DARK HOUSES
A gripping detective thriller full of suspense
Helen H. Durrant
First published 2016
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.
GET THE FIRST DI GRECO BOOK NOW!
DARK MURDER
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A woman is found dead by a canal . . . why have her eyes have been viciously poked out?
Detective Stephen Greco has just started a new job at Oldston CID and now he faces a series of murders with seemingly no connection but the brutal disfigurement of the victims. Greco’s team is falling apart under the pressure and he doesn't know who he can trust. Then they discover a link to a local drug dealer, but maybe it’s not all that it seems.
Can Greco get control of his chaotic team and stop the murders?
HELEN H. DURRANT’S CALLADINE AND BAYLISS MYSTERIES ARE AVAILABLE NOW:
BOOK 1 DEAD WRONG:
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First a shooting, then a grisly discovery on the common . . .
Police partners, D.I. Calladine and D.S. Ruth Bayliss race against time to track down a killer before the whole area erupts in violence. Their boss thinks it’s all down to drug lord Ray Fallon, but Calladine’s instincts say something far nastier is happening on the Hobfield housing estate.
Can this duo track down the murderer before anyone else dies and before the press publicize the gruesome crimes? Detectives Calladine and Bayliss are led on a trail which gets dangerously close to home. In a thrilling finale they race against time to rescue someone very close to Calladine’s heart.
BOOK 2: DEAD SILENT
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A body is found in a car crash, but the victim was already dead . . .
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
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CHARACTER LIST (contains minor spoilers)
Glossary of English Slang for US readers
Prologue
Murder.
It was a skill. It was addictive. It was his life.
The skill lay in the planning; making sure you wouldn’t get caught. The addiction was incurable. There was no rehab for people like him.
He watched the young man go into the café. He already knew his name — Neville Dakin. They had never spoken, but he was about to change that. He’d lined up Neville Dakin weeks ago. On one occasion their eyes had met, just fleetingly. There had been a spark in that look. And then he knew.
Soon he would strike again — three times. And it would be Neville who took the blame. The police would see only what he put in front of them. It would never occur to them that Neville had been set up. Then, just as he had in the past, he’d walk clean away.
He sat down in a chair facing the young man. “I don’t talk to strangers,” Neville said.
“But I’m not a stranger. You know me. Look closer.”
The young man peered at him. “Are you sure?”
The café was empty. There were no prying eyes. He couldn’t pass up this opportunity. “Yes, I’m your friend. You must remember me.” The smile he gave Neville was open and confident.
Neville shook his head. “Sorry. I forget things, you see. It’s the pills. They make me weird. They make me sleep as well. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I don’t even know who I am.”
“In that case they aren’t doing you any good. You should stop taking them.”
“I have to take them. I’ve been ill.”
“But you’re better now? You look fine.”
“It’s not what I look like. It’s what’s going on up here that matters.” Neville tapped the side of his head.
“I can help you recover.”
“I’ll never be right. They said so.”
“They get it wrong.”
“Are you real?” Neville leaned forward, reaching out to touch him, and he ducked away. “You’re not, are you?” Neville said. “But I don’t mind.”
Neville smiled shyly.
“I don’t think much of where they’ve put you.” He stirred his coffee. “That block’s where they put all the no-hopers they want to hide away. Everyone will think you’re a nutter. You should complain.”
“I am a nutter. That’s the whole point. That’s what’s wrong with me. But I like it there. I have my own room,” said Neville.
“You won’t be happy on your own.”
“That’s what Edna said. Will you visit me?”
“No — but you can visit me. You can help me with something if you like.”
“Will you take me out?” Neville said.
“Do you like girls, Neville?” Girls. Just the hook he needed.
“I don’t know any.”
“When you come out with me you’ll meet some. If you do as I say, the girls will like you — a lot.”
“They don’t usually like me. I think I frighten them.”
“Not this time.”
“Can I kiss them?”
“Yes, and lots more beside. We’ll have some fun.”
Neville blushed. “I’ve never been with a girl.”
“Do as I tell you, and I’ll give you one of your very own.”
“Can I tell Edna?”
“No. This is our secret. You can keep a secret, can’t you?”
Neville nodded enthusiastically. “When do we start?”
“What medication are you on?”
Neville took a bottle of pills from his pocket and showed him.
“Those aren’t good for you.” He snatched them away and poured them out into his pocket. “These are better.” He opened a packet and emptied them into Neville’s bottle. “Take these instead. I promise — you’ll see a difference right away.”
Chapter 1
He heard the tap, tap of her high heels on the cobble
s of the dimly lit street. She was getting close. He turned the light out. The flicker from the open fire would be more inviting. He stuck the poker deep into the glowing coals. He wanted it good and hot. Good and hot. The thought sent a shiver of need running through his body.
Silence. Her shoes had stopped tapping. Horrified that she might have changed direction, he peeked through a hole in the threadbare curtains. All was well. She was standing a few yards from the house, balancing on one foot. She was fiddling with the strap on one of those stupid high-heeled shoes.
It was time to make his move.
He stood in the doorway, whistling. She was close enough now that he could smell her cheap perfume. She wore an ultra-short skirt wrapped like cling-film around her thighs, a low-cut top and a pink fake fur jacket. A cheap tart. He’d chosen well.
“Oatmeal or mocha?” he asked. He held out two samples of paint. “I have to get it right or the wife will kill me. It’s our first place,” he said. “Not much, I know — a small terrace on a back street in Oldston, but it’s all ours.”
“What’s it going with?”
She was chewing gum and, despite her youth, she had a couple of teeth missing.
“Flowery wallpaper. The wife chose it for the chimney breast. It’s a vivid orange with cream. I don’t have much of an eye for this sort of thing.”
“Let’s take a look,” she said with a friendly smile.
His spine tingled. This was so easy. She pushed past him through the front door. He followed her in, grinning and stroking himself.
* * *
Day One
“It’s not pretty,” the pathologist Natasha Barrington warned.
Detective Inspector Stephen Greco walked into the room. He had seen a lot of horrific sights in his time, but this was one of the worst.
“Grim, isn’t it?” That was a major understatement. “I’ll let the CSI do their stuff, then they can get her down,” she said.
The young woman hung from an oak beam set in the low ceiling. She was naked. A rope bound one wrist to the beam. It wound around her neck several times, then tied the other wrist. Her arms were stretched horizontally and her head lolled forward onto her chest. Each ankle was tethered to chairs placed either side of her, splaying her legs apart. Her dark hair hung limp, blood-soaked, to her shoulders. Her eyes bulged and her tongue protruded.
Staring into hell.
“Who found her?”
“The owner, one Rashid Rahman. As you’ll see from the sign outside, the house is for sale. It’s unoccupied. A neighbour heard a noise, saw smoke coming from the chimney and rang him. He’s in rather a state. He’s gone next door for a shot of something strong. There’s no sign of a break-in. The lock’s intact, no broken windows. A PC looked all round and reckoned they must have had a key.”
“Sergeant!” Greco called out, tapping on the window. “Get in here.”
Sergeant Jed Quickenden, known as Speedy, had taken one look and dashed outside to throw up.
“Is he usually this squeamish?” Natasha asked Greco.
“Yes, I’m afraid he is.”
“Even though it’s my job, sights like this don’t do me any good either. But we have to get on with it. We have our work to do . . . Anyway, the wound to her chest is what killed her. They cut into the chest wall with something sharp.” She nodded at a poker lying on the floor beside her. “That, I suspect, was heated and used to burn a hole through her heart. There has been extensive burning to her face too.” She winced as she looked at the girl’s body. “The burning has made those holes in her cheeks. There has been a fire in the hearth. The embers are still warm.”
“Anything else from your preliminary examination?”
“She was raped, and brutally too. I’ll know more when I get her on the table. Not content with the burning, she’s also been cut about the mouth and scalp. Her mouth has been cut crosswise extending up into the cheek like a cartoon of a wide smile.”
“When, do you reckon?”
“Sometime last night. Late on, I’d say.”
A woman spoke from behind them. “The clothing is interesting.”
“This is Doctor Roxy Atkins, our new lead forensic expert,” Natasha said. She introduced her to Greco and Quickenden, who was cowering in the background.
She was hidden in her coverall. All you could see was that she was small and slim. A wisp of black hair stuck out from under her hood.
“How so?” Greco asked.
“They appear to have been cut neatly from the body, I’d say with scissors. They’ve been folded and left on that chair over there. Her bag still has her purse and mobile in it. Her purse contains a debit card, a photo of her and a young man, and some cash. I’ll bag everything up and look at it in the lab.”
“Does the debit card have a name on it?” Greco asked.
“Jessie Weston,” Roxy replied. “There’s an envelope too. Her address is on the Link Road estate. You’ll need to inform the next of kin, have her identified formally.”
Quickenden took the envelope, now in an evidence bag, from Roxy and copied down the address.
“When will you do the post-mortem?” Greco asked.
“Later this morning,” Natasha replied, checking her watch. “Say about eleven?”
“I think this is one we should attend,” he told Quickenden, who muttered a reply.
“Okay, eleven it is then,” Natasha said.
“Have the photos been taken?”
“Being done now,” Roxy said.
“Don’t keep her up there for a second longer than necessary,” said Greco.
Natasha called to a man in a coverall who was taking photographs. “How long now, Mark?”
“Nearly there,” he said.
This had not been done on the spur of the moment, in jealousy or rage. The trussing up, the torture, were horrifying. This was the work of a psychopath.
“I want you to find the next of kin. Take them to the Duggan and get a formal identification. Don’t say anything other than that she’s been killed. No details. Do you understand?” Greco said.
Quickenden nodded.
“I’ll do what I can to make her more presentable,” said Natasha.
“And don’t go disappearing,” Greco said to Quickenden.
The sergeant nodded. He wiped his face with a hankie.
Quickenden had tried to up his game since Greco became his DI. At least he’d managed to moderate his behaviour — and improve his appearance. His clothes were clean and ironed. He’d had his hair cut. But even Greco had to admit the new look did nothing for him. Quickenden just never looked right. He was tall and very thin. Short hair accentuated his long, thin face.
“Unless Green says otherwise, I want you on this one. No excuses. Have you got that?”
Quickenden nodded. Then he dashed outside and threw up again.
* * *
Greco knew he should go straight to the station and begin formulating a plan for the investigation. But first he had to shower and change. There was no way he could get though the day wearing the clothes he’d entered that room in. His OCD wouldn’t let him. It had flared up again, brought on by the horror of what he’d just seen.
He’d go to his flat. That way, his ex-wife Suzy would never know. Together they had developed a strategy to keep his condition under control, and it had been working — until now. He didn’t want her upset by this sudden setback.
He and Suzy were together again, but taking things slowly. It was she who wanted to try again after their divorce, and Greco was happy to agree. The divorce had made him miserable. It had been hard only seeing his daughter on designated weekends, and not being able to talk to Suzy properly. He was delighted when she’d admitted the divorce had been a mistake.
He’d kept his flat on because it was useful. When he was working late or had one of his bouts of insomnia it was simpler just to stay there. But it was an indulgence they couldn’t afford for much longer. He really should consider putting it on the market
Suzy was helping him with his condition. She knew him better than anyone and recognised all the signs — the obsessive hand-washing, the preoccupation with hygiene, having everything exactly in its place. With her help he was confident he’d get on top of it. But not today. Today was an exception he couldn’t tell her about.
Greco tore off his clothes and jumped into the shower as soon as he arrived. A new bar of soap and a torrent of hot water would hopefully wash away any contamination from that room. Not that Greco really believed there was any. He had that much rationality. After a thorough scrub and a mug of coffee he began to feel normal again. He’d needed this time out. If he was to function at his best, his head had to be clear, and free of obsessive-compulsive thoughts.
He put on fresh clothes, deciding to wear a lighter suit. The weather was getting warmer. It was late spring, and at last he could put away the overcoat he’d practically lived in all winter. A quick check in the mirror, a reminder to himself to get his hair cut, a tweak of his tie . . . he was ready to go.
He heard a key turn in the lock on the front door. It was Doris Hope, his cleaning lady. Apart from Suzy, Doris was the only other person to have a key. She came in three times a week, whether he’d been there or not, so the place was always spick and span.
“Hello, Mr Greco!” she said. “I’m glad I’ve caught you. No need to leave a note now, and anyway, it’s better said in person.”
“What is it, Mrs Hope?”
“I’m leaving you, I’m afraid.” She threw her coat onto a chair and Greco tensed. “My Albert has retired now, you see. We’ve decided to go for one of those houses on Pierce Street, the old terraced cottages. It’s a buy-to-let project. It’ll keep Albert out of trouble and bring in extra income to eke out our pensions.”
“You’re going to help him?” Greco picked up the coat and hung it up in the hallway.
DARK HOUSES a gripping detective thriller full of suspense Page 1
