Table of Contents
Note from the author
Editorial Review
Characters
Short Summery
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Review
About the Author
Copyright 2017 Michael Sivyer
All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, are purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise without written permission from the author.
BOOK 1
Detectives
Ruskin & Ashley
Death by Torture
Cozy Mystery short read
By Michael Sivyer
Note from the author
This is a current series of 3 books that can be read in any order with more pending. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them, you will find the other titles at the end of this book. Happy reading
Editorial Review
This is another very moving and captivating piece of writing. It is easily the best story I've read in a while and found it hard to put down!
Marie
Characters
Ruskin and Ashley are half of a peculiar, yet very proficient partnership and total opposites of one another. Mike Ashley, who is 35 standing at 6’11” and some would say looks unkempt. But don’t be fooled by his attire as he soon takes a mental image of a crime scene and although sometimes doesn’t always go by the rule book is ruthless in his pursuit to bring criminals to account. Whilst Andy Ruskin, in his late 50s and around 5’ 10” is a total opposite, he is very methodical, carries a trusty worn note-book in his trouser pocket and unlike his partner Ashley takes great pride in his appearance taking his favourite suit to the dry-cleaner on a weekly basis. Many pondered how they washed up working together, yet despite their differences, their opposing strengths formed a formidable duo – one that had put many criminals behind bars over the years.
Short Summery
“A gripping story full of twists and turns”
This gruesome murder mystery is a daunting challenge for detectives Ruskin & Ashley
Found in an old converted mill, these murders were acts of pure aggression – it was something akin to Jack the Ripper – the bodies had been arranged execution style, laid out on the rug with their limbs hog-tied behind their backs. On inspection to the underside of the bodies, the detectives were left with a nasty shock……
Mike was usually calm and reserved, sometimes weirdly cheerful at crime scenes, but this was different. His roar sliced through the room's silence.
“What the fuck!? I'm going to find these bastards, and I'm going to make sure they're being fed through a straw for the rest of their lives!”
Chapter One
Despite the arrival of the summer's peak, rain gushed through the streets of London – a stark contrast to the recent drought – setting an appropriately meek scene for the events that would eventually unfold at a down-town bank.
Beneath the city's concrete skyline, an army of feet – rather, paws – paraded obediently through the stream of murky rainwater that flowed towards the iron grate of a drain, followed closely by their two masked masters. Their commanders were outfitted with padded vests, balaclavas, combat trousers, though oddly, no weaponry to accompany their battle-ready apparel.
The group of canines and their accompanying felons-to-be hurtled towards the revolving door of the bank in formation, the canines marching into one of the door's compartments, and the two men in the next. A cashier, alerted by the suspicious attire of the men, hit the emergency button under her desk discreetly, though one of the men clocked her movements just by reading his facial expression. He dropped his readily prepared weighted bag behind him, jamming the revolving door to leave just enough space for a slender human to squeeze in at one end of the compartment, and out at the other.
The man twisted his right wrist, and used his other hand to flick a dial on his watch, activating the timer that announced how long they would have before the police arrived. The dogs, meanwhile, snarled menacingly, their rough black fur standing on end as they formed a whirlpool around the robbers, no-one in the bank daring to advance towards them in an act of heroism. A young civilian with dark hair and a grey suit backed towards the edge of the room as one of the hounds bared its flesh-hungry diamond-like teeth, and several more bank-goers followed her motions, allowing the men freedom to navigate the room as the dogs loosened the perimeter of their circle, pushing the civilians and staff alike towards the edges of the foyer until eventually one dog guarded each wall.
As the dogs paced along the terrified lines of people, the robbers approached the front desk of the bank, where five rather terrified cashiers guarded the vaults. After a bark of orders, the weakest of them, a girl no older than twenty who can't have worked here for more than a month, quaked in to her fright and rose to her feet, her body shaking as if there were tremors in the ground beneath her. Her hands fumbled as she opened a heavy, panelled oak door that lead into the bank's vault. Being a traditional family-run bank, the corridors beyond the door weren't extravagant, though the robbers seemed to know exactly where they were going.
After several blood-curdling minutes, the men re-appeared to the lobby, where the hounds were still succeeding in their role of keeping the crowd at bay. They didn't so much as bat an eye once their masters returned, and continued to prowl up and down the lines of people, their shadowy eyes locked onto their victims of terror as their paws, no smaller than human hands, dragged slowly across the polished flooring beneath them, each step thudding across the room. The men were able to slip through the doors as planned, leaving the dogs behind as they were mercilessly abandoned by their trainers, almost too ruthlessly obedient to their command that they had realised the men had even left in the first place. They made their getaway with ease after their operation had been carried out with precision, not one single moment deriving from their plan.
Meanwhile, in a down-town parking lot that would usually be full of bright colours thanks to its array of exotic and luxury cars, detectives Mike Ashley and Andy Ruskin prowled the rows of cars on display. Andy cupped his hands and peered in through the tinted windows of a BMW sedan, narrowing his eyes as he scanned the interior. Just as he had suspected, not a thread looked out of place. So much so, in fact, that he felt at home just imagining himself in the driver's seat. Remembering that he was there to serve a purpose, he ended his fantasy and moved onto the next car.
The exterior had been modified to the tastes of a rich, 'lives off daddy's money' kind of teenager, and the inside told the same story. It had not yet been touched by the valets that worked for the car showroom. A few frayed threads poked out of the seats here and there, though it was very far from an unfashionable car. His eyes pulled away from the glass and he took a step backwards, exhaling sharply as he sheltered under his umbrella, glancing across the car park towards his colleague, a few years his junior, who had chosen to allow the rainwater to drench his clothes rather than carry an umbrella, for some reason still unknown to Andy despite their many years of partnership. It was the car they were looking for, it just had to be.
“Mike! Come and have a look at this! I've found something!”
A sudden rush of adrenaline began to pump through Mike's body as drew himself towards the car. Could this be it? The car that they had been searching for?
He peered inside, feeling for a few moments that it could well be. That was, until he peered towards the other side of the parking lot, where his Volvo - its orange paint-job the butt of many vomit jokes throughout the years, as much as he could swear that it was golden – glanced back at him with an almost sad expression as if to lament the fact that he had planned to abandon it. He just couldn't bring himself to trade-in his tattered little get-around, no matter how many times his colleague had tried to persuade him. Poor Andy really thought that he had hit the nail on the head with this one, even hand-picking one with a messy interior so that Mike would feel right at home.
It was the odd time that the two detectives didn't have any work – as two of the metropolitan police force's finest homicide detectives, they were always kept busy. Today, though, no case files had been dropped on their desk, so they were enjoying a spot of shopping – correction – Andy was trying to dress Mike up as a 'proper' detective so that he would fit in with the 'big boys'. Mike was only a few years younger than Andy, but the senior detective always thought of Mike as being many years to his junior, probably in part thanks to Mike's disregard to anything that would even hint that he was a grown man. In fact, he still only ever 'cleaned his room' when prompted to do so by Andy, usually when the collection of pizza boxes and crisp wrappers became too much to bare.
Their day out was cut short, however, when a fellow detective, though from the robbery and theft department, requested direction, and guidance on a case. Normally, Mike would turn up his nose at robbery cases – they were far too simple for his liking, and didn't normally provide him with enough mental stimulation – though Matthew Craig, the robbery detective on the case, seemed to insist that there was something unusual about this case that Mike just had to see. Mike agreed, feeling that he needed to get away from the almost parent-like pressure that Andy was piling onto him to buy a 'big boy' car, and flicked off the display of his phone, placing it in the dogged pocket of his well-worn jeans.
The two of them hurried towards Mike's Volvo, in which they had arrived, and sunk into the seats, which in their old age, rather resembled nothing more than a kitchen sponge. Andy turned towards Mike with a raised eyebrow as the car almost failed to start, before it eventually stuttered to a rumble, Mike not wasting any more time before he kicked it into gear, knowing that it would cut out if he left it to idle for too long.
Andy glanced towards the car that he had spotted for his colleague. “Would it really be that bad to trade-in?” He muttered half sarcastically.
“I've had this car for twenty years,” responded Mike, “I can't just abandon it!”
After a short drive, the detectives pulled into the underground parking lot of the precinct, and both were glad to escape from the rain as they entered the lift, though Andy was bone dry as it was. Mike, on the other hand, produced a squelching sound with each of his footsteps, leaving a trail of murky puddles in his wake, bowing his head to avoid eye contact with the cleaner as he walked past, his posture much akin to a guilty teenager walking past a principle's office.
Andy rapped his knuckles on the door of Matthew Reed's – the robbery detective – office door, the two partners waiting for his invitation before they flowed into his room. Detective Reed was a similar age to Mike, with a stylish yet smart hairstyle, and a slim fitting suit that bared his muscular frame. Mike and Matthew went well back having graduated the academy together, and would more than likely have worked as partners had Andy not persuaded Mike to join the dark side of the police force.
“So, what was it that was so interesting about this case?” Mike cut straight to the chase, demanding to know the details that were supposed to make him interested in the robbery.
“Look for yourself,” Boomed Reed's voice, aiming a small controller at a TV screen, rewinding back to the start of the footage.
This was indeed a little different – normally, bank robbers would run into the foyer all gung ho with rifles in the air, and not much of a plan to speak of. This was a little different. On-screen was the robbery from earlier in the day, and it was apparent that everything had been considered, right to the last detail. The dogs were trained in crowd control and it must have taken years for the fugitives to train them to such levels of obedience, and they just left them behind afterwards? Even more surprising was that they went through all that effort to steal what appeared to be a small tin lunch-box which was tucked under the arm of one of the perpetrators. Why go through all that effort? Whatever was in that box must be of great importance.
“Where is this, may I ask? What bank? It looks a little dated. Everything looks like it's being done manually, there are no computers in sight.”
“Weston's bank,” responded Reed.
“Ahh. Old school; they still do everything like they would if it was the 1940's. A family run bank. In fact, I don't believe they'd even deal with cash.”
“They don't,” Confirmed Reed, “At least, they wouldn't handle it themselves. They just have a load of safe deposit boxes, you pay to rent them. Not even the staff have access to the boxes themselves – they can only access the vault which homes them.”
“So, basically,” Questioned Mike, “They would have to know the code to get into a particular deposit box? I mean, they didn't carry anything in with them, so they didn't blow anything up. Why not just go low key and ask to get to the box without all the dogs?”
Matthew paced the perimeter of the room. “It's safer than that. You must show a certificate to prove ownerships of the safe, as well as identity. They don't just let anybody in there.”
“In that case,” Spoke Andy, “They're likely to know the victim personally. That's how they would get the code. Do we know who's box it was, or what was in there?”
“That's the thing,” sighed Reed, “The staff don't know what is in the boxes. Even if they had access to them all, there is no catalogue which describes the contents of each safe. They wouldn't know what had been stolen from who. The robbers were very careful and wouldn't let the staff anywhere near close enough to see which safe they were cracking into.”
Mike stroked the scruffy stubble on his chin. “That leaves you with only one option; you need to find out where the robbers went, or where they came from. Is there any footage before or after the robbery?”
“Nada, afterwards, they just disappeared straight into the crowds of London. It's as if they did a Houdini. They arrived in a van, but that was no good – it was declared scrapped four years ago, so I can't run down plates to find an owner or anything. They just left it there.”
“This level of planning,” spoke Andy, taking somewhat of a curious interest in the case, “It must have taken years -” He was interrupted by his mobile buzzing against his thighs, and reached into his trouser pocket to pull the sleek, modern, black device.
He held it to his ear, and listened to the booming voice of his commander before turning to Mike.
“Duty calls, boss wants us down in Piccadilly. Good to catch up with you, Reed,” He said, nodding towards the robbery detective, “Let us know how it pans out.”
Mike obediently followed Andy out of the office, latching the door shut behind him as they made their way through the bustling offices of the precinct, piles of paperwork strewn across desks as far as the eyes could see. Mike mustered a grin – he was so thoroughly glad that he wasn't one of these office bees that never left the hive to experience a real slice of action.
On the way to the parking lot, Andy swung by the office to pick up a set of keys for a squad car, never keen to add unneeded miles onto the engine of his cherished BMW SUV, which he had left in the parking area earlier this morning. They slipped into a silver sedan, and twisting the key, the engine's lack of grunt became apparent as the exhaust let out no more than a whisper when they pulled out of the parking lot and into the flow of London traffic
. The lanes full of scarlet red buses and black taxi-cabs had become almost synonymous to the detectives, whom had emigrated to the city from the country – though from different regions – for the sake of their education when they had enrolled at the academy.
A few bouts of road rage at cyclists later, they found themselves outside a rather posh looking block of apartments. Their commander Rowan Oates, a large balding man ten years their senior, cowered under a marble porch as he desperately tried to escape the pounding rain. Upon noticing them, he scurried over towards them, using his elbow to prop his blazer over his head. As the three made their way towards the building, which was in the process of being bombarded with yellow tape, he began to brief them on the case.
“Be ready boys – this one's pretty gruesome. Two bodies, a lot of blood. You're the first detectives here, so the place is yours now.”
The building, a Victorian construction that had been modernised not too long ago, had a set of heavy wooden doors that lead into a small lobby. There were no more than four apartments on each floor, each one as large as a small hall. There was no elevator, so the detectives were forced to take a flight of polished stairs up to the penthouse apartment. Even though both detectives were as in good shape, the steep incline took their breath prisoner as they escalated to the sixth floor. This particular apartment took up a whole floor, and seemed as if it would be fit for royalty with panelled oak décor around it, though now was not the time to be overwhelmed by a fancy home.
They strolled deeper into the heart of the building, turning a corner, and passing through an archway that divided two rooms before they encountered the bodies. What looked like it had once been a sheep hide rug was now painted crimson by a thick gloopy liquid that seeped from the front of the bodies' skulls. The blood looked about half a day old, and had begun to crystallize against the floor by the side of the rugs, following the slightly crooked form of the wooden floorboards until it had amassed into a gruesome puddle at the foot of a bookshelf.
Death by Torture: Gripping Detective Murder Mystery (Detectives Ruskin & Ashley Book 3) Page 1
