Taken to Die: A chilling crime thriller (DCI Danny Flint Book 4)

by Trevor Negus

  ‘I’m going. Don’t forget that money needs to be available by nine pm on the fourteenth, sir. Tick-tock!’

  Danny walked out and slammed the door behind him.

  He was raging inside.

  He knew he needed to calm down and try to remain rational.

  He was angry at himself for allowing Potter to get under his skin.

  By the time he’d walked across to the huts used by the Special Operations Unit, he had calmed down again. He was ready to brief Chief Inspector Chambers and his covert observations teams.

  53

  6.00pm, 13 October 1986

  Foxhall Road, Forest Fields, Nottingham

  Sam Jamieson was enjoying his fish and chips. As far as he was concerned, you couldn’t beat eating them straight out of the paper, with lashings of salt and vinegar. He was a fit man who ran four or five miles every day, so he never felt the need to watch what he ate.

  Once a week, he would walk from his little flat on Foxhall Road to the fish and chip shop on Bobbers Mill Road. He always ordered the same thing. Cod and chips, covered in a thick layer of green, mushy peas.

  He enjoyed the slow walk back to his flat, eating the feel-good comfort food.

  This evening had finally brought a welcome break in the continuous rain that had been falling for the last fortnight. As he approached Foxhall Road, he could feel the first spots of rain on his face. He glanced up at the nearest streetlight and could see that, once again, the rain was starting to fall.

  Sam cursed under his breath and quickened his stride.

  It was only as he quickened his own stride that he heard the footsteps behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and could see three men walking purposefully towards him. The street here was dark and poorly lit. Sam knew instinctively that these men were looking at him as a target.

  Street robbery was rife in this part of the city. He cursed himself for not being more aware. He screwed up what was left of his fish-and-chip supper and tossed the paper into the gutter.

  Seconds later, the men had caught up with him.

  Sam stopped with his back against the wall of a terraced house and faced the men as they surrounded him.

  The man standing directly in front of him was a young West Indian with short dreadlocks. He was very muscular and looked to be in his early twenties. He was wearing the mugger’s uniform: a dark-coloured hooded top and jeans. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of the hoodie.

  He glared at Sam, with real hatred in his eyes. ‘Give us your wallet, man! Or we’re going to fuck you up!’

  Sam said nothing. He adjusted his weight slightly, so he was now on the balls of his feet. He kept his hands open and by his sides. He glanced quickly to his left and saw that the second mugger was white and a similar age to the first. He was wearing a denim jacket and jeans. A quick glance to the right and he saw that the third man was also white. He had long, dark hair and a goatee beard.

  Having assessed the threat, Sam held his hands up in a gesture of appeasement. He smiled and said, ‘I don’t have a wallet, and I’ve just spent the last of my cash on a fish supper. I’m sorry, lads, you’re out of luck this time.’

  Sam didn’t possess a wallet, but he did have about thirty quid in his jeans pocket. He didn’t think for one second that the three muggers would take his word for having no cash. The West Indian took his right hand out from his jacket pocket. Sam saw immediately he was holding a black-handled kitchen knife. The blade looked to be about three inches in length. Long enough to do some serious damage.

  The youth growled in his laconic West Indian drawl, ‘I’m not going to tell you again, mister. Just hand over your cash, and you won’t get hurt.’

  Something inside Sam snapped.

  Without saying another word, he smashed his right fist into the face of the West Indian. He felt his clenched fist drive into the soft, fleshy part of his attacker’s nose. He could feel the cartilage and bone crunching beneath his fist. The force of the single punch, delivered so rapidly and effectively, sent the West Indian youth sprawling backwards. As he fell, the knife slipped from his grasp and clattered along the road.

  Sam ducked and turned to his left. As he ducked, a punch from the denim-clad attacker whistled over his head. Sam hammered a right-handed punch into the ribs of his attacker, causing him to bend double. As the denim-clad youth doubled over, Sam smashed his knee into his face. The force from his knee was enough to knock the man backwards onto the ground.

  The third attacker grabbed Sam from behind, pinning his arms.

  Instantly, Sam used his head as a weapon, smashing it backward into the face of the final attacker. Again, he felt some satisfaction as his head connected with the front teeth of his attacker. There was a yelp of pain, and Sam felt the grip on his arms slacken. He squirmed out of the weakening grip and turned to face his attacker. He then delivered a heavy kick to the man’s groin, sending him to his knees, doubled up in pain.

  There was no rage or anger within Sam. Very deliberately, he walked across to each of the downed assailants and rained several heavy kicks into each of their faces. By the time he stopped, the three men were left battered and bleeding on the floor.

  Finally, he bent down and picked up the knife dropped by the West Indian.

  He slipped the knife into his pocket and was about to walk away when he heard a woman’s voice from an upstairs window. ‘Are you okay, love? I saw everything from my window. I’ve called the police; they’re on the way.’

  Sam said nothing.

  The last thing he needed was for the police to know where he was. He ran off down the street, into the darkness.

  The woman shouted after him: ‘It’s okay, love! The police are coming.’

  Sam sprinted around the corner and kept running. The rain was falling heavier now, and he wanted to get back to his flat. He would need to make a small detour so he could get into his flat through the back gate. He dropped the kitchen knife down the first drain he passed and kept running.

  He had to avoid the police at all costs.

  Now that he was so close to achieving his revenge, being questioned by them was the last thing he needed.

  54

  9.00pm, 13 October 1986

  Nottingham

  Emily Whitchurch had no idea where she was. She had lost all sense of time and didn’t know how long she had been held captive. She felt disoriented, sitting in the pitch-black darkness.

  She felt constantly tearful and cried out for help on a regular basis. The shouts were born more out of frustration than hope of a rescue.

  Her abductor had never spoken a word to her. Despite her pleadings to engage with her. He brought her food and fresh water every day and took away her waste in the bucket. Still, he never said a word.

  Every time he came, she had tried to look at her surroundings in the torchlight. When he wasn’t there, it was pitch black. There wasn’t a single source of natural light. She literally couldn’t see her hand in front of her face.

  When she had first woken up, she found that her wrists were bound together by a nylon rope. She had followed this rope and found that it had been screwed into a wooden stake that was buried deep in the ground. She had initially panicked, screaming at the top of her voice to be let out. Eventually her voice grew hoarse, and her throat parched. Her shouts had soon become nothing more than a croaky whisper.

  She had pulled hard at the ropes that bound her to the wooden stake. They were covered in a slippery, hard resin, so she couldn’t attack the knots. The screws held the rope fast to the stake. She had tried to loosen the stake in the floor, but it was in too deep; she couldn’t shift it. At least there was enough rope for her to move around and stand up. She could even raise her arms above her head.

  As the days had gone by, she had become weaker. Eventually, she gave up and stopped trying to escape.

  Her days were now spent in anticipation of her captor’s next visit. She was literally starving; he had brought her very little food every day. Sandw
iches, fruit sometimes, and water to drink.

  The first time he came, she had been terrified. It had soon become obvious to her that he wasn’t interested in her sexually. She was just being held captive. On that first occasion, he had brought the bucket. She had realised immediately what it was for. Although urinating and defecating in the bucket was base and abhorrent to her, it was better than soiling herself. At least he took her waste away with him every time he came. Every visit, he exchanged the dirty bucket for a clean bucket.

  She knew she was starting to stink. She hadn’t washed or cleaned herself after using the toilet bucket since she had been brought there. Her long, blonde hair was now lank and matted.

  After looking at her surroundings, when he came with the torch, Emily had quickly realised she was being held underground, in some sort of excavation.

  Recently, she had noticed that the ground she sat on and the walls surrounding her were getting wetter and wetter. The walls were now glistening wet in the torchlight.

  Sometimes, when she sat alone in the darkness, she could hear bits of the roof falling. Small bits at first, but they sounded like they were getting bigger.

  More alarmingly, she had often heard scurrying noises in the darkness. On a couple of occasions, she had felt coarse, stiff fur brush against the bare flesh of her legs. She knew what was making the scurrying sounds. Her mind wasn’t yet ready to acknowledge the fact that she was sharing the small cave with big rats.

  When he had come to feed her, she told him that she was constantly getting wet and that the roof was falling in. Once more, she had pleaded with him to let her go. She feared the roof caving in and burying her alive. She also told him about the vermin in the caves.

  He had said nothing, but shone the torch at the walls and the ceiling. The next time he came, he brought with him a plastic sheet for her to sit on, so she was no longer constantly sitting in the mud.

  When illuminated by the torchlight, the walls of her makeshift dungeon were a strange, honey-coloured hue. It was very small, no bigger than the average garden shed. The wooden stake she had been tied to was in the centre of the floor. The floor of the cave was about four feet below the level of the tunnel her captor came along. It meant he had to climb down into her cave. The ropes that bound her made it impossible for her to reach the entrance to the tunnel.

  When she stood, the roof of the cave was only a foot above her head. She had tried to reach up and touch the wet stone above her head. The weight of the wet ropes was too much, and she had only managed it once. The stone above her felt sodden and wet to the touch.

  She knew her captor would be arriving soon, so she sat cross-legged on the plastic sheet, patiently waiting for him to arrive. The sooner he got here, the better. She was starving hungry and very thirsty.

  Hopefully, he would speak to her this time. She was desperate for him to say something. Anything.

  The tears started to well in her eyes. She wondered just what the future held, and just how long he intended to keep her hidden away.

  55

  7.30am, 14 October 1986

  Mansfield, Nottinghamshire

  Danny poured cold milk on the cornflakes in the bowl before sprinkling a dusting of sugar on them. He carried the bowl from the work surface to the kitchen table and sat down opposite Sue.

  Sue looked up from the magazine she was skim reading and said, ‘Do you want another coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please. I could murder one.’

  ‘Is that all you’re having? I can cook bacon and eggs if you like?’

  ‘I haven’t got time, sweetheart. I’ve got to be in the office for eight o’clock. I’ve got a hectic day today. I probably won’t be home until the early hours of tomorrow morning, at the earliest.’

  Sue looked concerned. ‘Why? What the hell’s going on?’

  In between mouthfuls of cornflakes, Danny said, ‘It’s a case we’re currently working on that’s really sensitive. There’s a total media blackout, so I can’t talk about it. Hopefully, it will all go to plan tonight, and I’ll be able to tell you about it tomorrow.’

  ‘Is it going to be dangerous?’

  ‘It’s not dangerous as such, but it could be a matter of life and death. If that makes any sense.’

  ‘Oh my God, Danny. Please be careful.’

  Danny realised he had said too much. The last thing he wanted to do was worry his heavily pregnant wife.

  He smiled and said, ‘Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I’ll be fine. I’ve just got the worry of it all. I don’t want you fretting about me all day. Okay?’

  Sue handed him the mug of fresh coffee and nodded. ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind, Sue. Would you mind making me a couple of slices of toast, please? These cornflakes haven’t even filled a small hole.’

  Sue smiled. She put two slices of thick white bread in the toaster and said, ‘Butter and marmalade?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  As she buttered the hot toast, Sue said, ‘So, apart from this case, how are things at work?’

  ‘Do you mean, how are things with Adrian Potter?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I mean.’

  ‘I just can’t get on with him at all. We’re like chalk and cheese. We clashed again the other day over this job. I just don’t think I can work with him for very much longer. His attitude is so infantile. It drives me mad.’

  ‘This isn’t like you, darling. Where’s your fight? The Danny Flint I know would be going out of his way to prove Potter wrong.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying. I just don’t know if I’ve got that fight in me anymore.’

  ‘Of course you have. Go and prove Potter wrong; show him just how good the MCIU really is.’

  Danny winked at his wife, smiled and took a huge bite of the sweet buttery toast before washing it all down with hot coffee.

  He grabbed his jacket and car keys, kissed his wife and said, ‘I’ve really got to dash, sweetheart. Thanks for the pep talk.’

  As soon as he had put on his jacket, he grabbed the other slice of toast and raced out the front door.

  56

  11.50pm, 14 October 1986

  Forest Road Cemetery, Nottingham

  The midnight hour was fast approaching. The incessant heavy rain battered noisily onto the car roof.

  Danny sat in the front passenger seat of Rob’s Volkswagen Golf parked in the small yard at the rear of the Lincolnshire Poacher pub. Rob was in the driver’s seat, and sitting in the back was Detective Chief Superintendent Adrian Potter.

  When he had brought the black leather holdall containing the ransom cash to the MCIU offices, Potter had then insisted on staying for the duration of the operation.

  The marked notes had been meticulously counted at the bank before Potter had signed for them. If any of the money went missing during the operation, the chief superintendent would have a lot of explaining to do. A point he had forcefully made to Danny when demanding to stay for the operation.

  For anybody else, being squashed into the back of a Volkswagen Golf would have been uncomfortable. For the diminutive Potter, it felt spacious.

  Danny and Rob had spent hours briefing Dominic Whitchurch at Richmond Drive, giving him full instructions for every scenario they could think of. Danny was satisfied that everything had been covered.

  Whitchurch was to drive to the cemetery in his Range Rover. He would park at the main gates near Mansfield Road and walk in on his own. He was to carry the leather holdall in his right hand and keep his left hand free. If anyone approached him for the bag, he was to just hand it over. If nobody approached him, he was instructed to leave the bag at the base of the headstone that marked Benjamin Fosdyke’s grave.

  Danny had stressed to Whitchurch that the bag must be left on the grave side of the headstone. This was so that it could be observed by the teams of Special Operations Unit officers carrying out the covert observations within the cemetery.

  As time went by, Dominic Whitchurch became more and more ner
vous. Danny had reassured him that he would be watched every step of the way, and to try not to worry.

  Throughout the entire briefing, Potter had looked on. He never once made a comment.

  As midnight approached, the radio in Rob’s car crackled into life. ‘DC Pope to all units. Delta Whiskey is now approaching the main entrance in his vehicle.’

  Delta Whiskey was the radio code name given for Dominic Whitchurch.

  DC Pope continued with the commentary. ‘Delta Whiskey now out of vehicle, bag in right hand. On foot into the cemetery. He will be out of view in five, four, three, two, one.’

  A new voice now came over the radio. ‘PC Naylor to all units. I now have the eyeball. Delta Whiskey is on foot towards Position Alpha.’

  The grave of Benjamin Fosdyke had been designated as Position Alpha.

  PC Naylor from the Special Operations Unit gave a commentary from his hide near the main entrance: ‘Delta Whiskey is alone. He’s now at Position Alpha. Bag dropped in correct location; I have eyes on the bag. Delta Whiskey walking back to main entrance.’

  DC Pope’s voice took over the commentary. ‘From DC Pope, Delta Whiskey now back into his vehicle. Away from plot. We will maintain eyes on Delta Whiskey. Over.’

  Danny let out a huge sigh of relief.

  One of his biggest fears was that Dominic Whitchurch could be injured during the ransom drop. The bag containing the cash had been left in the perfect place. It was now under observation by the Special Ops team, and Whitchurch was on his way home, unharmed.

  Danny spoke on the radio: ‘I want an update every five minutes.’

  From PC Naylor: ‘Received that, boss. Will do.’

  It was now a waiting game.

  Every five minutes, PC Naylor gave a concise update on the radio. ‘No change. No change.’