by Paul Finch
“I came here to check you were all right,” I said, my voice rising. “I mean, here you are, living on your tod … with a fucking maniac on the loose! I came to reassure you you’d be safe. After all this time I still care about you, and this is the thanks I get!”
“Don’t you understand? I don’t know you! If the truth be told, I’ve only got your word for it that we ever knew each other in the first place!” She paused, tongue-tied, as if the reality had suddenly struck her that she was alone in her flat with a hulking stranger who was starting to turn nasty. “I bet we didn’t,” she whispered. “I bet you’re not even a policeman, are you … oh my God!” She screamed. “You’re him!”
“What?” I said, stunned.
But she’d already fled into the kitchenette. I assumed she was going for a weapon of some sort, but then realised with shock that that there was an exit door in there. She yanked it open and dashed outside.
“It’s you!” she shrieked. “You’re the Strangler …”
I raced after her. “Christ Almighty, Erika … wait!”
I scrambled outside into a sordid back-alley, tripping and sending a pile of dustbins scattering. Immediately, a light came on in the building next door. Even a district like this was now timed to hair-trigger responses should a disturbance be heard.
I jumped to my feet, pulling my gloves on. Erika was still screaming and shouting for help. I staggered in pursuit. The passage was narrow and muddy and cluttered with rubble, but even barefoot she’d already made forty yards on me. I caught a glimpse of her white nightie as she turned a corner ahead.
“Help!” she shrieked again. “Somebody help me please!”
“For God’s sake, shut up!” I hissed.
I was terrified. If I got caught in this situation, I would have some serious explaining to do. I sensed more lights coming on as I rounded the corner. A derelict yard lay ahead. Broken glass crunched underfoot as I ventured into it. That surely had to slow her down, I reasoned, and indeed it did, because I spotted her nightie again as she struggled to negotiate a jagged heap of rubble. She was whimpering with fear and pain, but still desperate to escape, cutting and bruising herself in her efforts to climb over it.
I bounded across the yard, and she began to scream again, hysterically.
“You stupid bitch!” I shouted, going up the rubble after her, and getting deluged with a volley of stones and bricks.
I bore through it head down, and finally caught her around the waist, throwing her onto her back with as much force as I could. She squealed as the wind was driven from her lungs, but continued to struggle, clawing at my eyes, scratching my head.
“You stupid damn bitch!” I roared, hitting her – first with a slap, and then, when that failed to calm her, with a punch in the mouth, though this only made her resist all the harder. She fought back like a cat, which panicked and enraged me. It was a new experience, not to put someone down with a single blow. So I landed a few more, driving my fist into her face like a jackhammer. The third or fourth impact caught her squarely in the right eye, slamming her head back onto the stones with a resounding thunk.
Suddenly, she lay still.
There was a horrible silence as I crouched over her, panting.
Seconds passed before I could roll myself to one side. Even then, she didn’t move. Sodden with sweat, I felt for a pulse. There wasn’t one. Frantically, discarding all the rules of first aid, I lifted her head and felt around the back of it. There was a deep gash – my gloved fingertips came back wet and sticky. I put my ear to her lips, but no breath issued. An icy shiver ran up my spine. In the dim starlight, I observed a face now blackened and pulped. Her nightie was torn, blotched all over with dirt and blood.
Dread gripped me. I wanted to run for my life, but now I could see lights everywhere. I could hear voices – angry voices, male voices. A siren began to whoop as it drew steadily closer. My radio started going crazy, and I had to snap it off. With no other option, I grabbed Erika’s body and hoisted it onto my shoulder, which in itself was a tough job. She’d grown into a sturdier lass than I’d expected. Blowing hard, I clambered down the rubble and made my way to a narrow entry, all the time having to kick through trash. On a night like this, the deafest bastard in Britain would have heard such a racket – and then there was a shout from what sounded like the next street.
“Over here!” a man called. I even recognised the voice; it was PC Terry Lugg from the surveillance team.
I set off up the entry, but, before I’d made twenty yards, I spotted a light ahead. It was a blue beacon, swirling steadily. I froze. A police car had parked at the far end, but whether by luck or design I wasn’t sure. A bulky figure was standing beside it, putting on his flat hat. Then I heard a yelp and a whine.
Christ-Jesus, dogs!
I went back along the entry, puffing and grunting. Erika had quickly become a killing-weight – my shoulder had gone numb.
“Terry!” a voice shouted. “I think there’s some blood here!”
I came to a staggering halt; the sweat had turned to ice in my hair. Whoever it was, he was in the yard where I’d overpowered her. He might even have found the exact spot. I was dumbfounded, unsure which way to turn. Then I spotted it – a narrow wooden gate leading through to another enclosed area. I leaned as gently on it as I could, praying that its hinges wouldn’t creak. By a miracle, they didn’t. I slid through, and was moving freely again. A huge building loomed in front of me, some sort of derelict warehouse. I could vaguely make out corroded brickwork, windows covered with planks. I stumbled towards it, and found a stairway running down. It was so steep that I almost fell, but I just managed to keep my balance as I descended, and at the bottom saw a door that had been broken from its rotted hinges. Foul blackness skulked beyond, but I pressed into it regardless, blundering through a series of damp, empty rooms. Scared as I was, I knew I couldn’t make it much further. At last I slung my burden down against a wall, and crumpled to my haunches. Total darkness embraced me, but I resisted the temptation to draw my torch and switch it on.
It was several minutes before I regained my breath sufficiently to backtrack a little and investigate. I crept like a cat, but heard nothing. No strong torch-beams shone down through the dripping passages. Eventually I returned to Erika, the sweat chilling on my brow, my joints stiffening. My eyes were now attuning to the dark, and I registered dim starlight filtering through a skylight far above. She lay where I’d left her, motionless. Fine thing if she came round now, and hadn’t been dead after all. I almost laughed.
Then I was hit in the back of the skull.
It was a stunning blow. Sparks burst before my eyes as I fell headlong to the concrete floor. Pain lanced down my neck and spine; I felt hot fluid dribbling past my ears. Somehow though, as my consciousness ebbed towards oblivion, I was able to turn over – and saw a huge, featureless figure standing above me. A dark leather mask hid his face; a lump-hammer was clamped in his fist.
“This is my patch, arsehole!” he rasped in a low, guttural voice. “My fucking patch!”
“Y-yeah. This … is my fucking gun!”
I managed to get three or four shots off. In the enclosed space, it looked and sounded like thunder and lightning. Staccato images rushed at me: a man clad all in black, wearing a full-head rapist mask, but flailing backwards like a puppet with its strings cut; glittering ruby spatters in the thick, dust-laden air; blinding sparks as shells ricocheted from the damp brick walls.
The deafening roars rolled on forever it seemed, and then there were voices around me, and strong, warm lights. I felt hands at my wrists, at my throat – someone was pushing a soft bundle beneath my head.
“You got him, Tim,” a voice said. I think it was Terry Lugg’s. “You got him clean as a whistle.”
“The … the girl?” I managed to mumble.
“Sorry pal, too late for her.”
I tried to say more, but darkness flowed over me – an oily, impenetrable darkness.
“You
’ve got to stay with us, Tim!” Terry said. “Try and stay with us …”
*
The Hag Fold nightmare came to an abrupt end on November 12th 1998, when the Giro City Strangler, alias Robert Bolting, a middle-aged car mechanic who lived locally, was shot and killed by undercover police. The success was tempered by the murder of an eighth victim, a 36-year-old woman, who was abducted from her house and beaten to death before rescue could be affected. The officer who fired the fatal shots was also seriously injured, though he later went on to make a full recovery and receive the highest commendations for bravery and outstanding police work.
‘All he had to do was name the woman he wanted. It was that easy. They would do all the hard work.’
Dark, terrifying and unforgettable. Stalkers will keep fans of Stuart MacBride and James Oswald looking over their shoulder.
Click here to buy now.
A vicious serial killer is holding the country to ransom, publicly – and gruesomely – murdering his victims.
A heart-stopping and unforgettable thriller that you won’t be able to put down, from bestseller Paul Finch.
Click here to buy now.
DS Mark ‘Heck’ Heckenburg is used to bloodbaths. But nothing can prepare him for this.
Brace yourself as you turn the pages of a living nightmare.
Welcome to The Killing Club.
Click here to buy now.
His worst nightmare is back …
The fourth unputdownable book in the DS Mark Heckenburg series. A killer thriller for fans of Stuart MacBride and Luther, from the #1 ebook bestseller.
Click here to buy now.
Heck needs to watch his back. Because someone’s watching him …
Get hooked on Heck: the maverick cop who knows no boundaries. A grisly whodunit, perfect for fans of Stuart MacBride and Luther.
Click here to buy now.
About the Author
Paul Finch is a former cop and journalist, now turned full-time writer. He cut his literary teeth penning episodes of the British TV crime drama, The Bill, and has written extensively in the field of children’s animation and for Dr Who. However, he is probably best known for his work in thrillers, crime and horror. His best known work to date is the five-novel DS Heckenburg crime series, the first three titles of which all attained official ‘best seller’ status.
Paul lives in Lancashire, UK, with his wife Cathy and his children, Eleanor and Harry. His website can be found at www.paulfinchauthor.com, his blog at www.paulfinch-writer.blogspot.co.uk, and he can be followed on Twitter as @paulfinchauthor.
By the same author:
Stalkers
Sacrifice
The Killing Club
The Chase: an ebook short story
Dead Man Walking
A Wanted Man: an ebook short story
Hunted
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
http://www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East – 20th Floor
Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada
http://www.harpercollins.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited
P.O. Box 1
Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London, SE1 9GF
http://www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
http://www.harpercollins.com
