DON'T SCREAM an absolutely gripping killer thriller with a huge twist (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 3)

by MARGARET MURPHY

  His clothing catches on the steely teeth, then the jaws snap shut. Razor-sharp teeth — shark’s teeth — sink into his thighs, ripping the fabric of his chinos, tearing flesh and sinew, clamping hard on cartilage and bone, dragging him down, under the water, into the suffocating darkness.

  He screams.

  Awake now, coughing and spitting dust. Each cough racks him. Pain shocks through his pelvis and lower limbs. He shoves away a piece of splintered wood and pain sledgehammers through his legs. He screams again. His legs are twisted under him. There’s blood on his hands and clothing. Fresh blood — his blood. The cuts on his hands and face and chest have split open again, but they are no worse than paper cuts, compared with the raging torment in his pelvis and legs. His lower limbs feel huge, out of proportion with the rest of him. Planks of wood lie all around him — what is left of the steps. Red and grey dust billows like smoke in the failing beam of the flashlight, lying half-buried under the rubble.

  ‘Bryony?’ Oh, God, the baby!

  It’s dark, and the dust . . .

  ‘Help me! Somebody!’ He hears a brief flutter of wings, high in the rafters of the old house, then, stillness.

  The beam of the flashlight, filtered by the dust, glows orange, lighting faintly, some distance away through the murk, a tiny bundle, wrapped tight in her little blanket.

  ‘Bryony!’ He reaches for the baby, but a jolt of pain rips through him, tearing a scream from him, and he looks down again at his mangled legs. He breaks out in a cold sweat, and half groans, half sobs.

  He takes a few breaths, psyching himself up. He has to get to the baby. It’s cold in here, so cold . . . He uses his hands, gouging the fall of plaster with his fingertips, dragging himself forward inch by screaming inch. He feels something give inside him, bone grinds on shattered bone. He greys out, coming to moments later. There’s blood on his lips, he can taste it. He spits to clear his mouth and, supporting himself on his elbows, taking shallow breaths like a weightlifter pushing himself to the limit, raises himself so that he can see the baby more clearly.

  There’s dirt on her face, dust on her peach-perfect skin. He begins again, screaming with every tiny movement, but with more determination than he imagined himself capable of. Reach, dig, pull, reach, dig, pull. Screaming and cursing and praying, calling to his infant child, ‘I’m coming, baby. I’m coming, Bryony. Don’t be scared — I’m coming.’

  Agonizing minutes later, his fingers brush against something soft. He sobs, shushing and crooning, as much to soothe himself as his baby.

  He pulls gently on the fabric, feels the bundle shift and tugs again, little by little, drawing his child to him.

  ‘See, babe?’ He bites down to stop his teeth chattering, to stop the screams that bubble up in his throat. ‘Nothing to be scared of.’

  There’s dust on the baby’s lips, in her nose, and Mark blows gently, wipes her little face with the silky binding of the blanket. ‘There’s my little darlin’,’ he coos. ‘There’s my brave girl.’

  She is brave, his little one, for she doesn’t cry. Not even a whimper. He feels absurdly proud, and hugs her to him, despite the pain that now seems to burn him. His groin, his legs are on fire.

  A shudder shakes his body and he screams. Then the shivering begins and he moans, ‘Oh, God, not now, pleeease . . .’ He has staved it off for as long as possible, but now he needs a fix. He needs it or he will die. Another shudder convulses him and the fire in his pelvis leaps and crackles, sending shooting sparks up his spine. He passes out.

  When he awakes, the feeble glow of the flashlight is dimmer. If he stays very still and keeps his breathing shallow, the pain isn’t so bad. And the light is like a candle, flickering as if in a draught of air, hypnotic and soothing, keeping the night terrors at bay.

  Darkness. His heart cramps with fear. Light again. He stares at the flashlight, as if the force of his will can keep it alight. For a moment it flares bright. Then it falters, shivers and dies. Mark gasps, feeling again the damp air wrap around him like a suffocating blanket. On the brink of panic, he pulls back, takes another breath, forces himself to be calm. Tonight, for his little girl, he will be brave — for Bryony, he will be a man.

  He begins to croon a nursery rhyme to soothe her, a simple, repetitive ditty they taught him in primary school. He has a light, tuneful voice, and the sound of it, rising tremulously through the house, helps to ward off the darkness. Sometimes the pain surprises a yell from him, but Bryony is quiet and good, and Mark begins to believe that someone will come, that they will save his baby.

  He bends to kiss the baby’s downy head. There’s grit in her hair, and he tries to stroke the dirt from her scalp, taking special care over the soft patch, where the pulse may be felt like a distant echo of an infant’s heart. He kisses that delicate spot and feels . . . nothing.

  A terror more searing than the fiery jolts of pain tears through him. ‘Bryony?’

  The house seems to shudder in answer. It groans and shifts and a powdering of plaster sifts from the ceiling above, falling with a hiss, like sand into his hair, like earth into a grave. The timbers tick and he senses movement, though he can see nothing. A louder crack is followed by the squeal of wood on wood. It is as if his screams have disturbed the house, awakening it, arousing its fury. He curls his body to protect the baby. Never mind the pain — though he screams anyway. He can’t help himself.

  He hears a flump, as though a large animal has dropped with a sigh onto the floor above. Then another high squeal, and a chattering, like children playing, like dishes being stacked in Hilary Shepherd’s kitchen. Like—

  The ceiling bows and bursts. Plaster, ceiling laths, floorboards fall, and after them roof tiles, sliding over each other in a shrill clatter of noise, cascading inwards, and the children’s chatter becomes the screams of the tormented in hell.

  Chapter 20

  Jeff Rickman stepped out of his car. He fished his mobile out of his pocket and dialled Foster’s number, listened to it ring. A flock of screaming gulls circled and wheeled overhead, tumbling and turning, quarrelling in a sky innocent of clouds. The wind had died, and the air was cold and still.

  Foster’s voicemail clicked in, and Rickman considered hanging up: this wasn’t the sort of news you wanted to hear over the phone. After a pause, he said, ‘Lee. Get to Black Wood as soon as you can. I’ll be at the old coach house.’

  The coach house was partly hidden by rhododendron bushes and accessed by a tarmac driveway curving right off the main drag. Smooth green tufts of moss cobbled the drive, and the way was narrowed in places by an overgrowth of rhododendrons. Here, the light failed and the air became still and fetid.

  Rickman stepped over recently snapped branches and a moment later the track opened on to a semicircle of stone sets at the front of the coach house.

  Once a pretty portal to the grandeur of the mansion, the coach house was now in ruins. The carved filigrees that ornamented the eaves had long since been softened to a grey pulp by the steady drip of water and the slow creep of algae. The roof timbers had given way in places. There was a hole in the roof to the left of the doorway, and the rest sagged, spilling red shingle tiles into the guttering and onto the path. An ancient wisteria twined along the length of one wall. Lacking sufficient sunlight for robust growth, a few pallid clusters of lilac flowers hung here and there, like withered grapes on the vine. The front door stood open and an eerie glow spilled from it, but every window was secured by steel shutters, like pennies on the eyes of a corpse.

  A white Scientific Support Unit van was parked near the front door. Next to it, another van, this one a red Mercedes bearing the logo of Mersey Property Development. A man sat in the driver’s seat with one foot on the sill and the other in the foot well, as though arrested in the act of getting into or out of the vehicle. The company’s mission statement was etched under the logo in gold lettering: Making your dreams a reality. The expression on his face said this man’s nightmares had been made reality.

&n
bsp; A young police constable approached, one hand raised. ‘Sorry mate,’ he said. ‘No civilians allowed.’

  Despite the suit, Rickman was often mistaken for a scrapper — an ex-boxer, or maybe a bouncer who had risen through the ranks to security manager. ‘DCI Rickman.’ He flashed his ID and the constable dropped his hand and stepped aside, flustered. Rickman jerked his chin towards the Mercedes van. ‘Did he call it in?’

  The constable followed Rickman’s gaze. The look of horror on the man’s face was unchanged. ‘He’s a surveyor. Been poking around the place for a couple of days, sussing it out for development.’

  ‘Got his details?’

  The constable tapped his clipboard. ‘All in here, sir.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Sir, he’s been sitting like that for the last half hour.’

  Rickman nodded. ‘When you’ve logged me in, see if you can get a medic to have a look at him.’ White crime scene suits and hard hats had been laid out by the back door of the Scientific Support van. He grabbed one of each and tore the plastic wrapper off the oversuit as he strode to the front door of the coach house.

  He had to duck to avoid the door lintel, but the hallway, though narrow and musty, was high enough to accommodate his six-foot-four frame comfortably. A halogen-white glow from a doorway to the left of the hall pinpointed the scene.

  The doorway opened on to a twelve-foot drop. The wooden steps lay splintered and scattered over a five-foot area, half-buried under ceiling plaster, laths and dusty cobwebs.

  Rickman heard the steady sound of scraping from one corner of the room, but only one CSI was visible, labelling a plastic crate filled with what looked like rubble. The heat of the lamps carried dust and the smell of ancient decay from the cellar below.

  The CSI glanced up, shading his eyes against the glare. ‘That you, Jeff?’ Rickman recognised Tony Mayle beneath the mask. A senior CSI and Crime Scene Coordinator managing the scene personally — this one really must have got to Mayle. ‘I see you’ve snagged yourself a zoot suit,’ he went on. ‘You can come and have a look if you like — just keep to the stepping plates.’

  An aluminium ladder had been secured under the opening and Rickman climbed down, stepping directly from the ladder onto the first creaking section of aluminium plates. With the hood of his suit up and a mask with dust filter in place, Rickman could see only Mayle’s eyes and forehead. The air in the cellar was damp and cool, but the CSI was sweating profusely.

  ‘Has the pathologist been already?’ Rickman asked, surprised that they had started work.

  ‘On his way.’ Mayle pulled the mask from his face and tilted his hard hat back a little. ‘Police surgeon declared.’

  Life extinct. Rickman felt a cold, hard lump, like a stone in the pit of his stomach. The basement extended the length of the house, approximately thirty-by-thirty square, the main structure of the house supported by brick pillars. The sagging ceiling had been shored up in places with steel props. Algae slimed every flat surface and one wall gleamed white with fungus.

  Mayle led the way along the aluminium plates to where two white-suited CSIs worked quietly behind one of the pillars, scraping at a pile of grey dust in the harsh glare of two arc lamps.

  Momentarily, Rickman formed an impression of sand sculpture, of bodies petrified in ash at Pompeii. Mark Davis lay on his side. His shirt was in tatters and hung on him like a rag. Something about the way his right leg was angled suggested a fracture. Curled in the crook of his arm, Bryony.

  Rickman felt it like a punch to the chest. She looked perfect, untouched, but for the grey dust caking her face. ‘How long—’ His voice caught and he had to clear his throat. ‘How long have they been here?’

  ‘Hard to say. Some of the blood is still wet, so probably a matter of hours.’

  ‘Hours,’ Rickman repeated. Bryony had been here hours. If they’d found her earlier — a matter of hours earlier — might she have survived?

  He looked more closely at the bodies. ‘I don’t see any blood.’

  One of the CSIs kneeling next to the bodies indicated some marks, showing dull red through the thick coating of plaster dust on Davis’s skin.

  The bodies were surrounded with red tiles, many of them broken into glass-sharp shards. Rickman looked up. The ceiling had collapsed, and the one above that. A square of perfect blue was visible through the hole in the roof. ‘Roof tiles,’ he said. ‘Could they have caused the injuries?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Mayle said. ‘We’re collecting samples for DNA analysis. What’s odd is, the male has extensive contusions and lacerations, but the baby seems unmarked.’

  Did Mark try to protect his daughter in those final moments? Looking at the child’s face, at the destruction of so new a life, it didn’t seem to matter. Experience had hardened Rickman to the practical realities of death: the blood, the decay, even the stench. But he had never been able to toughen himself against its futility.

  ‘Murder or accident?’

  ‘Not for me to say, Jeff.’ Mayle glanced behind Rickman at the drop from ground floor to basement. ‘But judging by the damage to the staircase, he could have been looking for shelter, suffered a fall. We’ll have to wait for the PM.’

  Rickman heard footsteps above them. Then Foster’s voice.

  ‘It’s Mark, isn’t it?’ Lee Foster stared down at them, shielding his eyes against the glare of the arc lamps.

  ‘Looks like it,’ Rickman said.

  Foster came down the ladder like he was still in the Marines: a foot either side of the main struts and he was down in a second. Rickman was relieved to see that he was fully kitted out — oversuit, gloves, the lot — though he hadn’t pulled the hood up, and he held the hard hat in his hand. Afraid of messing up the hair, Rickman thought.

  ‘Keep to the stepping plates,’ Mayle warned. ‘And use the hood and the hat.’

  Foster scooped his hood up as he approached. For a long moment he said nothing, merely stood with the hard hat clasped in his hands, his head bowed, in an attitude of prayer.

  At last he raised his head and stared at the bodies. Rickman could see that he was struggling with violent emotions.

  ‘Lee?’

  Foster exhaled. ‘I’d kick his head in if he wasn’t already dead.’

  Mayle glanced at Rickman, his concern clear — the mood Foster was in, he might just aim a kick at the corpse. Rickman placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder and Foster looked into his face, his blue eyes glittering with rage.

  ‘Mark knew this place was dangerous,’ he said. ‘He knew it. Why the hell would he come to this rathole — why would he put his baby in danger?’

  ‘Come on,’ Rickman said. ‘Let the CSIs do their job, there’s nothing we can do here.’

  Foster seemed to debate a moment, then he turned and, without a word, climbed the ladder with an agility almost equal to his descent. Rickman followed more slowly. They paused outside the front door.

  ‘Where’s Hart?’ Rickman asked.

  ‘With Maitland’s solicitor. Listening to the same pack of lies Maitland told us.’

  ‘He’s using his solicitor as an alibi?’ Rickman asked.

  ‘The way he talks, you’d think them two were joined at the hip.’

  Rickman judged by Foster’s tone of disgust that the interview hadn’t gone well. As he stripped off his overshoes and white suit, he noticed the surveyor still hadn’t moved. Rickman glanced at the constable.

  ‘On their way, sir.’

  Good — he didn’t like the grey cast to the surveyor’s skin. He’d seen enough people in distress to know that this man was in shock, and a quick evaluation put him in his mid-forties and slightly overweight — the perfect candidate for a heart attack.

  ‘“Merseyside Property Development”,’ Foster said, glancing at the name on the side of the van. ‘Ed and Hilary said the vultures were circling.’

  ‘Not our problem, Lee,’ Rickman said. ‘But if they’ve been here a couple of days, he may have seen something useful.’

  �
��None of it’s gonna be any use to Bryony,’ Foster said. He wrapped his suit into a neat bundle and tucked it under his right arm, curling his left around his hat like it was part of a naval uniform.

  Rickman left his crime scene clothing and hard hat next to the door and headed for the surveyor’s van. Foster made as if to join him, but Rickman said, ‘I’ll do this — you need to cool down.’

  The surveyor stared through Rickman as though he was invisible, or perhaps no more than a screen upon which he played and replayed the awful scene he had witnessed in the basement.

  ‘Sir?’ The man seemed to come to, looked surprised and rather worried to find himself sitting half in and half out of his van. Rickman introduced himself. ‘And your name?’

  ‘Cook.’ It was as if stating his name re-established his connection with ordinary life, a life untroubled by the shocking discovery he had made. His brow cleared and he made as if to stand.

  Rickman placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘You can stay seated, Mr Cook,’ he said. ‘When did you find the bodies?’

  Cook passed a hand over his forehead. ‘Ten o’clock. I popped into the office, then came straight here. I—’ He seemed to realise that he was talking too much and stopped.

  ‘And the door was unlocked?’

  Cook nodded. ‘I got a call as I was locking up last night. I was distracted. I—’

  ‘You forgot to secure the padlock.’

  Another brief nod, then Cook closed his eyes tightly and tears squeezed from under the lids.

  ‘When did you leave?’

  ‘Five.’ Cook wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. ‘Around five p.m.’

  ‘Were the steps in that condition when you left?’

  Cook shook his head. ‘I’ve been using them for two days — the lads who came to put the steel props in used them. They were rickety, but . . . Why the hell would anyone take a baby into a place like this?’ he burst out, looking to Rickman for an explanation. It was almost word for word what Foster had said, and Rickman guessed that it would be asked by commentators, presenters and the thousands of others who had invested so much emotion in Bryony’s plight. The fact that Mark Davis was on the run from the police might go some way to explaining it, but why didn’t Mark go to the house? Why didn’t he go to Ed and Hilary Shepherd?