Blood Runs Cold_A completely unputdownable mystery and suspense thriller

by Dylan Young

  As if.

  On the other side of the 4 metres of overgrowth, the path reappeared. There beneath him, hunkering in a dell, stood the chapel, and beyond it a pond, fed by the streams that surged and hissed in the winter but that were little more than trickles now in June.

  The path became easier and he picked his way across the uneven ground to the grey stone building and its graveyard beyond, its stones angled and tilted in a way that suggested the dead were desperately trying to push up and out. The walls of the building stood mottled with lichen, a padlocked metal gate across the porch barring entry. There was no view into the interior; the leaded windows caked with years of grime, the lowest lancets boarded with wood. A single diamond in the leaded panels in the southern elevation had been punched out. Someone as tall as Starkey could peer in, but there was nothing to see except an eerie gloom and nothing to smell except musty damp.

  He stood for a moment in the shadow of the trees that covered this spot and stopped the sun from ever reaching the stones, listening for a stick cracking underfoot or the chatter of conversation that would indicate other walkers nearby. There was none. The breeze, so welcoming in the sunlight, carried cool air up from the stagnant pond water below, a sickly waft of decay on its breath.

  Starkey walked behind the chapel to the north transept, the one closest to the bank. Now, in the summer, another wall of greenery stretched across, preventing the casual walker from circumnavigating the building. But in February, on his day of revelation, all that had died away to reveal what had once been a wall. Its stones, battered by the rain and wind over centuries, collapsed in a heap. Through the gap, which Starkey guessed must once have been a blockaded archway, he glimpsed another building. Smaller, square, still of the same stone. He’d been to enough graveyards to realise that this must be a sacristy or vestry, used to house sacred items, robes or records.

  Again, Starkey was careful not to disturb the screen of vegetation too much, not wanting to reveal his presence. He removed gardening gloves from his strapped-on tool belt and teased an opening. Stepping over the tumbled wall, he walked to the east wall and a jumble of stones. Quickly, he removed them, piling them carefully a few feet away until the low access way he’d found that first day was revealed, guarded by a metal grid. He’d placed it there to repel the curious, if anyone had the gumption to remove the stones. So far, no one had.

  He slid off the rucksack and put it down. The grill was not attached and he lifted it away easily. From his belt, he took a headlight and slid it onto his forehead before slowly manoeuvring backwards into the sacristy itself. Other than a thin square of light from the access way, inside was cold darkness. Four bare walls and stone floors, unadorned and stripped of all their glory. But this room, this abandoned room, held one secret Starkey had stumbled upon by accident. He shook his head. Being here was no accident. Fate had brought him here. Given him an opportunity to flourish.

  He wished he’d known about this place that very first time. The dead and their bones thrilled him. A fitting place in which to maim and kill. Had he known about this place he would not have panicked and left Rosie’s bones on the path near Charterhouse. His plan then was to hide her in a crypt. One that he was familiar with. One that was open to the public with its own ossuary behind a flimsy rail that would not have been difficult to remove. A fitting place for Rosie. He had murdered her at Pux Cottage, boiled her clean there too. But when he’d arrived at Charterhouse, workmen were renovating, and the path was unusually busy with a rambling club. They’d surprised him and he’d foolishly thrown her bones into the undergrowth and run. It might have been the end of it. The first and last.

  But the pain of the laughter of the Turner girls never left him. And then he’d discovered St Wystone’s. This was now his stage. Where he brought them to die. They’d go back to Pux Cottage as corpses. Ready for boiling. Then he’d bring the bones back again to St Wystone’s. Cleaned and purified. Their final resting place.

  All part of the great ritual.

  There’d been snow on the ground the day of his first visit to the chapel, some twenty months after he’d taken Rosie Dawson. None of it lasted in the forest proper, but down in the wooded dell there was enough to stick to his boots and be transferred in, though he’d mashed it to a pulp during his exploration of the tiny room and it quickly liquefied to form a shallow puddle.

  Starkey had been on the point of leaving when he noticed the puddle had formed a rivulet, as always following the path of least resistance, towards the south wall, where it disappeared into the space around a large square stone. Intrigued, he’d scraped away the dirt and dust to find that this square stone had no mortar around it. It was three weeks before he returned with tools to lift the flagstone away and find the answer to all his problems.

  Forty-Two

  Anna set her phone in a holder on the dash for the call.

  ‘Trisha, talk to me.’

  ‘Rowsys have three engineers that service the equipment they either sell or lease to hospitals. Kevin Starkey covers the west of the country as far up as Manchester. They have contracts in at least 100 hospitals with dozens of departments in each, apparently.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ Holder’s voice this time, sounding grim. ‘Rowsys have equipment in every hospital on the list Hawley gave us. They’re all in Starkey’s patch.’

  ‘All except Blair Smeaton,’ Anna said.

  This time it was Khosa who pushed in, her tone deep and strained. ‘Sometimes, when one engineer goes on holiday they cover for each other if there’s a call out. Starkey had to go to Edinburgh last month and last week to deal with a problem at the infirmary there.’

  Anna squeezed her eyes shut, but it was only momentary, enough to calm the tingling surge that rippled up her spine.

  Holder said, ‘He’s meant to be at a hospital in Swindon today but rang them to say he was unwell.’

  Anna nodded. ‘We need to find him. Get over to his house. If he’s there, bring him in. If he isn’t, find out where he is.’

  ‘Should we talk to Edinburgh, ma’am?’ Justin asked.

  ‘Danaher’s expecting Trisha to call. But they’re too far away. This is our patch.’

  They all knew there was something left unsaid. Something huge.

  It was Khosa who came out with it. ‘Do you think he might still have Blair—’

  But Anna cut her off. ‘We assume he does. Trisha, is the super in?’

  ‘At a meeting in Bath, ma’am.’

  ‘Find him and get him to ring me.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Static ticked over the line telling her it was still open. Frustration boiled over in Anna and she yelled, ‘Why the hell are you still there?’

  Forty-Three

  In the Chepstow Wood, in a dank space on the ground floor of an abandoned room, Starkey retrieved the heavy rucksack, ignoring the muffled noises from within. He reached for the crowbar and slid the sharp end into the gap around a stone in the floor. It came away easily and he levered one edge onto the surrounding flagstones before sliding it across. The gap below exhaled cool, dead air into his face, like the breath of a spectre.

  An aluminium ladder led down into a narrow tunnel, no longer than a few feet, leading back towards the chapel, and towards whatever sort of place of worship had been here long before Christians thought it wise to capitalise on a sacred spot. But Starkey was pretty sure it was the Christians who had built this crypt. He switched off his headlight, enjoying the darkness. A darkness so dense it became almost palpable; the quiet so complete, the only sound his own breathing.

  He stood that way for a moment, savouring it, sucking it in. Then he flicked on his headlight and reached for the first of several battery-operated lamps he’d left here, quickly entering the crypt and lighting the remaining dozen LED lanterns as he went until he stood at its northern limit, under the transept of the chapel, and looked back.

  Though he’d been to this place many times, with the room lit, it never failed to take his breath
away, cause his pulse to quicken. Bones, disarticulated, piled in neat rows. Femurs and tibias and fibulas and humeri and serried ranks of ribs along the walls. At the centre were skulls, in a huge pyramid, some polished, some dark-stained, all with empty eye sockets silently acknowledging his presence. Far from being a Hollywood horror film set, Starkey saw it for what it was. A bone crypt. A monument for pilgrims and villagers to pray amongst their ancestors. He’d done his research, and the proximity to Tintern was probably no accident. Some of the dead here might have been plague victims, some soldiers from the wars between the Welsh and English, but all were forgotten now, much as this crypt had been after the reformation.

  It didn’t matter. This was a find. A real find. If he’d wanted to, he could have reported this forgotten ossuary to the authorities, be lauded and get his name in the papers. But it was the last thing that Starkey craved. In fact, Starkey’s cravings, if they ever made the newspapers, would fill the front page.

  He’d added to the bone count over the years. When he brought them back they’d be bleached and cleaned of the corrupting flesh that coated them. Pure once more. He mentally ticked off their names as he prepared. Jade, Katelyn, Lily, James, Freddie.

  He was about to add one more.

  Forty-Four

  Holder and Khosa were on their way to the car when they heard a shout behind them.

  Holder turned back to see Woakes walking towards them.

  ‘Hold on, hold on. Where are you two off to in such a hurry?’

  ‘Boss wants us on something.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Like what?’

  ‘Sarge, we don’t have the time to explain.’

  ‘Really,’ Woakes said, and began walking towards the parking spaces. ‘You can fill me in on the way.’

  Holder hesitated. Woakes fixed him with a challenging glare. ‘As far as I know I’m a still a sergeant in this squad and your superior, am I not?’

  Khosa and Holder exchanged pained glances. Both of them knew they had no time to argue the point, nor to ring Anna.

  ‘Fuck,’ cursed Holder under his breath. But he followed Woakes towards the car with Khosa in tow.

  It was a fifteen-minute journey to Starkey’s address on the outskirts of Clevedon. Khosa filled Woakes in as best they could. Holder drove, mouth zipped shut. Not that Woakes noticed; he was too busy listening, face shining, eyes alight, up for the chase.

  ‘She’s cocked this up,’ he said when Khosa finished, his glee evident.

  ‘What do you mean, sarge?’ Khosa asked.

  ‘Gwynne. She’s cocked this up. It’s obvious Starkey and Hawley are in it together. She’s taken Hawley up to Cheltenham and shown him her cards. He might have tipped this turd Starkey off for all we know.’

  ‘We don’t know, though.’ Holder shook his head.

  Woakes hissed out air. ‘Loyalty’s one thing, Justin. Blind ignorance is something else altogether.’

  * * *

  Starkey’s property was on the northern edge of Clevedon. Neat lawn, swept drive, net curtains, the works. Holder rang the bell. No one answered and there was no movement apparent from inside.

  ‘I’ll go around the back,’ Khosa said and headed towards a wooden door to the side of the garage.

  ‘We need to get inside,’ Holder said.

  Woakes turned to him. ‘We don’t have a warrant.’

  ‘No, but we can go in if we believe Starkey has committed a serious offence. If we think he’s on the property. If someone’s life is in danger.’

  Woakes sneered. ‘Do we? Think he’s on the property, I mean? I don’t. I reckon he’s done a bunk thanks to our precious DI.’

  ‘You don’t know that, sarge.’

  ‘Don’t I? Well you go ahead, Justin. Try and find an open window. I’ll go for a walk and pretend I didn’t hear what you just sa—’

  ‘Justin!’ Khosa’s urgent shout made both men run through the side gate. ‘Inside the shed. Look through the window. On the back wall.’

  Holder joined Khosa and cupped his hands around the glass. Beneath the window was a bench, neat and clean, a range of small tools arranged to one side. Holder let his eyes slide to the rear. The back wall was an art gallery. Large squares of paper stuck up with thumbtacks, and in the middle, one larger than the others. A centrepiece.

  ‘What the hell are those?’ Holder stood back and Woakes took his place.

  ‘Paintings, drawings? Who knows.’

  ‘They’re weird,’ Khosa said.

  Holder disappeared for a minute. When he came back he held a small crowbar in his hand and went directly to the shed door.

  Khosa looked anxious.

  ‘Someone might be in there. We’re justified.’

  The padlock securing the door looked strong, but it was only held in place by a few screws and gave after Holder leaned his weight into it. Inside, the place smelled musty with a hint of linseed oil and wax. Holder walked over to the full-length drawing and studied it. The paper must have been 4 feet long and 2 wide, covered with red wax, depicting an ornate arrangement of flowers and leaves arching over a skull with two long femurs crossed beneath it and a hand with its index finger pointing upwards, the carved letters standing out as white.

  Hetty Sara Davies

  Spinster of this parish.

  Servant of the Church.

  Daughter of Eisiah and Mary

  Nov 20 1856 – June 18 1891

  ‘What’s this, a bloody pirate?’ Woakes said

  ‘No. I know what this is,’ Khosa said. ‘It’s a gravestone.’

  ‘Gravestone?’ Woakes said. He suddenly sounded a lot more interested

  Holder quickly looked around the little room. It looked solid, an MDF floor. No trapdoor.

  ‘What if she’s in the house?’ Holder said.

  ‘Then we go in,’ Woakes said.

  ‘Shouldn’t you run that past the boss?’

  ‘Look around you, Justin. I am the fucking boss.’

  ‘Don’t we need a warrant, sarge?’ Khosa asked.

  ‘Not when we’re saving life and limb,’ Holder answered her.

  ‘Exactly,’ Woakes said, his eyes widening. It was obvious to both DCs that Woakes’ confidence had increased with what had been found in the shed. He was a dog with a bone now. ‘There could be a hostage in there. Sod protocol.’

  ‘But shouldn’t we tell DI Gw—’

  Woakes rounded on Khosa and leaned in close, his mouth hard and ugly. ‘We don’t tell her anything. We go in and search for evidence of an abduction. Got it?’

  In the end, Holder went in through a window in the back bedroom. He found a ladder, waved at a curious neighbour who looked about ready to ring a burglary in until Khosa flashed her warrant card, reached in through the gap, lifted the stay and climbed in. Two beds in the room, posters on the walls. A teenagers’ room. He called out as he moved swiftly down the stairs and into the kitchen where he opened the back door to let the others in.

  They all wore blue gloves.

  Inside, the kitchen was clean and tidy. Porridge and Corn Flakes in the cupboard. Half a carton of milk in the fridge next to the bacon, eggs, butter and the remains of a fish pie. A magnet in the shape of a cartoon cow held a bundle of papers, bills mainly, on the door of the fridge.

  Khosa walked through to the living room, calling out a name. ‘Mr Starkey, it’s the police. Mr Starkey?’

  There was no reply. Holder stayed downstairs; Khosa and Woakes took the upstairs. On a shelf in the living room, under photographs of two teenage boys were a collection of books and magazines. Old copies of Homes & Gardens and on one shelf some older books, Abandoned Castles (Forgotten Heritage series), Relics of Britain. One on railways. Nothing in the slightest bit incriminating.

  Khosa rejoined Holder in the living room.

  ‘Nothing.’ She shook her head.

  Woakes had wandered back out into the garden and was looking in the shed.

  Holder wasn’t sure what Woakes was trying to prove. He should have been ta
king charge. Instead, though not obviously obstructive, he wasn’t exactly putting his back into things, either.

  ‘What’s the matter with him? Khosa asked.

  ‘Arrest envy is my guess.’

  ‘Pathetic,’ Khosa said and then sighed. ‘Maybe he’s right. Maybe Hawley did tip Starkey off.’

  Holder shook his head. ‘No. The boss would never have let that happen.’

  ‘So, what exactly are we looking for here? A hidden panel in the wall? A trapdoor?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Holder walked out of the living room and scanned the kitchen again. Khosa followed and reached for the cow magnet on the fridge door. She spread the half-dozen or so scraps of paper it had held on the worktop. Two were garage fuel bills, one a Tesco shopping list. The other three were all invoices from a builder’s merchant. Sand, cement, chippings and wood. All bought over the summer. Holder stood next to her, intrigued.

  ‘I haven’t seen any sign of any building work, have you?’ Khosa said.

  Holder shook his head but then went very still, frowning. ‘That’s because he’s not building anything here. Look at the delivery address.’

  Khosa peered. ‘Pux Cottage, Wird Lane. There’s even a postcode.’

  Holder said, ‘You talked to his employer. Where did they say he should be today, Swindon?’

  ‘Yeah, at the Western Hospital, but Trisha rang them and there’s been no sign.’

  ‘Maybe he’s at this Pux Cottage?’

  Khosa was already punching the postcode into her phone. ‘Fifteen minutes by car.’

  ‘You go,’ Holder said.

  ‘Go where?’ Woakes was standing inside the back door, listening.

  ‘There’s a second address, sarge. Somewhere he’s been doing building work.’

  ‘Then what are we waiting for?’

  Khosa threw Holder a glance, but all he did was shrug.