DON’T
SCREAM
An absolutely gripping killer thriller with a huge twist
MARGARET MURPHY
Detective Jeff Rickman Book 3
First published in Great Britain 2020
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
© Margaret Murphy
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, 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. The right of Margaret Murphy to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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ISBN: 978-1-78931-626-1
CONTENTS
Acknowledgements
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
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
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Epilogue
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Acknowledgements
As always, my thanks go to Chief Inspector Dave Griffin (retd.), for his inexhaustible patience in answering my most bizarre and obscure questions, and more than this, for suggesting procedural details that solve plot problems and enhance the storyline. Also, to Vicki Van-Holsbecke and her team in the pathology department at Warrington Hospital, who gave me valuable insights into their work during a whirlwind tour of their laboratories. I’m very grateful to John Sayle, martial arts, knife fighting and weapons expert, who cast a gimlet eye over the fight scenes. Any mistakes in procedure or interpretation are mine and mine alone.
Thanks again to Daniel Sellers for reading this novel in draft, for his apposite comments and observations — including spotting a few anachronisms — and for cheering me on! Heartfelt thanks to Jasper Joffe and his amazing team at Joffe Books: Emma Grundy Haigh, Laura Coulman, Jill Burkinshaw and Nina Kicul, as well as the copy editors and proofreaders who have read my work with such care, rigour and attention to the finer details. I LOVE you guys!
Finally, love, thanks and deepest gratitude to my husband, Murf, for his support, love, unstinting encouragement and interruptions for cups of tea. (But I really will get a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign for my office door one of these days.)
Chapter 1
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Tuesday
The exchange is almost complete. Four sports bags — three red, one black — in the centre of a ring of cars. Mark Davis focuses on the black one: on the heroin. His longing for it is like love, like obsession. His body trembles for it, aches for it.
The night is dark, no moon. The only sound is the wind moaning through the empty warehouse behind them. Beyond the hulking brick structures lie the black waters of the River Mersey. On the landward edge, a thirty-foot-high wall of sandstone blocks three feet thick. This is Maitland’s fortress — one way in, one way out. His men control the steel gates at the entrance. Two lookouts watch the dock road from the top of the wall. At this time of night, only dockland rats and taxi drivers come this way, and neither linger.
A sudden clatter of chopper blades, then a light so bright that everyone ducks. Maitland’s bodyguards shove him behind one of the cars, guns in their hands before the police warning is complete.
Mark is slow, still high from the hit he took earlier to steady his nerves. He stands in the wash of light thinking of The X-Files and alien abduction. Then someone shouts, ‘The bags!’ and he grabs the black, hesitates, goes back for one of the reds. Running at a crouch, he zigs left as gunshots crack to his right, his boss’s heavies and the Dutch guys firing at the beam of light. The helicopter engine screams as the pilot pulls back, hard, gaining height and distance. A second chopper appears, trapping those on the ground in a cross-beam as bright as the floodlights at Anfield stadium.
Mark dives for shelter. He crouches behind a huddle of rusting oil drums, hugs the bags to him and closes his eyes against the fierce light, wishing he could close his ears too as the gun battle rages.
Maitland yells, ‘You two, cover me . . .’ The rest is lost in the blat-blat-blat of the helicopters’ rotor blades.
One of the Dutch yells, ‘We zijn erin geluisd!’ Then, ‘Godverdomme!’
Beyond the gates, lights flicker, blue and red. More police. Gunfire sounds from the wall, then one of the lookouts falls.
A dull thunk. Mark flinches. A bullet hits the container to his left. Another shot punches a hole the size of his fist through a drum inches away.
‘Fuck!’ They’re shooting at me — those mad bastards are shooting at me!
A voice, strong and authoritative, carries over the helicopter buzz. ‘Maitland? You tell your boy to bring my fuckin’ drugs back.’
No. Mark is sweating now. They think he’s stealing the drugs. He peers around the side of one of the oil drums. ‘You’ve got it wrong,’ he yells. ‘I’m just—’ A block of wood on top of the drum explodes, tearing holes in his jacket.
‘Jesus!’ he screams. ‘Stop! Stop it!’
‘I’ll fuckin’ stop it when you’re dead, English!’ The Dutch boss’s accent is American, a drawl he must have picked up from the movies. ‘Hey, Maitland! Hey, klootzak!’ Maitland doesn’t answer. ‘I’m gonna kill you and every one of your verklikkers . . .’ The police tannoy drowns him out for a second or two, then Mark screams again as more shots are loosed at him.
They whistle, twang, ricochet, over
and into and off the drums — burst after burst of bullets. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ He screws his eyes shut, crouches lower, waits for death. ‘Stop,’ he sobs. ‘Please, God, make them stop!’
A shot thuds into a pile of sacking to his right. He hears a squeak, then two, three, four rats stream out, spilling from the stinking pile like water from a barrel. A fifth follows. They run over and around him, weighty and sleek, as big as cats. Mark shudders and swears, unable to take his eyes off them as they scurry into the dark and disappear.
He blinks. That’s not possible. They can’t just disappear. But they did. They ran across open ground, then vanished.
A pale glimmer of hope ignites in him. They didn’t disappear, they went to ground. Liverpool folklore has it that a network of tunnels spans out beneath the docks — smugglers’ runs that lead from the old pubs in the city centre out to the water’s edge.
Mark’s eyes focus on the dark patch of ground ten metres away. If you can get to it — big if, Mark — if the Dutch don’t shoot you full of holes, you’ll probably get your skinny arse stuck down a manhole and the police’ll get you. You’re dead either way. You fucking idiot! Why couldn’t you just keep your head down and wait for the shooting to stop?
Sparks fly from another near miss. He whimpers. Then, above the clatter of the police helicopters and rattle of gunfire, he hears a dull roar. Someone has got to Maitland’s speedboat.
A volley of shots follows, then gunfire at the gate. Someone is trying to break out through the police cordon. They aren’t firing at him anymore. He peers around the edge of the oil drums. The second lookout is gone from the wall: shot or surrendered. The gunfire is centred on the river and the gateway. He’s in the clear.
Move.
He wants to. He wills his legs to carry him, but instead he lies shivering, crouched in a corner, surrounded by stinking sacking and rusting oil drums. A shot tears through the sacking, changes direction and slices past his face close enough for him to feel the heat.
He’s up and running. Pumping his arms like a sprinter, despite the weight of the two sports bags, rage and fear carrying him forward. It doesn’t occur to him to drop them — if he’s a dead man, he’d rather be a rich dead man. He trips and falls, sprawling, but still he maintains his grip.
The shooting subsides, and despite the constant clatter of the choppers it seems still and quiet.
He crawls a few more feet. And finds it. A broken metal grille. He yanks and pulls as the police issue orders over the helicopter tannoy, telling the two sides to lay down their weapons. The grille is stuck. He gives it another tug and hears the whine of the electric motor that opens the dock gates.
The police’ll be here any second, Mark. You’ll get arrested. Get arrested, and you’re dead. So get a grip of your wimpy self. He gets to his knees and closes his fingers around the grille, pulls on it, feeling every muscle in his neck and shoulders strain.
It moves. Not much, a little. Enough for Mark to renew his efforts, tugging and sweating, feeling the wind pluck at his jacket like a premonition of his arrest. Suddenly he’s flying backwards, the grille in his hands. He lands on his tailbone, winding himself.
Lights bounce over the rough concrete road near the gate. The police!
He tries to move, but he can’t catch his breath. A police van cuts left, its headlights missing him by inches.
Get off your arse and do something right, for once. He hears his stepfather’s voice in his head. Hatred drives him. Fuck off, he mutters. Fuck off and die. This strikes him as funny, and as he crawls to the opening, dragging the grille with him, he even giggles. If anyone’s gonna die, it’s you, Mark.
He snatches up the first bag and stuffs it down the hole, listening for the hiss of canvas against brickwork. It brushes the sides only a couple of times on the way down, so the shaft is wide enough for him. But the thud as it hits the bottom comes a long time after he drops it. It’s a bastard of a fall. He throws the second bag after it, scrambles to a sitting position and eases feet first into the shaft, feeling for toeholds as he goes.
More vans and police cars arrive, blue lights flashing. A headlight grazes the top of his head and he hears them coming straight for him. He slides the grille back in place as they skid to a halt, yards from the shaft. He hears doors slide open, booted feet landing hard on the concrete.
‘I saw something.’ A young male voice, excited, hyped by the gunfire and the revving engines, the lights and the constant chop of the helicopter blades. ‘I did, Sarge.’
‘You’re sure?’ An older man, less inclined to excitability. ‘Fetch us a torch, then.’
Shit. Mark is balanced a couple of feet down from the opening, his right foot on the rusted remains of an iron rung, his left braced against the brickwork. He looks down into a blackness so profound it might be death itself. Sweat has gathered on his upper lip. Fuck it. He lets go of the rail and crosses his hands over his chest like a deep sea diver, plumbing the depths.
Chapter 2
Wednesday
Detective Sergeant Daniel Cass sauntered into the CID Room like it was something he practised in the mirror. One hand insouciantly in his trouser pocket, index finger of the other hooked in the loop of his jacket draped over his shoulder. A casual observer might have assumed that he had come in from the autumn sunshine, but he had in fact walked only a few steps across the corridor. A practical person might have thought that a jacket wouldn’t be required for such a short journey indoors, but considerations of practicality were less important to Cass than appearance and style.
Half a dozen officers were at work in the room, engaged in different enquiries, following up leads, confirming details by phone, typing up reports. The room was a featureless oblong, the cream walls scuffed and grimy from years of use. Wanted posters, mug shots of local troublemakers, a calendar, rota sheets and newspaper clippings spilled from the pinboard to the wall next to the room’s only window. The carpet was worn grey industrial cord, and not much of it visible: fifteen desks, wastepaper bins, a photocopier, filing cabinets and a water cooler filled most of the available space.
Detective Constable Naomi Hart finished a call to the city council ASBO Unit and opened a new document on her computer. Her workstation was in the middle of the room, facing the door. Recently returned from a holiday in Italy, her light tan emphasised the pale gold of her hair, and the sleeveless blouse she wore flattered her slim figure.
Cass finished up at her desk as if by chance. He waited a few moments as if expecting an ovation and, receiving none, leaned over Hart’s shoulder and peered at the screen.
‘“Kids hanging about on street corners,”’ he read from the screen. ‘“Vandalism, loutish behaviour. CCTV surveillance recommended.” Ooh, Naomi, how do you stand the excitement?’
She stopped typing. ‘Did you want something, Sergeant Cass?’
‘Just back from holiday?’ His eyes went to her neck, her arms, her breasts. ‘You look well.’
Hart turned her cool blue gaze on him. First she looked at the hand, still firmly wedged in his left trouser pocket, then she tracked upwards, lingering a moment on his mouth. The sheen on his lower lip was Vaseline — he kept a small pot of it in his jacket pocket and applied it almost compulsively, four or sometimes five times an hour. She looked him in the eye, then turned back to her computer monitor and resumed typing.
‘You know, I could get you off this social work crap and onto a proper investigation.’ Cass took his hand out of his pocket and rested his buttocks against her desk. ‘A major investigation,’ he said, with the emphasis on ‘major’.
‘The drug thing?’ She focused on the computer screen. It wouldn’t do to seem too interested.
‘Operation Snowplough,’ he corrected her, as if — shambles though it was — giving the investigation its title elevated its importance.
‘I heard there was a fatality.’
‘Bakker, the Dutch boss.’ Cass raised one shoulder. ‘One less scumbag to clog up the prison system.’
Hart flipped him a look that said she didn’t share his enthusiasm for summary justice. ‘I thought Larry Dwight was running the investigation.’
‘DI Dwight is a busy man — committees, partnership meetings, Independent Assessment Groups.’ Cass made no attempt to hide his contempt.
Hart had heard that Dwight was more an administrative type than a hands-on cop. She preferred the latter, except for the likes of DS Cass — she preferred his type to keep their hands strictly to themselves.
‘Yup,’ Cass said. ‘Larry delegates the day-to-day stuff to me. Hiring, firing . . . Of course, you’d have to ask me nice.’
‘I thought Snowplough was over, bar the arrest of the main player.’ Hart would rather work school crossing patrols than talk ‘nice’ to a man like Sergeant Cass.
Cass leaned back so she could see his smile, a row of off-white teeth so small and neat they might have been filed down. ‘We’ll have Maitland in the bag in no time,’ he said. ‘No time at all.’
‘Talking of bags,’ Hart said, ‘is it true you lost a couple during the arrests?’
Cass stiffened, and for one hopeful a moment, she thought he might leave. Then he settled his backside more comfortably on her desk and rested the elbow of his free arm on her computer monitor. It creaked under the strain. ‘Have you been gossiping with the girls, Naomi?’
She tried not to notice his tongue flick out onto his lower lip. Any moment now, he would swing the jacket off his shoulder and go fishing for his little pot of lip balm.
His flat grey eyes went again to her breasts. ‘A girl with your obvious . . . assets should be put to better use.’
‘Sarge?’ Hart lowered her voice and Cass leaned in to listen. She smelled coffee on his breath. And breath mints. Oh, Sergeant Cass, she thought. For me? She smiled and could almost see the responding haze of pheromones coming off him. ‘You’re crumpling my ASBO reports,’ she said sweetly.
DON'T SCREAM an absolutely gripping killer thriller with a huge twist (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 3) Page 1
