by Bill Kitson
THE
BLEEDING HEART
KILLER
An absolutely addictive crime thriller with a huge twist
DI Mike Nash Book 11
BILL KITSON
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
First published in Great Britain in 2020
© Bill Kitson, 2020
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, 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. The right of Bill Kitson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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ISBN 978-1-78931-664-3
CONTENTS
Acknowledgements
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
About the Author
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In memory of my Canadian friend Chuck Pearce.
As a measure of Chuck’s generous spirit, he once travelled 4,000 miles to attend one of my book signings. Like everyone who was honoured by his friendship, Chuck’s memory will remain in our hearts forever.
He was certainly not ‘Heartless’ and would have loved the joke.
Acknowledgements
There is always someone who helps with research. I’ve discussed many aspects of crime and scenarios with people from many walks of life, but I never imagined I would have the need to visit an abattoir. On this occasion I did, and I have to thank my butcher, Giles. An escorted in-depth visit was a day I am extremely grateful for.
I must also thank my barrister friend Anton for his advice regarding jury selection and practices; I learned a lot . . .
My reader, Julian Corps, for telling me it all makes sense, and pointing out when it doesn’t!
And, as always, I have to thank my severest critic, my wife, Val, and author Wendy McPhee King, my ever vigilant proofreader.
I must also thank Jasper and all the team at Joffe Books, without whom, this latest in the series would not be available.
Chapter One
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2003
The train was late. Normally, this would have worried her. Normally, she would have been on the edge of the platform, pacing up and down impatiently, glancing from the track to the station clock and back again, to the lines stretching away into the distance — empty.
Today, however, was far from normal. Today, everything was different. Today, it didn’t matter if the train was five, ten, even fifteen minutes late. Today, she had all the time in the world. All the time she needed — and yet no time at all.
Even the train she was awaiting wasn’t her normal one. Not the usual small, two-carriage sprinter that carried her, day in and day out, to and from the town where she studied. No, the train she was expecting today was the long, snaking express that carried passengers all the way from the Scottish capital to its English counterpart. It would not carry her all that way, though.
And there it was at last. The first indication that the train was approaching came from the rails that hummed and sang with the vibration from the weight of the rolling stock. This was it. The moment she had been waiting for.
As the Edinburgh Waverley to London King’s Cross express, travelling at over eighty miles an hour, thundered through the station, the girl stepped from the platform.
* * *
James Potter stood in front of the window, staring out at the rain-swept landscape. Staring at it, but not seeing it. Not seeing it, although the rolling fields represented only a fraction of the hugely successful agricultural business he had nurtured and managed from small beginnings to the powerhouse it now was. None of this mattered, for now all that James could see was Denise. She filled his vision, waking, or sleeping. He could see her clearly now, her school blazer, the grey pleated skirt, the knee-length socks, the beret set at a rakish angle, the crisp white blouse, and the tie, the sole sign of minor rebellion, knotted loosely, exposing the top button of her blouse.
He saw the smile on her upturned face as he bent to kiss her cheek every morning, saw it as clearly as if she was actually in the room, not solely in his imagination. Denise was his favourite, his baby, his little girl. Perhaps it was because of her shy, timid nature. Not that he didn’t love Fiona, but Denise’s elder sister was much more self-reliant, much bolder and self-confident.
He didn’t hear the door open; didn’t hear Fiona enter the room. She cleared her throat nervously, which made him look round. His elder daughter looked upset, but that was natural as they waited for news. He’d heard it said that not knowing was the worst. He’d believed it then; didn’t believe it now. He didn’t want to know.
‘What do you want?’ he asked, his tone sharper than he’d intended.
She had disturbed his daydream, a daydream where everything was all right, where life was normal. A daydream where everyone was happy, except that since his wife’s death, each day was tinged with a little sadness, even before . . .
‘What is it?’ Potter repeated. ‘I told you I wasn’t to be disturbed.’ Even as he spoke, Potter could see the tears streaming down Fiona’s cheeks. His heart lurched with fear. Fear that the inevitable had come to pass. Fear that the truth he had fought against accepting could not be denied any more.
‘I’m sorry, Father, but the police are here. They want to speak to you.’
Suddenly, Potter knew beyond the last shadow of doubt that they had come with the most appalling news.
‘They want you to go with them,’ Fiona struggled to get the words out, struggled for a way to say the unacceptable. There was none. ‘They think they’ve found her. There’s a body — they need you to identify it.’
* * *
It was the third time in the past eighteen months that Fiona had walked into this chapel behind a casket bearing the mortal remains of one of her loved ones. She stood behind the coffin, waiting for the undertaker’s signal. She was the only mourner who would follow it into the service. The lack of others
to help comfort her was a potent reminder, if she needed one, of how alone she was. Not that the presence of others could bring Fiona much in the way of comfort.
Eighteen months ago, she had been alongside her father and younger sister as they prepared to bid farewell to her mother, who had succumbed to an aggressive form of cancer. The only blessing that Fiona could think of, and it was a well-disguised one, was that her mother had not suffered long. Distressing though her mother’s passing had been, Fiona could not have imagined the horrors of what was to follow.
When she made her second visit to the chapel, she had only begun to live the nightmare her life would become. On that second occasion, she had supported her father, both spiritually and physically, as they mourned her younger sister Denise. At sixteen years of age, Denise had her whole life in front of her, until that future was snatched away in so cruel a fashion.
Even then, when Fiona could not imagine how things could get worse, further tragedy struck. The heartbreaking ordeal had proved too much for her father, and James Potter had suffered a massive stroke. Although he survived for some weeks, he was oblivious of the preceding events: oblivious of anything that was happening around him. Fiona, on the other hand, was all too painfully aware of everything, as her days were spent mourning her sister, and her evenings sitting at the bedside of her comatose parent. The second stroke, the fatal one, had been inevitable, as the doctor pointed out, and ought to be seen as a release. Maybe for her father, Fiona thought, and she could hardly begrudge him that, but not for her. For her, all she could see was a future that was bleaker than ever.
Fiona drew herself up, took a deep breath, and walked slowly into the chapel of the crematorium, flanked by the undertakers, who formed a protective cordon around her. The service was sparsely attended, she noticed. The bitter irony didn’t escape her. When they’d held the service for Denise, the chapel had been packed by her sister’s many friends, supplemented by locals and curious onlookers, along with the police, and inevitable press. Now, as the only family member left, Fiona could count the attendees on both hands. There was a neighbour, who had seen it as her duty to be there, and a man she thought was a former colleague of her father. There were several that Fiona recognized as members of the press or media. They had camped out in front of the house during the period after Denise’s suicide, and then during the investigation. A friend of Fiona’s, there to lend what moral support she could, was the only other person in the chapel. The most notable absence was that of anyone representing the police.
Fiona heard little of the service, lost as she was in her own world of grief and misery. Even when the vicar mentioned her by name in his prayers, she took no account of his words, or the sentiment behind them, receiving no comfort. All she wanted was for the whole charade of a service to be over so that she could go home, lock the door against the world, and have a drink. She needed a drink.
She had risked one as she waited for the cortège to arrive. Brandy for breakfast wasn’t the ideal way to start the day, but Fiona had needed it. As she led the way from the chapel, Fiona was reminded of the day she had supported her father through the ordeal of Denise’s funeral. That memory led to another, of the note she had later found hidden in Denise’s room. The note she had concealed from everyone, anxious to protect her father from even more distress. Not surprisingly that in the circumstances the coroner had ruled Denise’s death as suicide, presumed to be resultant of an unwanted pregnancy. But in Fiona’s mind, it was murder. Murder by those men who had brutally assaulted the young girl, raped, and impregnated her. Now, without having to worry about the distress such revelations would cause her father, Fiona would have to decide whether it would achieve anything if she was to approach the police. If she chose to do that, she could claim to have discovered the note somewhere in the house. As soon as she returned home she would sit down and think over what to do. But first, she needed that drink.
Chapter Two
2006
Although not billed as such, the fight was regarded by many within the boxing fraternity as an eliminator for the British lightweight title, left vacant by the retirement of the previous holder. Almost all the inhabitants of Bishopton, including many who had never previously had the slightest interest in boxing, followed the lead-up to the contest with interest.
It was an unprecedented event in the town’s history, with one of the contenders having been born and raised in Bishopton. Jack “the Jack-Hammer” Burrell still lived in the town, although his burgeoning professional career meant that he returned home less often than he would have liked.
Wes Stanton, a retired boxer who, at the peak of his career had been a leading contender for the British Welterweight title, had opened his own boxing club. He had coached Jack Burrell as a schoolboy, guiding him on the first rungs of his amateur career, until the demands of his success called for full-time management, but they remained friends. It was Wes Stanton, who gave Burrell his nickname. It arose from the devastating uppercut that had knocked out several of his opponents. ‘It’s like being hit with a jack-hammer,’ Stanton had commented to a reporter, and the name stuck.
As he watched the fight, Stanton was aware that something was wrong. He was puzzled, seeing the strained expressions of those in Burrell’s corner. It could hardly have been the progress of the fight. That looked to be going Burrell’s way. With two rounds left, he was so far ahead on points that all he had to do was remain upright to ensure a points victory. As it happened, that wasn’t necessary. Midway through the penultimate round, Burrell caught his opponent with a stinging left hook, and as the man reeled back, slightly dazed by the punch, he was hit with the legendary uppercut.
Those who watched the fight on television were impressed by Burrell’s performance throughout. Only Stanton, with his deeper knowledge of the sport, noticed the body language of Burrell’s trainer and his second at the end of each round.
During the ensuing celebrations, Stanton glimpsed the expression on the face of Burrell’s manager. It was fleeting, but Stanton was certain he hadn’t imagined it. The man’s fighter had just won a prestigious bout, so why did the manager look so furious? Furious, and perhaps more than a little scared?
Two weeks later, the headline in the Netherdale Gazette wiped away the euphoria that had followed the victory. “Local Boxer’s Licence Suspended — Burrell Faces Lifetime Ban after Failing Drugs Test”. The article, which cited a statement given by a spokesman for the British Boxing Board of Control, conveyed little more than the bald facts contained in the headline. The statement confirmed that Burrell had tested positive for a performance-enhancing substance and that an inquiry would be held in a month’s time. If that inquiry ratified those findings and Burrell was unable to provide a satisfactory explanation, the article stated, he faced the probability of a lifetime ban from the sport.
It was only days after the article shocked the local community that the gossip began to circulate. There was talk of his lack of preparation for the fight. This was compounded by a rumoured sighting of the boxer in a Leeds nightclub less than forty-eight hours before the contest. Then another story, even uglier than the previous ones, started to spread. Although no one was quite sure where the information came from, many believed it provided a logical explanation for Burrell’s desperate need to win the fight, and his recourse to banned substances to ensure victory.
Burrell, it was alleged, had been addicted to gambling for a long time. It had started with the new fad for online casinos, and once he was hooked, rarely a day went by without him placing a bet on whatever he could. The inevitable result was that he owed a fortune to a string of bookmakers, and that he had been banned from two casinos. In order to wipe out his losses, it was said, Burrell had placed a huge bet on himself to win the fight, using several acquaintances to disguise the fact. With the result in question, bookmakers had withheld payment on all winning bets until the outcome of the inquiry became public.
* * *
Wes Stanton had always enjoyed a game
of darts. Thursday night of each week in the winter was taken up with his pastime. Had he set off for the pub fifteen minutes later, he would have met his former protégé. As it was, Stanton didn’t know Burrell had called at his flat until he returned home later that evening.
The bar of the Kings Arms in Bishopton was crowded, as always on darts night. The visiting team from the nearby Black Bull Inn was a good one, and competition was heightened by the local rivalry. After narrowly defeating his opponent, Stanton bought the man a pint, the traditional gesture of compensation for the loser.
‘Cheers,’ — the man raised his glass — ‘I didn’t expect to be here tonight, so losing is no surprise. Mind you, you played well,’ he conceded.
Stanton smiled. ‘Your date stood you up, then?’
‘Not exactly. I was supposed to be up in Sunderland, working at the dog track, but the meeting got cancelled due to an outbreak of kennel cough.’
‘You work at the greyhound stadium? That must be interesting.’
‘Not exactly, I work for a bookmaker.’
‘Which one, Billy Bets?’
The man’s expression reflected his distaste. ‘Hardly,’ he lowered his voice, ‘I wouldn’t want to work for them, especially now the old boss has retired.’
‘I didn’t know that. Who owns it now?’
The bookmaker’s clerk grimaced and glanced round, an almost nervous reaction. He lowered his voice and said, ‘Gus Harvey, although he doesn’t like his involvement being bandied about.’
Stanton looked shocked, which his opponent could understand. Gus Harvey’s reputation was anything but savoury. Knowing the man’s occupation led Stanton to pose a question that had been puzzling him. He leaned forward, speaking in a low tone that matched that of his recent opponent. ‘Tell me something, were you involved with Jack Burrell? I mean, was he into you for a lot?’
