Dead Lands

by Lloyd Otis

  DEAD LANDS

  First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Urbane Publications Ltd Suite 3, Brown Europe House, 33/34 Gleaming Wood Drive, Chatham, Kent ME5 8RZ

  Copyright © Lloyd Otis, 2017

  The moral right of Lloyd Otis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-911583-25-7

  MOBI 978-1-911583-27-1

  EPUB 978-1-911583-26-4

  Design and Typeset by The Invisible Man

  Cover by OR8 Design

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  urbanepublications.com

  CONTENTS

  One: London, August 1977 The Messenger

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten: The Messenger

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen: West Yorkshire September, 1975

  Seventeen: London

  Eighteen

  Nineteen: Earlier

  Twenty

  Twenty One: New Jersey

  Twenty Two: London

  Twenty Three: The Messenger

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty One

  Thirty Two

  Thirty Three

  Thirty Four

  Thirty Five

  Thirty Six

  Thirty Seven

  Thirty Eight: Yorkshire

  Thirty Nine: London

  Forty

  Forty One

  Forty Two

  Forty Three

  Forty Four

  Forty Five: Cardiff

  Forty Six

  Forty Seven: London

  Forty Eight: The Messenger

  Forty Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty One

  Fifty Two

  Fifty Three

  Fifty Four

  Fifty Five

  Fifty Six

  Fifty Seven: The march

  Fifty Eight

  Fifty Nine

  Sixty

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  ONE

  London, August 1977

  The Messenger

  The cellar door closed and served as a stark reminder of the punishment he received for stealing. He was eight years old and comforts were at a bare minimum in a place where the light had long ago been banished. No food, just a bottle of water and a bucket to piss in. Aged twelve, the cellar’s discomfort became his friend, one he could stand beside or hide behind whenever he chose to. Over the next few years, the visits to the darkest place lasted for no more than an hour each day, but the beatings were something he swore he would never forget.

  Aged sixteen, he took his revenge.

  The moment he snatched a life, he felt free. It meant nothing, to watch the light fade from his tormentor’s eyes, to witness the cranium’s patchwork of congealed blood. Or to touch the sweat dampened leathered skin of the newly deceased.

  He buried his tormentor under the glare of the moon and went to sleep that night, with the dirt from the makeshift grave still caked underneath his fingernails. He chose not to wash it away, or to cleanse himself, because its meaning empowered him. It became a turning point in his life, forcing him to realise his purpose which, for better or for worse, had led him to here.

  He had invited himself to tour the house while he waited for her, looking at the photographs, trinkets, and other things that marked a glittering career. From the observations, he built a picture to prepare himself because he liked to relate and understand. He wanted to let his victims know that pain was not always the enemy; it protected the weak just as it hindered the strong.

  *

  The key turned in the lock and the door slammed. She had arrived. The person he had come to see opened the door and met his smile. His very best smile. She screamed but he was quick.

  *

  He couldn’t peel his eyes away from her and the more his grip tightened the more her skin reddened. They both knew she would soon be another statistic and after they found her, the do-gooders would invade her privacy, follow strict procedures and scrutinise her belongings. They’d take notes, interrogate friends and lovers, and set up an investigation into her death.

  It was the sort of bleak future that scared her. No future. A sudden end. He loosened his grip to watch her crawl away and inch closer towards the door, while the tedious rub of the carpet brushed against her bruised skin. It hurt and created a searing sting, but the majesty in her struggle heightened his curiosity as she neared the door, outstretching her fingers as if touching an angel of God.

  Then he dragged her back.

  Darkness followed.

  Her desire to live didn’t last as long as he had wished and after he removed his hands from around her crushed trachea, he collected his sports bag from the hallway. He unzipped it then unravelled the cellophane. A cheap gimmick, a prop, like his Halloween mask, and he took from it what he needed to wrap her body tight. He couldn’t bear to see her face. It didn’t look as pretty now as when he first saw her and on the flat of her stomach, he pulled her along to where he wanted, sometimes dragging her by the ankles.

  At the end, he couldn’t help but to admire his work and he took a moment to reflect. He was not an educated man, never had the patience for the learning, but that spurred him on. Intelligence could manifest itself in other ways and he exited her home as if it was his very own, knowing that the cloak of anonymity would be his most powerful ally in the days to come.

  TWO

  Arlo Breck stifled a yawn and watched the small crowd as they stood upon worn pavements littered with fallen leaves. Amongst the few were stoned students dressed in flower-power T-shirts and bell bottoms. The ends of their hair danced on their shoulders, and the voyeuristic ones had their faces painted with the pretence of innocence. Breck ignored the sharp chill in the air alongside the tight pinch in his throat to duck underneath the police tape. It cordoned off the crime scene and he almost slipped when dog poop caught the underside of his imported Florsheim leather loafers. He managed to scrape it off on the edge of a kerb and, up ahead, spotted a junior officer. Breck grabbed his attention with a flippant wave. The officer logged his name and then he went through the makeshift tent that led into the house – right side first. It was something he always did when visiting a crime scene at the start of a new case. His very own zwangsstörung moment, and from a distance Patricia Kearns watched, wondering why she always had to be paired with the weird ones.

  Blind to anyone else, Breck moved past the patterned wallpaper and an array of Victorian paintings. He headed straight towards an area protected by a group of uniformed officers. Some wore familiar faces while others didn’t but Breck acknowledged them all with a courteous nod. Then he switched his attention towards the body.

  He crouched down for a closer inspection of the victim, a single woman with a prominent career. She had
been propped against the wall in a sitting position and wrapped tight in cellophane. What shocked him most were her eyes. They were still open. Breck held a hand to his mouth, disappointed that his years of experience failed to soften the blow of her lost wondering stare. He shot a glance over at the dangling phone receiver and tried to piece together a possible scenario. While he did so, Kearns padded in.

  She paused to admire a bona fide signature from Paul Newman. It hung on the wall next to a shelved bottle of Cinzano. Breck didn’t care for her star struck moment. He welcomed the company.

  ‘Are we sure this one is ours?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. It’s been classed as a sensitive case due to her occupation. She’s a finance director of a large city firm with a portfolio of big influential clients.’

  ‘Have we got a name for the deceased?’

  Kearns pulled out her notepad. ‘Janet Victoria Maskell.’

  ‘OK, let me have the evidence bags. I think I’ve found something.’

  Breck had spotted a palm-sized plastic object on the floor next to the skirting board. Alongside a magazine with scribbled words on its cover. He lifted each item then dropped them into the separate bags that Kearns produced. She didn’t even ask him for the details. He’d tell her soon enough.

  ‘How long do you think it will be before the report is in from the Coroner’s Office? A week or so?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe. It’s hard to say. Bart will perform the examination without delay but after that, well you know what it can be like. Or should I say what Frank can be like?’

  ‘Yes, he may do it in a couple of days if he doesn’t get distracted but I heard he’s celibate nowadays. Anyway, we need to move fast on this. Let’s say two hours tops. Use our special powers of authority to push it through. I’m sure he’ll understand.’

  Breck rose to his feet and zeroed in on a faint wiper-blade of red on the wall, that was almost obscured by the body. He also noticed the cellophane had accentuated a circle of bruising that covered Janet’s face. She had taken a lot of punishment, and Breck had a multitude of questions worming around inside his head which he couldn’t answer. Feeling frustrated, he left and dragged Kearns with him.

  Breck handed the evidence bags to the junior officer to label up with his mind still stuck on what he had just seen.

  ‘What else do we know about the victim?’

  ‘She never married, hasn’t got any children and from a business perspective, she may have collated a few enemies over the years too.’

  ‘I’m happy for you to dig a little deeper into all of that and run a check on her landline for me.’ Breck rubbed the bristles on his chin, thinking about the items he found.

  ‘What do you want me to do next then?’

  ‘Well, the first forty-eight hours in any investigation are crucial so it’s a good time to get a house-to-house under way. Put some pressure on a few neighbours. See if they saw anything.’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  Detective Inspector Arlo Breck and Detective Sergeant Patricia Kearns, walked towards the Austin Allegro, a car that looked decent under the murky grey skies but somehow lost its appeal when the sun shone across its exterior. Kearns split away to organise the house-to-house, while Breck leaned against the car, wanting to inhale the air far away from the corrosive stench of the house. He saw nothing wrong with that and amongst the dispersing crowd he thought he recognised one or two. The daughter of a local vicar and a woman that had lost her son in The Troubles, but he couldn’t be sure.

  He slipped his hands into the pocket of his duffle coat and found an old packet of Benson & Hedges. He had kicked the habit a while ago so tossed the packet away without a second thought. A moment later Kearns returned, patting her strawberry blonde perm into place.

  ‘I’m dying for a fag,’ she said.

  Breck responded with a smirk. ‘Sorry, haven’t got any. I stopped smoking ages ago.’

  ‘The house-to-house inquiries will be under way in a second.’

  ‘Good. Let’s hope we get a firm lead from them – and make sure you’re on top of it.’

  Breck moved away from the car and slipped under the police cordon to venture over to where the crowd had been. Kearns watched him swing his gaze from left to right before settling on a view in front of the victim’s home. Although it was odd it became compulsive viewing. All that was missing was the popcorn. Then Breck crossed the road to return to the Allegro but didn’t expect to see Kearns still standing there.

  ‘I need you to be hands on with this Pat and manage those house-to-house enquiries,’ he told her. ‘Don’t let others do it.’

  Kearns didn’t take offence. ‘You don’t trust them?’

  ‘Yes, I do, but I trust you more.’

  The vote of confidence please Kearns and she padded away, failing to see their old friend Frank Cullen who had just arrived. At fifty-plus with a raspy tone to his highland vocals, Frank was a good height and well-spoken, with a distinguished air about him. Born in Edinburgh, he ventured to London in his early twenties only to fall in love with an older woman. The relationship fizzled out after a month but he decided to stay. Breck caught up with him and extended a hand.

  ‘You’re here early.’

  Frank shook it. ‘I came as soon as I heard, wanted to see what I’d be dealing with,’ he said in reference to the victim. ‘Anything I should know?’

  ‘It looks like she suffered but I’m no medical examiner.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning but I’d say you know what you’re talking about.’

  Breck followed Frank back up to the crime scene. Their conversation skidded between the weather, Frank’s cats, Italian art, and that day’s national news. But when they walked through the tent and into the house to view the body, normal service resumed.

  Frank, a semi-religious man, crossed himself before he entered the room and took a good look at Janet. He mumbled something too and in the end Breck and Frank stood side-by-side staring.

  ‘What do you reckon Frank?’

  ‘The beating could have killed her but I see marks around her neck. Have you called Bart?’

  ‘He’s on his way. For some strange reason, you always arrive before him.’

  ‘You know me. I often like to turn up at crime scenes to see what is coming my way. I can’t break the habit.’

  ‘Will there be any benefit to Bart rushing here right now?’

  ‘For certain, but there’ll be no benefit for her. She’s dead.’ Frank was being himself and meant it when he said it. ‘Bart will confirm the time of death and all that so don’t worry.’ Frank took a step forward. ‘Quite the artist our killer is.’

  ‘Yes, quite the artist.’

  ‘Why the cellophane?’

  ‘Hard to answer that. Looks like he’s a bit kinky but I’m keeping an open mind. It could be a woman we’re after.’ Breck used a free hand to sling a few strands of curled dark hair back into place. ‘I’ll catch you later,’ he said before leaving the house for a second time.

  Breck returned to the Allegro, sat inside and waited for Kearns. He combed through what he had seen, unsure if he should be surprised because it hadn’t taken long for the first anomaly of the case to surface.

  Kearns eventually opened the door and joined him inside. ‘We’ve done the house-to-house and picked up a bit of background information but not so much about today. However, there was one possible avenue to pursue in the name of Wynda Brodie.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Nothing, she’s not in at the moment. One of the lads recognised the door number and told me she’s always ringing the station to complain about kids, and people she thinks looks suspicious. If anyone has seen anything it’ll be her.’

  ‘OK, we’ll speak to her when we can.’

  Breck wound down the window, raised the phlegm from his throat and spat it out. Under normal circumstances one lead was better than none but he had something else.

  ‘We need to use all our resources to locate a person b
y the name of Alexander Troy.’ He forced his eyes to narrow, binding his dense eyebrows together.

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘It’s the name on the credit card I found and the name scribbled on the magazine that’s now in the evidence bag. I reckon he’s our prime suspect and considering the mess he has made of Janet Maskell, it’s best we stick URGENT on everything.’

  THREE

  The area of Cransham remained controlled by the mood swings of crime. Slotted next to Lewisham and stretching all the way to New Cross, the litter-stained streets were divided by racial tension and mistrust, under a socio-economic climate that offered little beauty, just a picture of deprivation and hopelessness. It helped it to fast become a destination that even the dead would refuse to inhabit - if they had a choice.

  Breck and Kearns worked within the Sensitive Crimes Unit (SCU), a silent arm of the Yard. They were housed in the offices of the local station and had greater powers than most to investigate crimes that were deemed sensitive. Crimes that affected the country’s power brokers. With Janet Maskell being the account handler for a glut of the capital’s big businesses, she fell within their remit.

  Now back in the office, Breck stared at his desk in dismay. It was a mess.

  A newspaper took up a quarter of the desk space with the job section on display – with a mark against roles he fancied. The only way anyone left the SCU was through retirement, or in a body bag. Those were the unofficial rules and Breck detested his own carelessness. He turned the paper over to see the sensationalist headline, ‘War on Our Streets.’ The report focused on an impending far-right march, fearing it would splinter the whole community and set race relations back years. Everyone in Cransham and its surrounding areas were nervous about it, even the Mayor’s office pleaded with the Commissioner to stop it. Effective police work wasn’t a job for those out for an easy ride, or susceptible to bouts of depression.

  A scrunched-up ball of paper zipped past Breck’s head. His eyes scanned the department. No one claimed responsibility.

  ‘Not me,’ one officer said.