Next Victim

by Helen H. Durrant

  NEXT VICTIM

  (Detective Rachel King Book 1)

  An absolutely gripping crime mystery with a massive twist

  Helen H. Durrant

  First published 2018

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, 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.

  ©Helen H. Durrant

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  THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Epilogue

  AVAILABLE NOW BY HELEN H. DURRANT

  Glossary of English Slang for US readers

  FREE KINDLE BOOKS

  For Melissa and Holly who spent, what for them was a boring and foot-aching day, wandering around the back streets of central Manchester while I did research and looked at locations.

  Prologue

  Three years ago.

  Alice Brough put the birth certificate on the table, smoothed it out and began to read, devouring every word. She’d spent long hours searching for this, and now she’d found it — her proof. Her twin brother was real. Not imaginary, like she’d been told so many times.

  They seemed to think she’d made him up. “She needs other children to play with,” her Aunt Hettie would say. She said this all the time. “It’s no wonder she makes up fairy tales.” Well, this would show them.

  All the details on the certificate checked out. He had been born on the same date as her, fifteen years ago, to Julia and Alexander Brough, her parents. They’d named him Alfie. Alice and Alfie. Twins.

  So, why the denial?

  Well, there’d be no more uncertainty. She knew the truth now. Alice smiled. At last, the heavy burden of years of doubting had been swept away and her heart was lightened. She had a brother. His name was Alfie. He was no fairy tale but flesh and blood like her.

  All she had to do now was find him.

  But first she wanted an explanation, and that could only come from her father. Apart from him, what little family she’d had were gone. Aunt Hettie was in a home, slowly dying of dementia, and her mother . . . Alice couldn’t remember what had happened to her. But she was long gone, and hadn’t been mentioned in years.

  Alice picked up the document and went to find her father. He was in the back garden, pruning his roses. Alice called to him from the French doors, waving the document at him. “Look! Come and see. Now you can stop telling me I’m mad.”

  For years, her questions about her brother had been dismissed as the ramblings of a lonely child. But Alice wasn’t lonely. She clearly remembered Alfie, a real boy, flesh and blood, not some imaginary playmate. They’d played together in this garden, in this very house. Well, her father would have to come clean now. There was no denying the evidence in her hand.

  Her father, Alex Brough, a tall man in his forties with a shock of prematurely grey hair, looked at Alice. What was he thinking? What was he remembering?

  “Later, Alice. I’ve got to do this before it gets dark.”

  “No! Speak to me now. What do you know, Dad? What happened to little Alfie? What won’t you tell me? Why?”

  He swore under his breath and wiped his forehead with an earth-stained hand, leaving smudges of dirt on his face.

  “He’s not real, Alice. Alfie is in your imagination. I’ve told you.”

  “He is real, Dad. Look, here’s his birth certificate.” She held it up.

  “You’re mistaken. That will be for someone else.” He looked at her, his expression exasperated. “I don’t know what you want from me, Alice. I can’t help you.”

  She almost stamped her foot. “The truth, Dad. That’s all I want. Why all the pretence? What are you hiding?”

  “Nothing. This has become an obsession, Alice. You must let it drop before it takes you over.”

  It was pointless arguing with him. Despite the proof in her hand, he was giving her the same old story.

  “What about my mother, then? What happened to her?”

  “She left us a long time ago. I’ve told you that too.”

  Another lie. Her mother would never leave her. “Did she take Alfie?”

  “No. How many times do I have to say it? There is no Alfie, never was. Let it go, Alice. You’ll make yourself ill.”

  Alice remembered her brother. She remembered the holiday they’d had on the south coast with Aunt Hettie that last summer. It had been real.

  “I’m begging you, Alice. Accept that there is no Alfie and move on.”

  The problem was, Alice was not the accepting type.

  Chapter One

  Now — Sunday

  The man took a deep breath. The air tasted sweet. It had been a satisfying kill. He closed his eyes and pictured his victim. Young, good-looking, perfect in fact. He’d picked him up in a gay bar on Manchester’s famous Canal Street, and had arranged to meet him tonight outside another of the bars there. This wasn’t a clever move, because there was probably CCTV. A mistake he’d avoid in future. Still, even if he’d been filmed with the young man on his arm, he was nothing but a nondescript shadow among the more flamboyant clientele that thronged the place.

  At this time of night there was no one around this barren piece of land. Time to go before folk began staggering home from the bars and clubs. They used it as a shortcut. He slowly backtracked to the arch, his eyes on the ground. He was looking for anything that had been dropped, either by him or the lad. He also left certain items for the police to find. The plan he’d devised would tie the investigatio
n in knots. The police would chase up the wrong suspects and, if he was lucky, charge them.

  He hoped he’d been careful about forensics. He’d worn gloves and had made sure not to leave hair or anything else with his DNA on it at the scene. His and the boy’s clothing would go in the garden incinerator.

  Under the arch, he neatly packed the boy’s clothes and his tools into his sports bag. He took a last look at the corner where he’d killed the lad, and a shiver ran up his spine. Now he could leave. Job done.

  He strolled home, enjoying the cool night air, high on his success. He thought about the coming days. The media would be all over this in no time. The police would be forced to ask for their help. They’d have no identity for the boy and nothing that pointed to his killer. In the coming hours, the police would throw a fortune in resources into searching this area. But all they’d find is what he’d left for them, along with a few muddy footprints on the towpath.

  He was in control.

  He put his head down and his collar up in order to avoid being recognised on his way back to the train station. The worst thing would be if he met someone who knew him, always a possibility. He needed to blend in, to slip through the Saturday night crowds unnoticed, a nobody.

  He’d taken his first victim tonight to test the plan. Now he could savour his success. Planning was key. He’d spotted him a few weeks ago, sitting outside his favourite pub on Canal Street, drinking a lager. The lad was a regular, always around at the same time. He was in his late teens, tall with a lithe body, obviously kept himself fit. The lad had longish, curly blond hair. This vision of beauty had been going around the tables, asking for money. When they first met the lad had said he was a rough sleeper, even better, unlikely anyone would come looking.

  The man had called him over to his table and offered him a drink and something to eat. The lad had readily accepted, and the rest was a doddle. The man had gone over the scenario in his head numerous times, and hadn’t expected to fail. They’d arranged to meet tonight. The man offered him money for sex, said he knew a place, and the lad had agreed at once.

  He took off his gloves and put them in his overcoat pocket. He walked towards the lights of Oxford Road. Despite the late hour, there were people about, youngsters mostly, spilling onto the streets from the bars and clubs. He watched a young woman, skirt up to her backside, scream at her boyfriend. After treating him to a flurry of obscenities, she flounced off. Tut tut. A girl could get into serious trouble dressed like that in this area. Just as well he preferred young men.

  Chapter Two

  Monday

  Mornings in Rachel King’s household were fraught. Escaping to another room with her coffee didn’t help either. She could still hear the incessant bickering between her two daughters, Megan, eighteen, and Mia, fourteen. Why did this have to be the backdrop to breakfast every single day? Combined with the radio going full blast, it made for an uncomfortable start, to say the least. Today, the girls were at the kitchen table fighting over Megan’s mobile. Mia had snatched it from her hands and was scrolling through the texts.

  “Megan’s got a boyfriend,” Mia shouted.

  Megan responded by cuffing her younger sister across the arm.

  “Mum!” Mia cried. “She slapped me.”

  “Stop it, the pair of you. Eat up, or you’ll miss the bus.”

  Rachel had had it. Mornings were hectic enough without all this. She couldn’t hear herself think. Not wanting to get the day off to a bad start, she went outside into the garden and checked the messages on her own mobile. There was a rambling missive from her ex-husband, Alan, about the alterations to the house. He would have to wait.

  The second one stopped Rachel in her tracks. Out of the blue, Jed McAteer had written wanting to know if she was free on Friday. She felt sick. How long had it been? Two years at least, she reckoned. That particular dalliance hadn’t ended well, so badly, in fact, that Rachel had made a pact with herself. That was the last time. Jed was a bad habit she had to kick.

  But she couldn’t think about that now either, she had work to go to. Past mistakes would have to take a back seat. By now, the row between the two girls had escalated. Rachel could hear them out on the patio. The noise reached a crescendo just as the house phone rang.

  “Shut it, the pair of you!” Rachel screamed, receiver in hand. Thankfully the call was from Elwyn Pryce, her detective sergeant. He knew what her life was like.

  Rachel was a DCI with the serious crime squad for east Manchester CID, based in Ancoats. Currently she headed a three-person team. Given the growth of the area she’d been promised a DI, but that hadn’t happened yet.

  “We’ve got a body, ma’am, in Ancoats. A young man. It’s a bad one. Looks like he was tortured, his throat cut, and then thrown into the canal.”

  Rachel felt her stomach lurch. Not now. I can really do without it. It had been a busy few weeks, and the team had hoped for some down time. Rachel looked at her girls. Noisy or not, she’d be lucky to see much of them for the foreseeable. “Text me the location. But it will take me at least thirty minutes to make it through the city at this time of the morning.”

  “The site is secure. Forensics and the photographers are on their way, and Dr Butterfield is already here.”

  Colin Butterfield was the home office pathologist. “Don’t let him move the body until I’ve seen it.” This was the part of the job that Rachel least relished, but it was necessary. She shouldn’t have had to remind the pathologist about the body, but on the last two occasions, Doctor Butterfield had had it carted off before she arrived. Elwyn might be good at his job, but she needed to see the victim in situ.

  Work call over, and the two girls were still going at it. She’d had enough. She snatched the mobile from Megan’s hand. “Boyfriend? I thought we were supposed to talk. You tell us who he is and then we meet him. You know that.”

  “It’s only Dan, Mum. She’s being a drama queen as usual.” Megan stuck her tongue out at her sister.

  Mia folded her arms and turned away. “I’ve seen them kissing.”

  “You little snitch! You promised not to say anything.”

  “Stop that!” Rachel shouted. “Megan, you’re older, you should know better. The pair of you, get ready for school — now! Mia, get your stuff from your room.”

  “I’ve got a tutorial,” Megan said. “I’m meeting Alice at hers. We don’t have to be at uni till eleven.”

  “Megan gets on my nerves.” Mia bounded down the stairs, threw her schoolbag over her shoulder and took the money her mother held out for her. “Can’t take a joke, that’s her problem.”

  “I can still hear you,” Megan shouted from the kitchen.

  “If you’re so fond of this Dan, bring him home, Meggy. Let’s give him the once-over.”

  “Mum! He’d hate that.”

  “Okay, but don’t blame your sister for telling. I need to know what’s going on in your life. It’s for your own good, you know. It’s a tough world out there.” Rachel kissed Mia’s cheek. “It’s your dad’s for tea tonight, and don’t forget. Off you go, or you’ll miss the bus.”

  Rachel’s marriage had survived till Mia was ten. It had fallen apart after she’d got her promotion to DCI. She’d been thrilled at the promotion, but the extra responsibility and increased workload was the final straw for her relationship. Once she was engrossed in a case, everything else took second place. All the apologies in the world couldn’t make up for the missed family events and school plays. When she’d had to miss Christmas the year Mia turned nine, Alan had flipped.

  She couldn’t blame him, and in a way, it was a relief. Rachel was fond of Alan, she loved him after a fashion, but not in the way a wife or lover should. She’d settled for second best and had carried the guilt for a long time. The man she really wanted, the one she’d been in love with since her teens was Jed McAteer.

  Thinking back to those uncomplicated times brought a smile to her face. They’d been neighbours in the student accommodation block. Rache
l was at college because of her ambition to work in the police force, but for Jed, it was simply a way of leaving home. Despite having the entry qualifications, Jed McAteer was no student, but he was good-looking. The fact that he’d fallen for her too had Rachel counting her blessings. He could take his pick.

  Rachel was tall and slim, her eldest described her as 'willowy'. Facially she had good bone structure, framed by curly red hair which grew fast and had been the bane of her life in her teens. Rachel harboured no illusions. She was attractive, but her nose was a little long and she made little effort on the makeup front. Fashion was another alien land. Jeans and a shirt, with a warm coat and boots in winter would do.

  Rachel fell for Jed almost at once and he for her. They spent every spare minute together. Then Jed fell in with the wrong crowd. Rachel would despair at his antics, but she never imagined that it would have the outcome it did.

  During the first year of their studies, Jed was arrested and convicted of handling drugs. He did a short spell in prison and that sealed his fate. Despite her love for him, any further relationship was out of the question because of Rachel’s burning ambition to be a detective. It was a straightforward choice, her career or Jed. She chose her career. A decision vindicated when Jed returned to a life of crime on his release. University over, Rachel fulfilled her ambition and joined the police. At that point she put all thoughts of Jed out of her mind. It hadn’t been easy, but eventually she met Alan. She tried very hard to make the relationship with him work. But kids aside, settling for Alan had been a mistake. The divorce was payback for Rachel.

  Alan knew none of this. Rachel had let him believe that the split was entirely down to her job and the pressure it put her under. It was kinder that way, and it suited both of them in the long run. Alan was a good man and determined to do what he could to ensure that their daughters didn’t suffer. He knew the strain she was under. The kids plus a demanding job was a plateful in anybody’s book. They had talked it through and had agreed to share responsibility for the girls. But what Alan did next surprised them all. He bought the house next door. A great help as far as child care went, but a little daunting to have your ex privy to all the minutiae of your life.