out of this place. Your body, I mean. You? You’re free to go wherever you want.”
Oliver slid his torch in his jeans back pocket. Fuck, what he’d give to be normal, to have his mind to himself.
He’d burn his trainers, buy a new pair. As usual. He hated wearing them after he’d been to a scene.
This malarky was getting expensive.
He walked across the grass towards his car parked on a verge beside the trees that lined the edge of the field. He’d ring DI Langham, speak with him, then go home, get rid of his shoes, shower, catch a bit more sleep. Or maybe, if he was lucky, the dead woman would contact him and they could get to the real work of finding the wanker who’d done this.
In his car, he gunned the engine then switched the heat on, letting the vehicle idle along with his thoughts. Daylight might be on the cusp of arriving in a few hours, but shit, he had to take a moment to compartmentalise what he’d seen, file away the insignificant and concentrate on the important. The woman had struggled, so she’d known she was in trouble. Did she know her killer? He hadn’t thought to fully check the area, to see if there were two tracks side by side in the grass leading up to the final resting place or whether there was just one. Was she followed or with someone? Had she willingly gone with this bloke or been forced?
“This is where you come in, love,” he muttered, cocking his head, waiting for a response. Nothing. “All right, so you don’t want to talk.”
Oliver shielded his thoughts. The woman didn’t need to know he was pissed off at his lack of attention to detail, that he’d failed her already with his incompetence. He’d been doing this long enough to know the drill by now. Scope the area and find out as much as he could without disturbing the body. Get clues, anything to help him find the sick shit. Still, she’d made contact again, that was the main thing, and he’d have to be content with that.
He glanced at the rearview mirror and f
rowned. Was that another vehicle behind? Turning in his seat, he stared out of the back window. It was hard to tell whether it was a car or just a dark mound, a part of the verge. He hadn’t taken any notice when he’d arrived, hadn’t bloody concentrated. What was up with him?
A light flickered, right about where a windscreen would be, and Oliver’s stomach muscles bunched. Was that an interior light going on, then off? Had someone struck a match or lighter? He waited, breath held, for the light to appear again. His car engine hummed—he wanted to get the fuck home. If someone was out there, he didn’t fancy meeting with them.
A shiver went down his back, and the hairs on his neck stood on end.
He gritted his teeth and pulled out his phone. Seemed he did this too often lately. The calls from the dead were becoming more frequent, and as soon as one case was solved and closed, another came along. He dialled a number he knew by heart and waited for the pick-up.
“DI Langham.”
“Um, it’s me.”
A sigh, then, “All right. What have you got?”
“Dead body.”
“Now there’s a surprise. Where?”
“The field on the Keach Road turnoff. Female. About thirty.”
“Right.” Another sigh. “Wait for me there.”
“I can’t.”
“Why the fuck not?” Langham getting testy wasn’t a good thing.
“Because there’s a car parked a few metres behind me.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Oliver. Would you stop visiting the bloody sites? Just ring me when you get the information.”
“I can’t help it. I have to visit. It’s how I connect. How I get the information that helps you break the case and makes you look like a sodding hero.”
“Fuck you.”
“So, are you coming out here or what?”
“I’d like to say ‘or what’ but—”
“Do I wait here or go home?”
“Wait. See if the car moves.”
“And if it does? You want me to follow it?”
“Fuck, no. Just take the number plate.”
“Right.”
“I’m just getting in my car.”
Oliver looked in the rearview again. The light flickered once more, and headlights burst into life. His guts twisted.
“Um…”
“What?”
“The car’s ready to go.”
“Shit. I’m ten minutes away. Get the plate.”
“What if it goes the other way?”
The car nosed onto the road.
Bollocks. “Um, it’s heading towards me.”
“Good, sit tight.”
“No. I mean, it’s heading towards me. For me.”
“Then get out of there!”
Oliver wedged the phone between his shoulder and ear and eased onto the rain-slicked road, headlamps on low beam, rapiers of light cutting into the darkness. A quick glance in the mirror told him the car was gaining on him at speed. He accelerated, hoping to make it to the farmhouse standing in the distance. It had lights on, creamy squares of hominess that called to Oliver, had him wanting a normal life with a family who gave a shit whether he lived and breathed. His? They’d cast him out the minute he’d hit eighteen, telling him never to bring his weird arse back because he wasn’t right in the head. Yeah, well, they ought to try living like he had for as far back as he could remember. Having dead people in his bloody head, asking for help, taking him places he’d never thought he’d go. Seeing things he’d never thought he’d see. Having mad people follow him in their cars in the middle of the pissing night.
He pushed his foot down on the accelerator.
“Give me an update,” Langham said.
“Whoever it is…let’s just say they know I’ve seen them. They’re right up my arse. I’m driving west. Farmhouse ahead. The road bends, leads to—”
“Crooks Lane. Yeah, I know where you are. I’ve just turned onto Keach,” Langham said. “Couple of minutes away. Road’s long. Uniforms will be here in a bit, but not in time to deal with this fucker. What’s going on?”
Oliver eyed the mirror. “The car’s right up my jacksy.”
“Uncomfortable.”
“Very fucking funny.”
“The farmhouse?”
“Still too far away.”
A smack to the back of Oliver’s car had him shunting forward. “Shit! Shit!”
“What? What’s happening?”
“He’s dinged my bumper.”
“Well, drive faster!”
Oliver shook his head and pelted down the road, creating space between his car and the other. Adrenaline flowed faster, and he coached himself calmer, only to have his nerves jangle as the car pulled across and sped up, riding alongside him.
“He’s next to me, Langham.”
“Yeah, I’m a good way back but I see your taillights.”
Oliver glanced sideways. The driver stared at him.
“Um, Langham?”
“Yep?”
“You know I said he’d dinged my bumper?”
“Yeah…”
“Make that a she.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Some bird. Black hair.”
The other car suddenly slewed towards Oliver’s, the side of it crashing into his. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and focused on the road ahead, driving faster in an attempt to get away.
“Shit,” Langham said.
A siren split the air, and a blue strobe illuminated the interior of Oliver’s car. He looked at the mad driver, the woman’s face clearer now. Her hands clearer—great big hands that had no business being on a female. After checking the road ahead, Oliver stared back at the car.
“It’s a mask,” Oliver said. “The driver’s wearing a mask and wig.”
“Yeah, and that driver’s going to be moving pretty fast away from me any…second…now.”
The driver didn’t. The car bashed into Oliver’s again, an almighty whack that jolted him across the road and onto the verge. The uneven ground beneath his tyres made for a bumpy ride, and he struggled to control his vehicle. Panic threatened to overtake, and he fought to remain alert, on target.
“Oliver, watch yourself.”
“I’m trying!”
“There’s a tree ahead. Move over. Now!”
“Can’t you see the other car’s stopping me?”
The tree loomed up ahead, and Oliver yanked the wheel, hoping to make it past the wide trunk in time. He did, but his front tyre clipped an exposed root, and his car overturned, rattling his teeth and bones. His head smacked the side window, dislodging his phone. The car kept on rolling, and Langham’s voice, tinny and distant, came out of his mobile, wherever the fuck it had fallen.
“Follow her,” Oliver shouted. “Or him. Don’t worry about me. Just go.”
His car came to a lurching stop. Upside down. He hung, hands still on the wheel, heart beating like a bitch with a score to settle. And shit, he had a score to settle now. Not only did he have a killer to catch, but someone who had also tried to kill him—and pissed him off into the bargain.
When his car had spun, one of his fingers had broken.
And that was enough to have him seeing red.
Chapter Two
No one broke his finger and got away with it.
Oliver grimaced. Not only had it broken, but the nail had been ripped off way below the level of acceptability. Fuck, did his fingertip hurt. His temple throbbed. Hitting it on a window would do that. He’d bet he had a lump the size of an egg beside his eye.
Assessing his situation, he glanced around and sniffed. It didn’t smell like any petrol had leaked, but he wasn’t hanging around long enough to find out. But he was hanging, held in place by his seat belt. He unclipped it, bracing for another bang to the head as he dropped to the ceiling. Annoyed, he reached for the door and fumbled with the lock, expecting fate to play games with him and trap him inside. Thankfully, the door opened, just not enough for him to climb ou
t. He was slim, but a size below small he was not.
With anger and frustration simmering, he clambered across the passenger seat and opened that door. It swung wide with a groan from the hinges, then a pair of legs appeared. He tensed until he spotted familiar brown loafers.
“I told you to follow the driver.” Oliver craned his neck to get a look at the DI.
Langham stared down at him, a tousle-headed blond with a face that showed no signs he’d been woken out of a deep sleep. Bastard. He did frown, though, which was something.
“The uniforms are on it. Do you want some help getting out, or will my offer end with bullshit from your foul mouth?”
Oliver almost laughed. Almost. Langham knew him too well. “I’ll try and get out myself, and if I can’t, then you can help me.”
“Stubborn twat.”
Oliver scrabbled out on hands and knees, the grass cold and wet, soaking through his jeans. He stood and brushed himself off, ignoring the lightheadedness and the throb of his finger, his head. “So other coppers are covering that arsehole.”
“Yeah.” Langham scrubbed his chin, the rasp of his stubble loud despite Oliver’s car engine still growling. “I got the number plate. Good job I did, seeing as you didn’t.”
Oliver widened his eyes. “You had better be joking.”
“Yeah, I’m joking. Lighten up. Anyone would think you’d just had a car accident.”
Oliver walked away, leaving him to switch off the engine. Let him blow himself up. Langham riled Oliver as often as he could, and most times he could handle it, gave as good as Langham gave him, but now? Here? No, this wasn’t fucking funny. He’d find the person who’d made him break a finger if it bloody killed him.
“And maybe it will,” he muttered and, looking over his shoulder, he called, “And get my phone, will you?”
He climbed up the embankment, finding himself at the side of the road where he’d veered off course. He’d been so close to the farmhouse. Lifting his hand, he touched his temple, careful in his exploration. The last thing he needed was pain. He didn’t bear it well. It felt as though he had a simple contusion, one that would shrink within a couple of days.
