STEALING POWER: A powerful psychological crime thriller (A Detective India Kane & AJ Colt Crime Thriller)

by Bo Brennan

  STEALING POWER

  BY

  BO BRENNAN

  This is a work of fiction.

  Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organisations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of authenticity and reality. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © Bo Brennan 2013

  Bo Brennan asserts the moral right

  to be identified as the author of this work.

  Cover Design by Humblenations.com

  Other books by this author:

  BABY SNATCHERS http://bit.ly/1mHaaDx

  Coming soon: THE WAGES OF SIN

  Chapter 1

  Tuesday 30th November.

  Parchment Street, Winchester.

  Sharon Cutler quick sorted the morning mail and tossed the unopened bills and bank statement on the hall table – bad news could wait ‘til later. The small, curiously padded envelope that remained had her attention. She followed the smell of burning toast wafting from the kitchen and slung the rigid envelope down on the table next to her MacBook, popped the smoking toaster, and yanked open the top window.

  Crunching down on the brittle toast she tugged out the contents of the envelope and frowned. Unless Amazon had moved into the bootleg market, the disc in her hand – with her name printed neatly on the cover spine – wasn't the Classical CD she'd ordered online for her mother.

  Unhinging the case she slid it into the disc drive and settled back in her chair, washing down the gritty toast charcoal with a swig of hot tea as the media player whirled into action.

  She clicked the big fat ‘play’ arrow flashing on the screen, and frowned when the unremarkable footage showed rooftops silhouetted against the night sky. She glanced at the clock, hoping the show was going to get better soon; she couldn't afford to be late for her nine-thirty meeting this morning.

  The camera slowly turned into the room, and a dressing table zoomed into sharp focus. Her brow furrowed as she leaned into the screen, recognising her own bedroom. What the fuck?

  “I want my bloody key back, Sarah,” she muttered, then flinched as a gloved hand – far too large to be her teenage sisters – leisurely caressed the wood of the dressing table, fingering her things. Squirting her favourite perfume into the air like it was some cheap Avon shit. Her nostrils flared with fury, that scent cost a bloody fortune.

  The hand explored the life mementoes her jewellery box contained; she sat stunned in wide eyed silence as the velvet drawstring pouch, an 18th birthday gift from her parents, disappeared before her very eyes. She damn well knew they were in there. Thieving bastard. Anger bubbled when she realised she’d been robbed, an apology in order for the younger sister who always borrowed and never returned.

  Her jaw clenched as the gloved hand stroked the silver frame containing the photo of six women, their arms around each other, smiling broadly beneath a Class of '94 banner.

  “Put it down arsehole. Get the fuck out of my house!”

  The camera panned wide. Her crisp white bed linen came into view. Her eyes narrowed, it looked like someone was in her bed.

  “If that's you, Sarah, you are so dead,” she whispered.

  The camera slowly began moving as the intruder stalked towards the bed. Sharon shifted in her seat, craning her neck, her face so close to the screen she could feel the warmth of her own breath bouncing back against her cheeks.

  Close up, the glittery nail polish of the female hand glistened in the light of the bedside lamp. When the gloved hand stroked the unresponsive arm, lying limp against her bed linen, the hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention and goose bumps pimpled her crawling skin

  The camera zoomed to the pillow, only a mass of long red hair visible . . . until the hand pushed the hair aside and turned the head towards the camera.

  “Oh my god, no!” The clatter of the chair against the kitchen floor startled her as she leapt to her feet, backing away from the computer.

  “It’s me, it’s me. Oh god. Please. No.” She flayed wildly around the room, hands on her head arms covering her face, trying not to see but unable to divert her eyes from her own face filling the screen.

  He's gone. Her breathing shallow, her legs weak, she splayed her hands on the table to steady herself as the camera slowly retreated to take the whole bed into view. Where is he, where’s he gone? From the foot of the bed, it was just her sleeping now. Alone and safe.

  Suddenly he was back; all of him from behind filled the view. She pressed her face close to the screen, trying to see his face, willing him to turn around. And when he did, she stumbled backwards across the kitchen in terror. His eyes stared out at her from the ski mask; she recoiled as he ran his tongue across his lips and smiled straight at her before returning his attention to the prey on the bed.

  She wrapped her arms around herself, hugged herself tight. Trembling, her wide eyes darted around the room. Was he watching her? Could he see her now? The window. Frantically she tugged at the rod of the Venetian blind, it clattered unevenly to the sill smashing her herbs into the sink, the terracotta pots shattered on impact. Sharon pressed her back up against the draining board when he threw her duvet to the bedroom floor. On screen she was naked, exposed. Dead. “Wake up! For fuck’s sake, wake up! Please!”

  Letting out a small cry, she covered her mouth as he straddled her on the bed, forcing his tongue between her silent dead lips. Her shallow breaths became more rapid as sheer helpless panic gripped her. Can’t breathe. Her fingers clawed at her throat, desperate for air. “Don’t. Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare,” she whimpered as his hands moved to his crotch.

  Her frantic eyes stared at the screen as he peeled off his gloves and discarded them from view. The noise of his zip was sickeningly loud against the eerie silence of the film and the sounds of her laboured breathing in the kitchen. While her mouth hung open, her parched throat only capable of making strangled sounds, Sharon Cutler’s head filled with screaming.

  At the first thrust of his hips she slumped to her hands and knees on the floor, throat constricting and body convulsing in harmony with the sickening grunts and groans echoing around her kitchen.

  Chapter 2

  The Paedophile Unit, New Scotland Yard, London.

  Detective Chief Inspector AJ Colt bounded into the cramped open-plan office space whistling, and seated himself on DI Maggie Bevan's desk waiting patiently for her to hang up the phone. As soon as she did, he resumed whistling and tapped out a tune with the rolled up wad of documents in his hand.

  She raised her eyebrows and leant back in her chair eyeing him with amusement, waiting for his impromptu rendition of Happy Birthday to end. “Cheers for that, budget meeting went well then?”

  “It did,” he beamed. “All that training you’ve had didn't go to waste after all.”

  He winced when she scowled and jabbed him in the thigh.

  “That was the CPS on the blower,” she said. “Hawley's sentencing has been moved forward to eleven this morning. Judge Peterson has some personal matters to deal with this afternoon.”

  “The day’s going downhill fast,” he said flatly. “You coming?”

  “Of course I am.” Maggie smiled and raised her brows. “Seeing that pervy bastard banged up is my birthday treat.”

  “I wouldn't bank
on it, Mags, Peterson likes rehabilitation and treatment orders. The CPS is probably preparing the appeal paperwork as we speak.”

  Maggie groaned and slumped across her desk.

  “I'll take you for lunch after,” Colt said, “that posh place opposite the court. Now that's a proper birthday treat.”

  “Can't,” she said, banging her forehead on the desktop. “I've moved your CEOP meeting back to 1pm this afternoon and organised sandwiches and nibbles.”

  He sighed and gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “How would I cope without you, Mags?”

  “You wouldn't,” she mumbled.

  AJ Colt laughed and resumed whistling as he made his way to his office. His good mood ended abruptly. The swift rise of bile burnt his throat as he froze in the doorway, gripping the frame with both hands for support. Please god, not again.

  He swallowed hard and circled the desk, eyes fixed on the innocuous padded envelope sitting atop acres of luminous post-it notes demanding his attention. Taking a deep breath, he wheeled his chair back to the wall – as far from the package as he could get – and dropped into it like a lead weight.

  He screwed his eyes tightly closed and began counting silently to ten in his head. Gripping the chair arms which such ferocity his knuckles turned white; he forced his feet to drag him forward till they rested in the void below the desk. 7, 8, 9 . . .

  “You all right, Guv?” Maggie plonked the mug of coffee down on his Rugby Union coaster.

  10. He opened his eyes. Shit. It was still there – the uniformed envelope with its meticulously centred white sticky address label, and 12 point Sans Serif font declaring it: 'Strictly Private and Confidential, For The Attention of Detective Chief Inspector AJ Colt,' underlined in generic black ink.

  “Jesus, Colt. Is that what I think it is?” Maggie said it so quietly it was almost a whisper.

  AJ Colt gave an involuntary shudder; someone had just danced across his grave.

  Hampshire CID, Winchester.

  When Detective Constable India Kane pulled into the car park at 9.15 am, her mentor – Detective Inspector Tom Dwyer – was standing at the kerb tapping his watch and frowning. She was half out the driver’s door when he shouted across the car park to her.

  “You're late.”

  “I swung by Katherine Darcy’s place,” she called back. “Put a note through her door.”

  Shaking his head, Dwyer rapidly closed the distance between them in long lanky strides. “Don't bother locking it, we're going out. You're driving.”

  She shrugged. “You're brave.” The last time he'd been a passenger in her car she'd thought he was having a seizure with all the leg twitching and flinching he was doing.

  Tom Dwyer frowned. “I'm also fragile, so go easy.” He climbed into the passenger seat, rumpling his face at the condensation running down the inside of the windscreen. “Still haven’t got that fixed then.”

  India yawned, leant across him and groped in the passenger door compartment for the rough stiff feel of the crumpled old crispy hand towel stored there. She'd bought the car at the beginning of the summer, just before the unprecedented heat wave and resulting drought had stifled the nation. The soft-top had remained permanently down for months, it was only when the autumn rain came – well past the dealer’s convenient one month warranty period – that she noticed the tear in the roof. Since the temperature had plummeted, ice formed on both sides of the glass.

  She vigorously wiped the puddles pooled on the dashboard and shoved the limp sodden towel back into its hidey hole. “Where we going?”

  “Parchment Street,” Dwyer said, frowning at the drip mark on his trouser leg.

  “You can't be serious; I'll have to drive all through the one way system when we can spit on it from here.”

  “Via a shop so I can pick up some aspirin.”

  India gritted her teeth. “I planned on revisiting Katherine Darcy today to see if any new memories have surfaced.”

  “Give it up, India, it’s a dead duck.” Dwyer winced and rubbed his forehead. “The woman’s an ex Page 3 bird for Christ’s sake.”

  India glared at him. “And?”

  “She’s had more men than I’ve had hot dinners!” He let out an exasperated sigh. “You’ve been running up your own backside for a month trying to track down blokes she’s shagged without half their sodding names. The only reason you should be revisiting her is to get a retraction statement.”

  “So that’s the new criterion for investigating rape, is it? We don’t bother if the victim’s had more consensual sex than you.”

  “You don’t even know she has been raped.”

  “She was out cold in the tape,” India said.

  “My wife’s out cold half the time we have sex.” Dwyer laughed. “She doesn’t care as long as I leave her tidy.”

  India stared at him. “Marital rape has been a criminal offence since 1991.” Inclining her head, she said, “Do you wear a ski mask when you rape your wife, Boss?”

  “Oh for god’s sake, go and see the bloody woman tomorrow. But if you expect to beat Sangrin to sergeant next year, learn this – having your name next to a ‘no crime’ is far better than an unsolved one.” He crossed his arms and sighed. “Take the lead on Parchment Street; it sounds so straight forward you might even close it.”

  DI Dwyer lifted the collar on his winter coat and frowned over his shoulder at the tear in the roof. India rolled her eyes and crunched the car into gear. Wanker.

  New Scotland Yard, London.

  AJ Colt sat with his elbows resting on his knees and his chin weighing heavily on his clenched fists, staring hard at the screen. Waiting for his masked nemesis to zip up his pants, replace his gloves, tuck his none the wiser victim in for the night, and saunter brazenly toward the camera.

  When the screen finally went black and silent, signalling the twisted horror show over – for now, Colt glanced at his watch. At almost twenty-five minutes it was the longest viewing they’d endured to date. He looked across the table at Maggie, slowly massaging her throbbing temples with her fingers. “Right,” he said, interlacing his fingers and cracking his knuckles. “Play it again.”

  Maggie grimaced. He wasn't sure what she found worse, the thought of a second viewing, or the sound of his knuckle bones crunching. He knew she particularly hated the latter, said it set her teeth on edge. “Just the beginning,” he cautioned. “The view from the window looks familiar.”

  “Looks the same as all the others to me,” she mumbled, “but hey, you're the boss.” She steeled herself and pressed play on the remote control.

  Colt intently studied the screen and saw what he was after during the first few seconds. “Slow motion forward from there, Mags. Real slow,” he urged, “frame by frame.”

  He leant forward in his seat, gazing at the dark regular shapes of frost covered roof tops. Occasional white light radiated from some windows, breaking up the blocks of otherwise solid blackness. Colt wondered how many families were behind those windows, happily going about their business, blissfully unaware of the monster in their midst and the horror about to be inflicted on their neighbour. He wondered if they even cared. It looked like an affluent area, no yobs shouting in the street below. His experience of incidents in affluent areas suggested they'd probably be more concerned about the effect on their own property prices than the human cost.

  “Pause there!” Maggie did and leaned forward to squint at the screen, her face showed she was oblivious to whatever it was he was seeing in the darkness. “I'm sure that's the Cathedral in the background,” he said, peering at the frozen image. He knew it well, had spent most of his life in its shadow.

  “Cathedral?” Mags frowned shaking her head. “I can't see any spire, Colt.”

  “There isn't one.” He stood and moved towards the screen tapping it with his finger. “Just a low tower.”

  He grabbed the envelope and checked the postmark. Hampshire. A half smile crossed his lips and lifted his frown. “It's famous for being one of t
he only cathedrals in the country that doesn't have a spire. He's in Winchester.”

  Parchment Street, Winchester.

  The fresh faced uniform guarding the door stood so proud and upright he looked like he had a broom handle stuck up his arse.

  “DC Kane, DI Dwyer,” India said, thumbing over her shoulder in the vague direction of her superior. The uniform reached for India’s warrant card, keen to fill the scene register with no mistakes, and then asked the DI to spell out his surname.

  “Who's inside?” Dwyer snapped, suitably unimpressed.

  The rookie’s eager eyes darted down to his closely guarded register. “The Scenes of Crime Officer, and the first officers on the scene – PCs Smith and Wesson, Sir.”

  Dwyer let out an impromptu laugh. “Brought in the big guns then.”

  India rolled her eyes, same joke different scene. It had been two years since Paul Smith and Kate Wesson had been partnered up and the dickhead still found it amusing.

  Confused, the rookie frowned. “No firearms involved, Sir.”

  India waved a dismissive hand, ignore him, I do. “Who's the SOCO?” she said.

  “Officer Maplin,” he said confidently, not needing to consult his log again. Vicky Maplin had that effect on men. “They're in the kitchen, straight through the lounge, to the left.”

  Dwyer strode ahead, far too important to waste words on a mere rookie. “Cheers mate,” India said, remembering all too vividly the first painful rungs on the police career ladder and all the shitty menial jobs it entailed. Nothing changed. Being a Detective Constable made you the dogsbody in a different department.

  Once inside she paused briefly to watch her mentor, bent double and retching in plain view of their lowly colleague on the door. She smiled inwardly, instant karma. There was no way the rookie would be forgetting the name DI Dwyer in a hurry. He waved her on; instead she took a moment to poke around the lounge, revelling in his discomfort.