Face Book: A disturbing novel full of shocking twists

by Paul Johnson-Jovanovic

  As Dawn and Jenkins were leaving, York muttered something that sounded like, ‘You better hope I don’t see you again.’

  Jenkins turned and said, ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

  Slipping back under the covers, York put his hands behind his head and smiled.

  ‘About time for a bed bath, isn’t it?’ he asked the nurse with a glint in his eye.

  In the elevator, on the way down, Dawn said to Jenkins, ‘We need to look at that forensic report. I want to know what happened to the guy he was riding with.’

  Adjusting his glasses on his nose, Jenkins said, ‘My guess is that he had a bullet put through his temple at point-blank range. His right temple.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I was thinking.’

  ####

  Once York was sure the DI's had gone, he placed a call on his mobile. He told the man who answered that a hit needed to be made. After an explanation of why, York gave a name.

  ####

  The attic wasn’t somewhere Jack fancied going. It was too dark and there were too many spiders. Perched on a stepladder, he craned his neck to look up through the hatch, into the darkness. He couldn’t remember where the light switch was. To the left or right? Attached to a beam? His last and only venture into the attic had been when he and Eleanor first moved in. He’d stored boxes full of her textbooks from university, plus other stuff she couldn’t bring herself to part with. It wasn’t textbooks Jack was after, though. It was something more sentimental. Something that’d been bought for one purpose and would now be used for another. Assuming he could find the courage to get his arse up the ladder, that was.

  Jumping down, Jack got a torch from the kitchen. Once he was back up the ladder, standing on the top rung, he shone the beam around. He located the switch. Flipped it. A dusty bulb hanging from a cable cast a dim glow that didn’t quite reach the corners of the room. He shifted boxes out of the way so he could see better.

  There were a dozen or so of them, some covered in mould. Opening one up, Jack rummaged inside and found a photo of him with his army buddies. It showed them on a night out, with Jack looking wild-eyed and sozzled. This was before he had been sent to Helmand. Two of his friends from the photo had been killed there. One had trodden on a mine. Been blown to pieces. The other had taken a bullet through the temple from a sniper. Eleanor had said on more than one occasion that being in Afghanistan had fried Jack’s brain. And he’d agreed with her. ‘If you’d seen the things I’ve seen and been through what I’ve been through, you’d be tapped in the head, as well,’ he had said to her. But even though she’d sympathized, he knew she could never fully understand. Only those that had been there and lived it understood.

  An image flashed through Jack’s mind: that of a boy’s up-turned blood-covered face. The boy had been no older than sixteen. And neither had his two comrades. Lock and load – boom! Lock and load – boom! Lock and load – BOOM! Jack grimaced. He shook his head, banishing the image, determined to forget the past. Them or us, them or us. That was how it’d been.

  He found another photo. This one of Eleanor. It showed her sitting on a bench, tucking into a doughnut. It‘d been taken on a day trip to a theme park. Jack remembered how angry she’d been with him because jam had oozed out of the doughnut, all over her fingers just as the picture was taken. Good times. He packed the photo away. Resumed searching.

  It took him ten minutes to find what he was looking for. He reached into a box. Rummaged at the bottom. Pulled out a big, dark brown leather-bound book. It had never been used and was in perfect condition. Eleanor had bought it so they could glue photos in it. She had wanted to capture fond memories so they could peruse them in years to come. Show it to their kids, if things went to plan. Which, of course, hadn’t happened. Running his fingers over the cover, Jack mulled over what could have been. He skipped through the pages. They were made from thick, quality-grade paper. Ideal for what he had in mind. He put the book under his arm. Climbed back down the ladder.

  There were two more items to find. He knew where the next one was. In the bedroom, he put the book on the bed. He went to the wardrobe. Opened the doors. Knelt on one knee. Reaching over the back, past piles of shoes, he found Eleanor’s small sewing kit. He peeked inside to check the contents. Satisfied all was in order, he placed it next to the book.

  The last item was under his pillow. The knife.

  ####

  Later that day …

  In her office, sitting at her desk, Dawn was perusing the forensic report. It confirmed hers and Jenkins’s suspicion. The convoy truck driver, Kenneth Eastwood, had been wasted with a bullet to his right temple. This, of course, did not prove that York had murdered him. But the finger of suspicion wasn’t just pointing at York now – it was hooking itself over in a come here gesture.

  ‘The bullet isn’t police issue,’ Dawn said. ‘It’s a 9mm, Most likely fired from a Caracal pistol, the report says.’

  ‘I don’t think York is the brightest,’ Jenkins said, ‘but even he wouldn’t be stupid enough to use one of our guns. The hoods who ambushed the convoy will have disposed of it for him.’

  ‘This is hardly enough to charge him with,’ Dawn said.

  ‘No. But it’s a start.’

  Someone knocked on the door. Before Dawn could tell whoever it was to come in, Reinbeck entered. He stormed towards them, his usual red-faced and flustered self. Out of breath, like he’d done a hard workout.

  ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he raged at Dawn. ‘I told you not to investigate Armstrong, so whaddaya do, you go questioning the sole survivor. What gives, detective inspector? I should discipline you for this. Suspend your arse without pay!’

  Dawn was about to say: who told you that? But it was obvious.

  ‘If I catch you sniffing around the Armstrong case again, you won’t just be suspended, you’ll be fired. Am I getting through to you this time? Or do you want me to have it typed up so I can staple it to your bloody forehead?’

  ‘I’m hearing you loud and clear,’ Dawn said.

  ‘That York guy is bent,’ Jenkins chirped in. ‘Eleven officers dead and he gets away with nothing more than a leg wound. Sounds a bit fishy to us. Take a look at this report.’ He tried to hand it to Reinbeck, who eyed it with a look of disgust. ‘The guy riding shotgun in the truck got taken out with a bullet to the right temple. The blood on the passenger side door shows that he was whacked at point-blank range. What does that tell you, sir? What does that indicate?’

  ‘It tells me that you’re not doing what I told you to do,’ Reinbeck said, glaring at them. ‘Which pisses me off.’

  ‘Take a gander at this report,’ Jenkins said. He held it out again.

  Ignoring him, Reinbeck said, ‘We’ve found the Punto. It’s in a barn just off the B438, about five miles west of Cavershall. The woman’s dead. Been stabbed through the throat. The baby’s okay, though. Not a scratch on him. He's a bit vocal and traumatized, which is to be expected. But, physically, he’s fine. Thank God for that. Maybe there’s a glimmer of humanity in Ward’s black heart after all.’

  Closing her eyes for a second, Dawn exhaled a sigh of relief. ‘Some good news, at last,’ she said. ‘How was the car located?’

  ‘A farmer noticed his gate was busted up,’ Reinbeck said, ‘so he went to check it out. He told us that they must have bulldozed the gate open, then Ward pulled it to as best he could on the way out. If he’s on foot, he’ll be within a ten mile radius of that barn, given the time he’s had. If he’s in a car, he could be anywhere. Other end of the country by now.’

  Dawn put herself in Ward’s mindset. Thought about what she would do in his predicament. ‘He’ll want to get as far away as possible,’ she said. ‘He’s bound to have jacked another vehicle.’

  ‘Most certainly,’ Jenkins concurred.

  With a sarcastic smile, Reinbeck said, ‘All the more reason for you to get after him then, before he kills someone else.’

  ‘We will,’ Dawn assured him.<
br />
  Reinbeck rolled his eyes. Left the room.

  ‘Come on,’ Dawn said to Jenkins. ‘Let’s go.’

  ####

  'I'm gonna clear some of this mess up,' Jevon said. He'd got a broom from the utility cupboard and was about to put it to use when Derek came past and snatched it from him.

  'I told you not to bother,' Derek said. He threw the broom on a snooker table. 'We can't open for business anyway, so what's the point?'

  'Just trying to make the place look tidy,' Jevon said.

  'And just 'cause we can't open, doesn't mean you can drink us dry!' Derek said, eyeing Chris, Nelson and Willis, who we were behind the bar.

  'I was just getting Nelson a coke,' Chris replied. 'Hardly drinking us dry.'

  'Calm down, yeah,' Willis said to Derek. 'We're casing out the mirror, checking the extent of the damage. I think I know someone who can get you a replacement. It'll be cheap, of course. Got a mate who works at the …'

  'Never mind that!' Derek snapped. 'We need to get the guns.' He made for the door, but stopped when only Chris followed him. 'What are you waiting for? When I said we need to go, I meant all of us.'

  'Who's gonna keep an eye on this place?' Nelson asked.

  'No one,' Derek said, gesturing everyone to get a move on. 'We need to stay together. After what happened last time, there's no way I'm leaving anybody behind.'

  'But the lock on the door's busted,' Willis pointed out. 'What if the shitheads visit again? They'll smash this place up even more, or torch it.'

  'Let 'em,' Derek said. 'That's preferable to them smashing you lot to pieces.'

  Jevon spoke up: 'Look, me, Willis and Nelson will stay here. We handled the trouble last time, we can handle it again, if needs be. Willis is right, we can't leave the hall unguarded. This is your home and your livelihood. After this crap is done and over, you'll need to get this joint up and running.'

  'And remember,' Willis said, smiling and lifting his jumper to reveal his gun, 'I have my Equalizer.'

  'We don't have time for this,' Derek said. 'I told Spencer we'd be there at six o'clock.'

  'Go, then!' Nelson said, vaulting over the bar like Starsky and Hutch over a bonnet. 'If there's even a sniff of trouble, we'll ring you. We'll even barricade the door if it'll make you feel better.'

  'It would,' Derek admitted. He looked at Chris. 'You coming or staying?'

  'Coming,' Chris said, heading for the door.

  'We'll be gone an hour and a half, tops,' Derek said to Jevon. 'Stay safe.'

  'We will,' Jevon assured him.

  ####

  Dawn had been right about Ward jacking another vehicle. He was driving a green Zafira, which he’d acquired from a lay-by on a country lane about two miles from the barn. The woman who it'd belonged to had pulled over to reapply her make-up. She’d had a hot date. Wanted to look her best. Now she was sprawled beneath a bush. There was a hole in her chest where Ward had stabbed her through the heart. She was as dead as dead could be. Soon all manner of wildlife would feast on her. Pick the flesh from her bones. Turn her into a gory mess.

  Ward had taken her mobile phone. Used it to search an on-line directory for an address. Shelshar was an unusual name. There were only three in the Boxford vicinity. The DI bitch could be x-directory, that was a possibility. But he had no other means of finding her address, so he would have to chance that she was one of the three. He’d written the information down using a felt pen and some paper he snagged from the glove compartment. The Zafira was equipped with a satnav. As he was driving, Ward punched in the first postcode. While he was waiting for the route to be calculated, he turned the phone off. Tossed it out the window.

  Checking his mirrors, he smiled. All clear. No police behind him. None up ahead. And the whoop-whoop-whoop of the helicopter was nowhere to be heard, either. He had shook the police. Ditched them.

  ‘MUHHHAAAHHAAAA!’

  He passed a sign: Boxford – 25. Soon he would see one for Langthorpe – his first stop.

  ####

  Tick-tock … Tick-tock: the only noise that cut the silence. Sitting in his armchair, Jack watched the wall clock. The sound and motion of the second hand was hypnotic. Anyone watching would have thought he was in a trance, that his mind was blank. His mind was anything but blank. He was thinking about Eleanor … his parents … Eleanor … his scarred face … Eleanor … the men who'd done him over … Eleanor … Charles Byron … Eleanor … revenge … Eleanor … Eleanor … Eleanor …

  Picking his knife up off the coffee table, Jack threw it at the clock. It struck dead centre, shattering the plastic cover, bisecting the hour and minute hands. This reminded Jack of a man he'd killed in Afghanistan. The memory flooded back to him. So clear, so vivid. A quick flick of Jack's wrist was all it'd taken. The blade had glinted briefly in the sun. And then it was embedded deep into the man's neck, blood spurting everything. Jack never missed with a knife. Ever.

  Shaking this image off, he put his head in his hands and wondered if the demons would ever stop following him.

  He was waiting for nightfall. Now the shadow of darkness was edging across the land, he was preparing to make a move. He had no idea how he was going to get revenge. Well, that's not strictly true. He knew what end result he wanted; he just wasn't sure how to go about it. Byron's mansion seemed a good place to start. The only place. Pulling his hood up, Jack retrieved a small black sports bag from the storage cupboard under the stairs. He tugged his jacket on. Found some leather gloves. Pocketed them. Then he got his knife. Concealed it inside his jacket and made for the front door. He shut it as best he could as he left.

  ####

  True to his word, Spencer had the guns for six o’clock. In his office, he gave a demonstration of how to load one. He released a clip, then re-secured it. He did this twice. He sighted down the barrel. Pretended to pull the trigger.

  ‘You got that?’ he asked, talking more to Derek than Chris.

  ‘Got it,’ Derek said.

  ‘Always make sure the safety’s on,’ Spencer advised, showing them how to do it. ‘Otherwise you’ll go shooting yourself in the foot or something.’

  Derek gave Chris a nod. ‘We’re set, bro.’

  ‘Let’s get back to the hall,’ Chris said.

  Spencer once again apologized for not helping. He wished them good luck. Gave them hugs and high-fives. Then, after they had gone, he placed a call on his mobile.

  ‘They’ve picked up the merchandise,’ he said.

  ‘Excellent,’ the voice at the other end replied. ‘You’ve definitely given them duffens, haven’t you?’

  ‘Those things wouldn’t even shoot blanks.’

  ‘You sure about that, blackie? ‘Cause if one of our men gets wasted, you’re going to be …’

  ‘Relax, man. Chill. Those shooters are good for nothing – except the bin. When will I get my money?’

  ‘You’ll get it soon.’

  ‘You’re not gonna stiff me, are you?’

  ‘No. But if any of our people get shot, we’ll turn you in to a stiff.’

  ####

  The barn: Ward’s last known location and a crime scene. Dawn wasn’t optimistic about finding clues as to his whereabouts. Neither was Jenkins.

  In the semi-gloom of sunset, Dawn parked her police car on the road’s grassy verge. She got out and made her way towards the busted gate, which was open. She gave it a cursory glance as she walked along the potholed track with Jenkins hurrying along at her side. Two police vehicles were near the barn’s entrance: a scene of crime van and a Volvo car.

  ‘I’m surprised Ward didn’t kill the baby,’ Jenkins said.

  ‘So am I. He must’ave known it would make a lot of noise. Maybe Reinbeck is right. Maybe there is a glimmer of humanity in Ward’s heart.’

  ‘Glimmer or not, that sicko needs putting down. That’s two women dead since he’s been on the run, ma’am. And if he’s in another vehicle now, it could be three. Once again, I’ll keep an eye out for any missing persons repor
ts that come in.’

  ‘Women, always women. What a coward.’

  ‘At least he didn’t cut their faces off.’

  ‘Well, one was an old granny and time’s a bit of an issue for him at the moment, so I’m guessing that’ll be the last thing on his mind.’

  They reached the barn. Went inside. Looked around. SOC officers were busy in and around the Punto, taking swabs and bagging things. Dawn asked one of them if they’d found anything of interest.

  ‘Nothing that’s going to help you guys catch him,’ he replied with an air of gloom. ‘He had to have been sat behind her to get the leverage he’d need to slit her throat like he did. You wouldn’t have wanted to see it; he nearly hacked her head off, the cuts were so deep. Never seen anything like it in my life. And I’ve seen some things, I can tell you.’

  ‘How pleasant,’ Jenkins said, peering in through the driver’s side window at the bloodied interior. He glanced into the rear, his gaze lingering on the baby seat and Dawn guessed what he was thinking: that baby has no mother now, because of Ward.

  The SOC officer went back to his duties.

  Dawn and Jenkins gave the barn a quick once over, inside and out. Satisfied there was nothing of interest, they walked back to the gate. When they got there, Dawn looked left and right. Traffic sped past as she wondered what to do next.

  ‘We’re wasting our time on this one,’ she said. ‘For now, at least. Ward could be anywhere, but he’s bound to show up at some point. His face is all over the news. Plus we’ve got units out searching for him. He’ll be spotted, sooner or later. Come on, let's call it a night.'

  ####

  Parking outside 147, Derek gawped up at the building. A bad feeling washed over him. He didn't know why. There was nothing to suggest there had been trouble. No suspicious vehicles nearby. No dodgy geezers hanging around. Yet, for some reason, he knew something had happened while he and his brother had been gone.