Redemption of the Dead (d.i. sean corrigan)

by Luke Delaney

  Redemption of the Dead

  ( D.I. Sean Corrigan )

  Luke Delaney

  Luke Delaney

  Redemption of the Dead

  Chapter One

  October 1993

  She pulled her coat tight against the chill of the approaching winter, but still she felt a shiver run the length of her body, some terrible feeling refusing to leave her. She comforted herself with the fact that the sun was high overhead and that she’d seen several other people walking in the same park in Hither Green, south-east London, but still the feeling remained of some nearby malevolent force — watching. Waiting. She leaned inside the buggy and adjusted her young child’s clothing, smiling and softly chatting as she did so, but constantly flicking her eyes from left to right. An increasing sense of panic made her hurry as she grabbed the buggy handles and began to walk towards the exit of the park, the wooded area on her left suddenly dark and threatening.

  She stuck to the path, walking so fast she was almost jogging, until the sight of another mother with her two children playing on the grass no more than a hundred metres away began to calm her fears and she slowed her pace. A small smile spread across her face as she reprimanded herself for her foolishness. She took a few deep breaths to chase away the remainder of her panic and headed towards one of the park’s exits.

  First all she heard was the rustling sound of branches being pushed out of the way and the breaking of twigs under foot. He moved so fast she didn’t have time to react — not even to scream as he burst from the woods and stood in front of her, his chest rising and falling as fast as her own, his eyes as full of fear and panic as her own. She felt her lungs involuntarily filling with air as she prepared to scream, but he saw her body’s intention and leaped forward, the huge combat knife pressing hard enough to her throat to draw blood.

  His voice was full of terror and excitement. ‘If you make a sound I’ll cut your throat — I swear I’ll cut your throat and then I’ll cut your baby’s. Understand?’ She managed to nod as the madman slid around to her back and gripped her by the hair while keeping the knife at her throat, pushing her forwards now, away from her child and into the waiting trees.

  * * *

  A thin layer of dark red blood sprayed across his face as he drove his fist into the deepening cut above the man’s right brow. As the man staggered backwards he nimbly pursued him across the across the slightly springy floor, waiting for a chance to further punish the cut, but the man was using both fists and forearms to protect his face, making it almost impossible to hit him. He swallowed his rising anger and tried to stay in control, knowing that if he allowed the fury inside of him loose he would struggle to rein it back in. He had to control it — use the tools he’d been given to harness the aggression, but control the fury. He bent slightly at the knees and began to pound the man’s ribs and the kidneys that tried to hide behind them, powering his right fist into the man’s side, then his left, swiveling at the hips as he constantly shifted his body weight to maximize the impact of each punch. Finally the man could bear the pain no more and was forced to drop his arms to his sides for protection, leaving his face and the cut exposed. Instantly he sensed the man’s mistake, his body slightly straightening and rising as he channeled every ounce of power into his left fist that hooked and flashed through the air, tearing into the cut above the man’s brow. Heavy droplets of maroon blood danced into the sky before splashing on a group of drunken, baying men standing nearby, making them curse and cheer together. A savage right fist parted the man’s elbows and hands as it travelled towards his exposed chin, crashing into the jawbone and rocking his head backwards and at last he collapsed to the floor, blood from his ruptured brow seeping to the surface and pooling under the side of his head. A man in black trousers and a bloodstained white shirt, adorned with an oversized bowtie stepped in front of the stricken man, protecting him from his assailant, furiously waving his arms to warn everyone that the fight was over.

  The victor was ordered into a neutral corner of the boxing-ring, forcing himself to retreat from the man lying at his feet, fighting his instinct to finish his adversary once and for all, to eliminate him as a possible risk forever, cursing the padded gloves that cramped his hands and lessened the impact of his blows — deprived him of the pleasure of feeling the man’s skin breaking over his knuckles — blood staining his hands in victory. The rules of the ring had given him some control over the ugly demons that beat in his chest, but when he was in a fight and had his quarry run to ground he cursed their restrictions and confinement. ‘Get up,’ he muttered through his gum-shield. ‘Get up.’ He wasn’t finished with the man on the floor — wasn’t finished punishing him for crimes he hadn’t committed — wasn’t finished beating the man in the same way he’d beaten his own father in his dreams — wasn’t finished seeking redemption and revenge for his own tortured childhood. But the man in the shirt and bowtie waving his arms told him the fight was indeed over — at least the one in the ring.

  He headed back to his own corner where his trainers and team waited with water bottles and towels, only to be intercepted by a man in a suit carrying a microphone who’d stepped under the ropes, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling his gloved fist aloft. He tried to pull away, but was held firm, the man’s beaming face contrasting starkly with his own grimace, the white gum-shield making his mouth appear swollen and ape-like as he peered through his head-guard into the crowd of hundreds of people who’d packed in to the York Hall, Battersea to watch their own kind fighting each other while they drank heavily; some to forget, some for enjoyment and some to escape from the realities of the job they all shared, even if just for a short time. The booze made them brave, almost every member of the crowd now convinced they too could climb into the ring and fight as mercilessly and efficiently as he had.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the suited man sang into the microphone, ‘the winner of this year’s Metropolitan Police Lafone Cup, for the middle-weight category — representing ‘3’ Area — a round of applause please for PC Sean Corrigan.’ Cheering mixed with boos, and hand clapping with the sound of stomping feet as Sean scanned the crowd — confused by the faces surrounding him — some smiling joyously while others were twisted with hate and anger, until he remembered where he was and that the fight had only been a boxing match — not like the fights he’d had on the streets of East Dulwich before he’d joined the police, where the right to live in peace, to walk to and from school without losing what little he’d had to the other near-feral children had to be earned with his fists and whatever else it was necessary to use to vanquish any would-be assailant. He wrenched his arm free from the man in the suit and paced back to his corner, continually scanning the faces in the crowd, recognizing a few of them, pushing past the men who waited for him with water and towels, their faces confused by the lack of joy in his as he ducked under the ropes and pushed his way through their small crowd.

  ‘Sean?’ the head trainer asked, only to be ignored. ‘Sean?’ he shouted above the sound of the crowd, at last making him look around, his eyes red and glassy as if he’d just spent days in armed combat. ‘You alright, son?’ Still no answer, just the coldest of stares from Sean’s deep blue eyes. ‘What the fuck’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he finally replied. ‘Just get me out of here.’ The trainer nodded as if he understood, even though he didn’t. He draped a wet towel over Sean’s head and began to lead him through the crowd towards the changing room, oblivious to the two men sat at the back of the hall watching them — studying them.

  * * *

  ‘He did well — your boy,’ Detective Chief Superintendent Charlie Bannan told t
he stocky, muscular man sitting next to him. ‘Is he as good an Old Bill as he is a boxer?’

  ‘He is that,’ Detective Sergeant Dave Donnelly answered. ‘One of our rising stars, you might say. He’s only been out of uniform a few months, but he’s certainly getting himself noticed. He was dragged up in East Dulwich, so he already knows the streets. He’s going to make a fine detective one day, so long as he can keep his nose clean.’

  ‘A trouble causer?’

  ‘Not really, but he has a bit of a temper — from time to time.’

  ‘Don’t we all,’ Bannan dismissed it, missing the deeper look of concern in Donnelly’s eyes.

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ Donnelly told him, ‘he’s instinctive. I mean the boy’s really fucking unbelievable — like he just seems to know. I’ve seen him identify suspects for residential burglaries without a shred of evidence just by flicking through intelligence records. He has some talent — I’ll tell you that.’

  ‘One of those?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Donnelly questioned.

  ‘Nothing,’ Bannan told him.

  ‘You know what I’m working on at the moment?’

  ‘Aye. The Parkside rapes.’

  ‘It’s a big old enquiry and it’s going to get bigger before it’s over. Do you think your boy would benefit from an attachment? I could use an extra body.’

  ‘Sure,’ Donnelly agreed. ‘I’ll send him over tomorrow. But remember he’s still very green. Don’t over expose him — nothing too heavy.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll keep him away from the front line — door-to-door and canvassing only. He’ll be bored, but he needs to learn his trade somewhere.’

  ‘That he does.’

  Bannan smoothed his golden-blond bushy moustache and then pushed his longer than normal hair back from his eyes before pulling a packet of tobacco and rolling paper from his jacket pocket. He nimbly constructed a thin cigarette and lit up, inhaling deeply into his chest. Despite only being five-foot-eight-inches tall he always seemed much bigger — his deep London accent, intelligent eyes and standing amongst other detectives made him appear twice his size. ‘What about you,’ he asked as he blew a plume of smoke into the hall that was already heavy with man-made smog, ‘fancy an attachment to the enquiry? I could use a DS I can trust.’

  ‘No thanks, guv’nor. As soon as I’ve served my time on division I’ll be looking to get back on the Flying Squad.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Bannan told him. ‘And how is life as a DS, by the way?’

  ‘Grand. Certainly beats being a DC and getting all the shit jobs.’

  ‘Well, you know what they say about shit? It always rolls down hill. DS — best rank in the Met. Think very carefully before taking the next rank and tying yourself to a desk.’

  ‘Not me, guv’nor,’ Donnelly explained. ‘A DS will do me nicely for the rest of my career. I’m not planning on chasing promotion.’

  ‘Very wise,’ Bannan told him, rising from his wooden seat and offering his hand to Donnelly who gratefully accepted it, hoping other detectives in the hall would notice the seal of approval a handshake from Bannan implied. ‘Send the boy over in the morning. And take my advice — grow a moustache — it’ll make you look more the part — hide that fresh face of yours.’ He released Donnelly’s hand and seemed to instantly disappear into the crowd.

  ‘Well, Sean my boy,’ Donnelly spoke to himself, ‘get ready to meet a legend, son. Get ready to meet a legend.’

  Chapter Two

  Tuesday morning, and an apprehensive Police Constable Sean Corrigan approached the smallish open plan office usually used for training lectures, which was where the Area Major Investigation Team would be based until the Parkside Rapist was found and convicted. His normal place of work was inside the same police station in Plumstead, south-east London, on the floor below, with the Crime Squad — primarily made up of officers who had recently been selected from the uniform branch to be trained as future detectives. They may have all been in plain clothes, but they still wore a uniform — jeans, leather jacket, trainers — and Sean was no different. He was learning to fit in. Over the next two years his job would be to constantly harass and harangue the local drug dealers, handlers and low-lifes, with the occasional attachment to major enquiries including murders, hopefully proving he had what it took to become a fully fledged detective.

  He’d expected and feared his arrival would cause more of a stir, anticipating the office might fall silent as he entered, all inquiring eyes on him, but he was largely ignored. Donnelly had told him to find and introduce himself to the detective sergeant who was the Office Manager. He scanned the office until he found a man sitting at a desk who seemed to be conducting most of the business around him, handing out pieces of paper with one hand as he collected those handed to him with the other, while giving clear, rapid instructions to whoever approached his cluttered desk before dispatching them with their tasks for the day. Sean waited for a break in the flow of human traffic before jumping in and introducing himself.

  ‘PC Sean Corrigan,’ he told the detective, who had slim arms and legs, but a swollen beer-gut, ‘from the Crime Squad here. My DS … DS Donnelly said you needed people to help on this enquiry.’

  ‘He did, did he?’ the detective asked. ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘I’m supposed to be attached to the investigation.’

  ‘You are, are you?’ the detective continued to tease him.

  ‘I was told to find the Office Manager,’ Sean told him, resisting the temptation to bite.

  ‘Well then you must be some detective, son, because you’ve already found him.’ The detective allowed himself a wry smile. ‘I’m DS Ray Melody. You come to me first thing in the morning and I’ll give you your actions for the day, and then you come to me last thing before you go home — if you ever get to go home — and hand me your completed actions. Simple. Understand?’

  Sean swallowed his embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry — what are actions?’

  ‘Christ,’ Melody cursed. ‘What have they sent me? Actions, son, are exactly that. Listen — an investigation of this size creates thousands of leads, tens of thousands of pieces of information, hundreds of people who need to be found and spoken to — understand?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge,’ Sean answered, trying to keep up.

  ‘Bloody hell, you are just out of uniform aren’t you?’ Melody laughed. ‘You’re in the CID now, son — you call me Ray, alright?’ Sean nodded. ‘Together with the DI and the Detective Superintendent, it’s my job to co-ordinate the investigation and make sure everybody knows what they’re doing and that nothing gets duplicated — understand?’ Sean nodded again. ‘I do that by using these,’ he said, waving a green piece of paper in front of Sean. ‘This is an action. I write on here what the action is, meaning what the job is. I give it to you and you tootle off and do whatever job the action tells you to do. When it’s done you give it back to me and I take a look at it. Now, this is the important bit: if in completing an action you discover something else that needs to be investigated — do not run off and try to solve the thing yourself, because you might have discovered something we already know about and are looking into. You’ll only cause duplication. Understand?’

  ‘What do I do then?’ Sean asked. ‘If I discover something that needs checking out.’

  Melody swapped the green sheet of paper for a pink one and again waved it in front of Sean’s face. ‘If that happens,’ he explained, ‘you fill out one of these. This is called an Information Report. You attach it to the original action, cross reference it and hand it to me. If I’m not here you place both in that box over in the corner.’ Melody pointed to a cut-down cardboard box labeled Completed Actions. ‘Then, when I get a chance, I’ll read your Information Report and if necessary create a new action to be completed, that I may or may not assign to you — got it?’ Sean shrugged his shoulders to let Melody know he understood. ‘In fact,’ Melody continued, ‘I have the perfect job to get you started.’ A mischievous
smile spread across his face as he searched for the action he needed on his cluttered desk. ‘Here it is,’ he declared, handing Sean the piece of green paper. ‘There you go, son. I think this will be right up your street.’

  * * *

  An hour later and Sean was alone in Chinbrook Meadows, Hither Green, close to the scene of the latest attack attributed to the as yet unidentified serial offender dubbed the Parkside Rapist by the media. The attack had happened over four days ago now and the park was quiet, the police and forensic circus long since packed up and moved on. Except for Sean — his mission to stop and question everyone walking through the park in the forlorn hope of discovering an untraced witness or even a possible suspect. He knew the chances of either were slim. Most likely Melody had given him the action to keep him out of the way while the real detectives got on with the job in hand. He exhaled deeply, tucking his newly acquired clip-board under his armpit and rubbing his hands together to ward off the approaching winter’s chill as he looked around the deserted park. The usually busy place had been abandoned by the women joggers and the mothers who only days ago walked their children along the paths — their one-time sanctuary within the sprawling city tainted by the spectre of the man who had pulled a young mother into the dense trees, leaving her child sleeping in its pushchair. Even the men had forsaken the park — fearful of being tarnished with the stigma of accusing eyes. The monster’s crimes had stained the ground forever.

  Sean absentmindedly began to walk along the path that cut across the park, noticing that it wound closer to the trees in some places — places where it would have been easier to ambush an unsuspecting victim. He found himself slipping the map of the crime scene from his jacket pocket and examining it, trying to get his bearings and identify the area marked as the crime scene. After using the distant tower blocks on the urban horizon as north, he headed further along the path to the south-west corner of the park, just as the victim would have — pushing her toddler and filling her lungs with air the trees had cleansed, thinking of what she would cook her husband for tea, imagining relaxing with her nightly glass of wine — before he dragged her to hell.