by Jack Gatland
And this had angered him.
He’d acted out by hurting the littler kids; not physically, but mentally. He’d take things of theirs, left outside the tents at night and throw them into the Thames, or break them, leaving them back outside the tents for them to find the following morning. He’d tell stories of the Grey Lady, a ghostly woman who hanged herself in Medmenham Abbey, a stately home across the Thames and historically infamous as the location of Sir Francis Dashwood’s The Hellfire Club, who used it for "obscene parodies of religious rites" in the mid-1700s, her ghost walking the banks of the Thames late at night, stealing children’s souls. He’d even pretended to become possessed by Dashwood, terrifying the younger children until they cried, now and then finding an intrigued teenage girl who wanted to know more.
He’d never gone too far with that, except for that one time.
But now it was summer, school was over, and the Hurley campsite had become a prison for Craig. After seven years there, he had built a reputation; one that his parents had often argued with him about. They were one strike away from being banned because of his antics, they’d say. He’d laugh and tell them that the ghost of Francis Dashwood had done the terrible things, not him, and then walk out before they could reply. In fact, he’d just done that, walking with Scamper eastwards along the Thames, towards Hurley Lock, a mile or so away.
The Thames was to his left, strangely quiet for the time of day; nobody was fishing, there weren’t even any kids playing in the water. It felt wrong, odd, somehow. The bank of the river became an open field to his right, and about fifty yards away a bank of trees showed the woodland copse that bordered the campsite. This was where Scamper was running to as Craig tried to get his battered old iPod Nano to work. If he’d charged it earlier, he wouldn’t have heard the barking.
And that would have changed everything.
As it was, he hadn’t charged the iPod, and therefore he heard Scamper barking at something, somewhere near the edge of the woods. He wouldn’t come back after being called, and Craig almost continued on, convinced that Scamper would just follow him, or just do him a favour and leave forever when he heard the barking cut off abruptly with a yelp.
Turning back to the trees, Craig could see that Scamper had run over to the rickety bridge. And, walking towards it, frustrated that the bloody dog had most likely run into the trees, he stopped about twenty feet away from it as a man appeared the other side of it, emerging from the woods.
He was old, maybe in his fifties. He was slim, had short brown hair in a buzz cut, and wore a green Barbour jacket. His face was pale, like he didn’t get out into the sun that much. And he was smiling.
‘Have you lost your dog?’ he asked, his voice showing the slightest hint of some kind of European accent. ‘He is right here. Come and get him.’
‘Nah, it’s okay,’ Craig said. There was something about this old man that unnerved him. ‘I’ll just wait.’
‘I think he is tangled in nettles,’ the man replied. ‘You must come and help him.’
‘It’s cool, I’ll wait until you’ve moved on,’ Craig tried to smile, but it came out as a leer. The man however nodded at this.
‘Understandable,’ he agreed. ‘I am a stranger. You are right to be wary. But we are not strangers, are we Craig?’
At the sound of his own name, Craig felt an icy wind blowing down his spine. He’d never seen this man before. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘How do you know my name?’
‘I know everything about you,’ the man continued to smile as he spoke, and Craig found himself irrationally angry at this. ‘I know you have been coming here for years. I know that you are a bully. I know what you did to that girl.’
‘I didn’t assault her,’ Craig snapped back. ‘She came on to me. I didn’t do anything.’
‘I’m sure you did not,’ the man replied, stepping back from the bridge, beckoning Craig in. ‘But perhaps we should talk more about this together, rather than shouting it across a stream?’ The old man watched Craig, still not moving.
‘You dog is in pain,’ he said. ‘You will not save him?’
Now terrified, Craig shook his head. The man thought about this for a moment and then pulled something out of his jacket pocket, tossing it over the stream, landing at Craig’s feet. As Craig bent down to look at it, he could see it was an ivory handle of some kind. Picking it up, he realised it was a wickedly sharp cut-throat razor.
‘See?’ The man smiled. ‘Now you have a weapon. If I attacked, you could hurt me. Please, come in, Craig. Come and play a game with me.’ And as Craig watched, the man walked back into the woods.
With the blade now in his hand, Craig felt more in control of the situation. The man was right; he could hurt him and hurt him badly if he tried anything. And, as he crossed the rickety bridge and entered the wooded copse, he saw Scamper, a rope loosely tied to his collar and secured to a tree, wagging his tail with delight. The dog wasn’t in pain or in distress at all. Craig looked to the man, angry that he had lied to him, and found him sitting on a fallen tree trunk, another fallen trunk facing him.
‘Sit, please,’ the man indicated the other fallen trunk. ‘We have much to talk about.’
Now more curious than scared, Craig ignored the dog and walked to the tree, sitting down on it, blade still in his hand, ready to defend himself. Noting this, the man reached into a pocket and pulled out a hip flask with two small metal cups, made of metal bands that clicked into shape when flicked. Into these he poured a liquid, offering one to Craig, who shook his head.
‘And I thought you were almost an adult,’ the man sighed, drinking one cup. ‘See? Not poisoned. But you will need to drink this, Craig Randall of Gleeson Road.’ He held the offered one up again. ‘Drink.’
Craig didn’t mean to, but the man’s voice was so commanding that he couldn’t help himself, taking the metal cup and downing the liquid with a cough. It was a sweet, strong taste, like apples.
‘Good, yes?’ The man smiled. ‘Schnapps. With a little benzocaine added to numb the pain.’
Craig coughed as the man pulled out a small, silver coin.
‘You know what this is?’ the man asked, not waiting for an answer as he explained. ‘This is a solid silver East-German Mark.’ He twirled it in his fingers. ‘See? A number one is on this side, that is heads, while on the other side is a compass and a hammer; tails. I have had this for many years now.’ He looked up from the coin now, staring intently at Craig.
‘We play a game now,’ he explained as he reached into his pocket again, pulling out another cut-throat razor. ‘I will flip it. If it lands heads, I will take this razor, this very sharp blade and slash my throat open. If it shows tails, however, you will do this instead, yes?’
‘No!’ Craig rose now, angry. ‘You’re mad! I—‘ he stopped as a heaviness overcame his legs, sending him back to the tree trunk. ‘What did you do?’
‘I told you,’ the man replied. ‘Schnapps. With a little benzocaine.’
‘I don’t want to play,’ Craig whined, realising that this was a terrible place to be right now.
‘I understand, it is scary,’ the man nodded sympathetically. ‘But you have been a wicked man, Craig. As have I. And as such we must face repercussions.’ He rolled the coin over his fingers. ‘And you might not get tails. I might lose.’
‘I’ll scream,’ Craig insisted. ‘I’ll call for help.’
‘And that is your right,’ the man nodded calmly. ‘But know that if you do, I will be gone before anyone arrives. And then, at some point very soon, I will enter your house while your mother, father and dear little sister Ellie are asleep and I will slowly and painfully skin them all alive. And then I will find you and make you watch as I slice pieces off you with this straight razor.’
Craig was crying. ‘Please, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to die.’
The old man smiled.
‘Maybe you will not,’ he said as he flicked the coin into the air, watching it lazily flip before l
anding back on the back of his hand. ‘Let us see, shall we?’
DI Freeman climbed out of his BMW and looked around the campsite. It was right after the school holidays had started, and there were families and children everywhere. A nightmare to keep a crime scene contained.
There was a perimeter already placed around the entrance to the copse; a couple of police officers ensuring that the small crowd of onlookers couldn’t enter. This was good. They really didn’t want to see this.
One onlooker, a young dark-skinned woman with frizzy black hair, waved to him as he approached the police officers, catching his eye. Forcing a smile while silently swearing, Freeman walked over to her.
‘Kendis,’ he said amiably. ‘I didn’t think you worked for The Maidenhead Advertiser anymore?’
‘I don’t,’ Kendis Taylor replied, putting her phone onto voice recorder. ‘But I’m visiting mum; it’s the Olympic opening ceremony tonight and my cousin’s in it. Saw the blues and twos as I was driving to her, thought I’d come have a look.’
Freeman wanted nothing more than to escape. ‘You needn’t turn that on. There’s no story here.’
‘You sure?’
Without answering, Freeman walked away from the annoying reporter, showing his ID to the nearest officer and passing under the incident tape, entering the woodland clearing. Here he found more officers, mainly forensics, working the case while the public were kept out of sight. Recognising one of the officers through the white PPE suit she wore, he waved to gain her attention. Regan was a solid SOCO, and he didn’t want to piss her off if he could help it, so he kept as far away as he could.
‘What’ve we got?’ he asked. Regan walked over to him, glancing back as she did. On the floor, lying on his back, his arms outstretched and his throat slashed, was a teenage boy.
‘Craig Randall, fifteen years old, throat slashed from right to left,’ she said, making the motion with her hand. ‘Went out with the dog two hours back. Dog arrived back in the campsite about an hour ago. Family went looking for him, couldn’t find him, tried calling his phone, no answer. Eventually that caravan there heard the ringing and entered the woods, thinking someone had lost a phone. Instead, they found this.’
‘Nice,’ Freeman stared at the body. ‘Cause of death?’
‘We think it’s some sort of razor,’
‘Think?’ Freeman looked back to Regan. ‘No weapon found?’
‘None yet,’ Regan admitted. ‘But then he could have slashed his throat and then thrown it into the bushes or even the stream.’
‘You think this was self inflicted?’ This surprised Freeman. Regan waved for him to follow, moving a little closer to the body, but not close enough to contaminate the scene.
‘See there? The cut is from right to left,’ she explained. ‘It’s jagged, so it wasn’t committed; almost like he started, stopped and then continued through.’ She pointed to the left hand, currently against the ground. ‘Blood started spurting out on the right-hand side, then spurts to the left as he continues to cut, where it splatters all over his fist and arm. But his palm is absent of any sign of it.’
‘Because he was gripping something,’ Freeman nodded. ‘Any reason he’d do this?’
‘Apart from the fact that he’s apparently a little shit with a bit of a rep for being a bully?’ Regan shrugged. ‘Better ask the parents.’
‘No note?’
Regan pointed to a tree where, on the bark, was etched one word.
SORRY
‘That do for you?’ she asked.
DI Freeman sighed. ‘Anything else?’
‘Actually, yes,’ Regan waved to an assistant who passed over a clear plastic bag. In it was a piece of card the size of a business card, blank except for one image; a little red man with what looked like a hat on, arms out to the side, and holding a scythe. ‘We think this is some kind of collectable—‘
‘It’s murder,’ Freeman said, his face draining of all colour. ‘This wasn’t suicide. I need to call Walsh.’
‘Walsh? Why does he need to get involved?’ Regan was irritated now, aware that she’d missed something, but unaware of what it was.
‘Because we’ve seen that picture before,’ Freeman replied, pulling out his phone and dialling. ‘Yeah, it’s me,’ he eventually said into it. ‘Get Detective Chief Inspector Patrick Walsh on the line, now.’
He looked back to the body.
‘Tell him we have another Red Reaper.’
About the Author
Hi, I’m Jack.
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I’ve been an award-winning writer several times under other names, and over the years I’ve worked with some of the biggest names in books, film and television.
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These novels however are my first time writing crime fiction.
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An introvert West Londoner by heart, I live with my family and dog just outside London.
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One day soon I might even tell you my real name.
Locations In The Book
The locations that I use in my books are real, if altered slightly for dramatic intent. Here’s some more information about a few of them…
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The Worshipful Company of Stationers and Newspaper Makers is indeed real, and is one of the many Livery Companies in London that still exist. They often have dinners, but this one was a fictional one.
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The George Tavern in Southwark is also a real location, and has held meetings for both The Sherlock Holmes Society and The Dracula Society among many others, in the same back room that the Star Chamber meet in my story. Built back in the 1500s, it was badly damaged in the Great Fire of London in 1666, and rebuilt in the 1670s. Charles Dickens was definitely familiar with The George, having mentioned the inn by name in his novel ‘Little Dorrit’.
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The Boxing Club near Meath Gardens that Johnny and Jackie Lucas allow Monroe to stay in doesn’t exist, and neither do the Twins - but the location used is the current Globe Town Social Club, within Green Lens Studios, a community centre formerly known as Eastbourne House, that I would pass occasionally in my 20s.
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Hurley-Upon-Thames is a real village, and one that I visited many times from the age of 8 until 16, as my parents and I would spend our spring and summer weekends at the local campsite. It’s a location that means a lot to me, my second home throughout my childhood, and so I’ve decided that this should be the ‘home base’ for Declan. And by the time book four comes out, I’ll have completely destroyed its reputation!
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Brompton Cemetery is a real place, and the organisation the Friends of Brompton Cemetery are real people, although I don’t know if they actually have keys to enter!
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St John’s Gardens is a real park in Westminster and was a place I’d visit many times in the nineties, when I (not Gladwell) would visit Page’s Star Trek Bar; there was free parking on Saturday nights and Sundays beside it. After the bar was closed and turned into apartments I never visited again, but I’ve passed it on occasions.
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The Horse and Guard pub does exist, but under another name; this is The Chelsea Pensioner on the Fulham Road. A pub I’ve been to many times over the years, I didn’t have the heart to blow the actual pub up in the story, and so renamed it!
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Not so much a location, but Macneale & Urban not only existed and were a known safe manufacturer, but they did indeed make one of the only letter-based combination safes in existence. That said, they were only four-letter locks, not the eleven letter one of the story. Unfortunately, the company ceased manufacturing in 1903, so any safes found with these locks are now incredibly rare.
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Finally, The Fitzroy Tavern does exist and for many years had a monthly Doctor Who fans meet up; in the nineties, when the show wasn’t on, you would often find writers such as Russell T Davies and Steven Moffat there, both of whom would go on to show
run the series when it returned years later. The monthly meetings moved though when the pub was updated a few years back, and I’m not sure if they returned when the pub reopened.
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If you’re interested in seeing what the real locations look like, I post ‘behind the scenes’ location images on my Instagram feed. This will continue through all the books, and I suggest you follow it.
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In fact, feel free to follow me on all my social media, by clicking on the links below. They’re new, but over time it can be a place where we can engage, discuss Declan and put the world to rights.
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Visit my Website
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Subscribe to my Readers List
