Torment

by David Evans

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

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  TORMENT

  David Evans

  Copyright © 2016 David Evans

  The right of David Evans to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2016 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Sheila,

  she would have been proud

  Acknowledgements

  I have been privileged to meet some amazing people, without whose help, encouragement, support and above all friendship got me through some occasions when it would have been easier to walk away and do something else with my time.

  First and foremost, I have to say a huge thank-you to Sally Spedding who was the first in the publishing industry to take my writing seriously. I owe her a great debt for all her continued support and encouragement.

  Heather Adams did an inspired editing job which improved this story’s telling.

  I am fortunate to have a great little band of writing friends and I would like to thank Sarah Wagstaff, Jan Beresford, Julie-Ann Corrigan, Manda Hughes, Lorraine Cannell, Glynis Smy and Peter Best, all of whom are talented writers in their own right and have made some significant contributions.

  I am also fortunate to have the input of Colin Steele, ex-Detective Superintendent of the Essex Murder Squad and Tom Harper, Principal Crime Scene Coordinator for the Kent & Essex Serious Crime Directorate. Both have given their time and guidance generously. Any residual errors here, are all mine.

  Finally, Ger Nichol for just loving this series.

  TORMENT

  Prologue

  Monday 6th March 1989

  He carried the lifeless burden down the creaking wooden staircase. The door at the top had closed behind him and the only light came from two 40 watt bulbs in holders screwed to the floor joists. No-one came down here. He made sure of that. Outside, the wind whistled around the buildings. Exposed at the top of a rise, it always seemed to be blowing. The rain that had rattled the windows all day had finally stopped. At the bottom of the steps, he paused. Nearby, a train thundered its way past, the floor shuddering beneath his feet. Listening closely, he could tell its direction. Probably on the way to the capital; next stop Doncaster.

  Crossing the open space, a cobweb caught his face. Stumbling with his load, he wiped the threads away. She was lighter than the last one and he managed to hold on to her with one arm. Rounding a corner, there was the door. Shifting the position of her body so it rested over his shoulder, he fumbled in his pocket for the key. Only he had access.

  The key struggled to turn in the rusty lock, three years it had been. Finally, it gave. Turning his back, he pushed against the solid wooden door. The hinges groaned and the bottom screeched as small trapped stones ground against the floor. With no lights in the room, his eyes had to adjust. Eventually, the shape on the floor could be made out. The musty air hit his nostrils, but the aroma of decaying flesh had long ceased.

  Tears began to prick. How did it happen again? Why? They didn’t have to come with him. Just because it was raining. Just because they were offered a lift, they didn’t have to get in. And then when they came back here, they didn’t have to make such a fuss. That’s when they had to be shut up. He couldn’t have them telling tales. What would folk think? They’d all think he was some sort of pervert. But he wasn’t, he knew that. That’s why they had to stay here. They’d be safe here.

  Placing her gently down on the floor next to the other one, he folded her arms over her chest and smoothed down her dress. Next, the sandals and white socks were carefully removed.

  Above, stumbling footsteps on the wooden floor startled him. Instinctively, he looked up and began to panic. He can’t be found here. They’d be found. Struggling to get to his feet the shoes and socks were stuffed into his coat pocket. Tiptoeing out of the room, the door was pulled to as quietly as possible. He listened again. The footsteps continued overhead, doors opening and closing as if they were looking for him. The door was locked and the key placed in his trouser pocket before he made his way back to the bottom of the stairs. He waited. Only when the footsteps could be heard to leave did he ascend and make his way out, satisfied his secrets were safe once more.

  1

  Saturday 2nd September 2000

  Susan returned from the supermarket with bags of shopping and stooped to collect the post from behind the front door. Climbing the stairs to her first floor flat, she weighed up the choices she had for her evening meal. Up in the kitchen, bags on the floor, she paused. As a matter of habit, she walked through to the living room and picked up the telephone. With the BT answering service, she would usually hear the normal dialling tone indicating no-one had called. Today though, she heard the dual tone signifying someone had. Pressing 1, the puzzling message began.

  “Hello? … Gaz?”

  Who the Hell is Gaz?

  The male voice continued, “I didn’t know you had this answerphone bollocks. Anyway, this is important. I lifted another one last night… she looks a right goer an’ all.” He gave a lewd chuckle. “I’ve got her safe in the usual place. I thought you might want to have some fun with her before we have to get rid. So … fancy it tonight?” The voice sounded youthful but she also thought it had the qualities of a perverted old man. “Give us a ring back … soon as you can, or I’ll call you later.” His excitement rose, “Can hardly wait.”

  At the prompt following the message, Susan dialled 1 to hear it again. Even on the second playing, it didn’t make a lot of sense but she pressed 2 to save it anyway. The accent sounded local but she certainly didn’t recognise him. A shiver ran through her and she slammed the receiver down. She lived alone, so she knew the message was a mistake.

  Back in the kitchen, she began the routine task of putting the foodstuffs away. As some went in the freezer, others in the fridge and the tins in the cupboards, she couldn’t shake the unnerving voice from her mind. Eventually, she returned to the living room and stared at the telephone. Slowly, curiosity took hold. Snatching up t
he receiver again, she dialled 1471 and was rewarded, not with a number withheld as she half expected, but the information that a local number had called that day at two thirteen p.m. She made a note of it, broke the connection, then dialled the answering service again, this time to transcribe the message. Her unease grew as she read the transcript, the words in her head uttered by the mystery caller. She began to imagine all kinds of evil scenarios.

  Sweeping through to the kitchen once more, she made herself a strong coffee as she tried to get her thoughts into some sort of order. She found herself thinking how her life had changed so dramatically in recent years. When her mother died nearly ten years ago, she’d had to grow up quickly. Her father’s health deteriorated, dementia taking hold. Her schooling suffered but since he’d been moved into a home, she’d studied at night school for her ‘A’ levels and now, at twenty-four, she had accepted the offer of a university place to study journalism. She was excited at that prospect. At last, her life was moving on.

  As she sipped her coffee, her thoughts returned to the phone message. Was this an opportunity? This could be a story. She had some dim recall of newspaper reports in the past – young girls working the streets had disappeared without trace. Not exactly headline stuff, tucked away on the inside pages. There had been something about the tone and content of this mysterious message that instinctively told her they could be connected.

  Suddenly, the idea came to her. She scrambled in one of the drawers where assorted junk mail was shoved in the unlikely event that it might be of some future use. In this case it was. She pulled out the latest pamphlet BT had sent.

  Taking the last mouthful of coffee, she steeled herself and dialled. After two rings she began to hope there was no answer. After four, she considered abandoning the whole idea. It was answered on the sixth.

  “Hello?”

  She hesitated. There was no mistaking that voice. “Ah … good afternoon to you, this is Linda from BT … just a courtesy call.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I was wondering if I could have just a few minutes of your time, sir, to let you know about some of our recently introduced services.”

  “For you, Linda, of course.”

  She gulped. God, what a creep. “Thank you, Mr … er … I’m sorry, I don’t appear to …” she bluffed.

  “Chapman. Stephen Chapman, but you can call me Steve.”

  Can’t be too bright, she thought, that was an easy win. “Er … right, thanks … Steve.” She composed herself then launched into a convincing display of promoting the advantages of the various features detailed in the BT mail shot, all the while, imagining Chapman leering down the phone at her. “So, Steve,” she said, drawing the conversation to a close, “can I send you some of the details we’ve just spoken about?”

  “Yeah, sure, so long as you give me your number.”

  Shit, she thought. “I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to do that.” She laughed nervously. “Now, I wonder, could you confirm your address for me?”

  “I’d have thought you’d know that already.”

  A moment’s hesitation as she thought he might have suddenly become suspicious. “We do normally but my computer’s just gone down and it would save a lot of trouble if I could just make a note of your details and log it on the system when it comes back up.”

  She replaced the receiver and stumbled to a kitchen chair, her legs feeling as if they were about to buckle. She couldn’t believe what she’d just done. She felt proud of herself; she’d actually managed to obtain the creep’s name and address. Taking a few deep breaths, she studied the note pad with the transcribed message, phone number and now, address written on it.

  Checking the address on a gazetteer, she discovered that the street was in an area not far from the centre of Wakefield. Despite a series of low-paid jobs, Susan had managed to acquire three possessions of which she was proud. One was the little six year-old silver Nissan Micra sitting in the street. The second was a pay-as-you-go mobile phone and the third was the second-hand computer and printer which sat on a desk in her bedroom. That would be essential for her to fulfil her dream of becoming a journalist. Grabbing the mobile phone and a jacket she set off in her Micra.

  Chapman’s address turned out to be a small mid-terraced house in a group of four, built sometime between the wars. It was near dusk and a light was on in the front room. There were cars parked on both sides of the street but she managed to find a space to squeeze into about fifty yards away. She switched off, killed the lights and waited. For what exactly, she wasn’t absolutely sure. The initial excitement she had when she made her call to Chapman earlier had begun to give way to the major misgivings she felt now. She could be exposing herself to incredible risk. So? How else was she to get to the bottom of it? Her anxiety grew. Doubting the sanity of pursuing this alone, she pulled the mobile from her jacket pocket, deciding to call the police. Before she could make the final connection she was disturbed.

  A white Ford Escort van came down the street from behind and drew to a halt outside Chapman’s house, the driver bipping the horn. The light in Chapman’s room went out, the front door opened and a man dressed in a dark anorak appeared. Stockily built, he had an unusual bouncy gait as if there were springs in his heels. He paused before opening the passenger door to glance quickly up and down the road. With the benefit of a street light, Susan saw his face. He was clean-shaven with dark hair and looked to be around thirty. As soon as he got in and shut the door, the van drove off.

  She started up the Micra’s engine and followed. She knew that following someone undetected by car was not as easy as they made out on television and in films. Allowing the Escort to open up a considerable gap before it approached the junction with the main road, she then had no alternative but to come up behind it as it waited for an opportunity to merge into the heavy traffic. Fortunately, from what she could see, the two occupants were engaged in animated conversation and paid no attention to her car behind. Eventually, the van pulled out and headed east. Three cars later, she was able to do the same.

  After five or six miles, they were on a minor country road with just one vehicle between them. They had crossed the A1(M) and were somewhere to the north of Doncaster when the van turned off onto a farm track to the left. Susan pulled into a field entrance just beyond and watched the red lights make their way up a hill. The brake lights glared out across the open fields momentarily, then died along with the headlights as the vehicle came to a halt and the engine was switched off. Briefly, she just had time to make out a group of dark unlit buildings. Moments later, a dim glow appeared from a window.

  She stepped from the car and pulled on her jacket. She couldn’t risk driving up the track, so she set off on foot, reassured that there were bushes and hedgerows on either side so she could hide should another vehicle suddenly appear. As she walked, she heard two trains passing close by, the ground vibrating, and guessed the East Coast main line was on the other side of the rise where the buildings lay. Eventually, she found herself in what appeared to be an abandoned farmyard. The old farmhouse to the right looked derelict. The light she had seen from the road came from a large building opposite. She reached the window and listened. Muffled men’s voices but the sill was too high to see in. A quick look round revealed an old bucket. As quietly as she could, she tipped out the stagnant rainwater. Placing it below the window, she steadied herself. Carefully, she stood on it and peered inside.

  At last, she could see the object of Chapman and his companion’s attention.

  Just then, she heard a car crunching its way up the gravel track. She panicked. Looking round, she instantly decided on the old abandoned farmhouse. Dashing into the porch, she squeezed past the front door that hung precariously off its hinges. She turned to watch. The headlight beam swung across the front of the building. She stepped back to avoid it. That’s when her luck finally ran out. Her feet met the limited resistance of rotting floorboards before the timber finally gave way. Her legs straddled a joist befo
re that too failed, plunging her into the bowels of the basement. She heard the crack and felt the sharp pain as the bones in her lower left leg snapped. Things seemed to happen in slow motion. As she tumbled into the darkness, the events of the past few hours replayed in her head.

  Another London-bound express rattled its way past, the noise drowning out her yell and the sounds of splintering timber. Blackness. Then silence.

  2

  Monday

  Wakefield; eight-thirty in the morning and the city was awake. In the market place, stalls were laden. Above the hubbub of dozens of conversations and yells of greeting, the shouts announcing bargains rang out. Early shoppers, mostly elderly, milled around.

  In the bus station, shop and office workers were disgorged and fanned out, some pausing to buy a paper or cigarettes, others rushing to where they had to be. The warm weather of the past fortnight was breaking and large blobs of rain turned the pavements mottled. Umbrellas began to appear.

  Nearby, on the second floor of Wood Street Police station, Acting Detective Chief Inspector Colin Strong felt decidedly awkward as he eased his six foot frame into the big leather chair he’d sat opposite many times before. He’d often wondered what it would be like to sit in his old boss, DCI Cunningham’s seat but he never expected it would happen; let alone how.

  “Who knows,” Chief Superintendent Flynn had said, “play your cards right and it could be yours permanently.”

  But don’t hold your breath, Strong had added silently.

  On balance, Strong liked Cunningham. True, he’d had a few run-ins with him in the past but he’d always found him to be pretty straight. His part in Cunningham’s suspension still felt like betrayal, even though they both knew it was the right thing to do.

  Strong sighed, swivelled in the chair and looked round the office. The bookcase was empty and the photographs and trophies marking Cunningham’s rugby-playing days had gone. All evidence of the room’s previous occupant had disappeared, except for the dent in the wall where he had thrown a glass paperweight at a young Detective Constable. Strong smiled at the memory.