by Chris Simms
Contents
Cover
A Selection of Recent Titles by Chris Simms
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Epilogue
Author’s Note
A Selection of Recent Titles by Chris Simms
The DC Sean Blake Mysteries
LOOSE TONGUES *
The DI Jon Spicer Series
KILLING THE BEASTS
SHIFTING SKIN
SAVAGE MOON
HELL’S FIRE
THE EDGE
CUT ADRIFT
SLEEPING DOGS
DEATH GAMES
The DC Iona Khan Series
SCRATCH DEEPER
A PRICE TO PAY
* available from Severn House
LOOSE TONGUES
Chris Simms
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY
This eBook edition first published in 2018 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD
Copyright © 2018 by Chris Simms.
The right of Chris Simms to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8810-5 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-936-8 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-991-6 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
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To Abi. Without you, this novel would not exist.
Thanks to the lovely folk at Severn House; you make the process of publishing a pleasure!
PROLOGUE
He liked the sight of liquefying wire. The way he could alter something so dramatically, it filled him with hope for the future. Sharp fumes from the soldering iron rose up, causing his nose and lips to twitch. It was the closest he ever strayed to a smile.
The space where he worked had been a garage, once. But it had housed no car in a long time. This was where his tools were hoarded. Full cabinets and crowded shelves. A workbench pockmarked by years of hard labour, its edge clamped in the iron grip of a vice. Next to it towered a vertical drill, the machine’s bit pointing down like a cruel proboscis.
The garage was windowless. Hanging from a peg on the side door was a courier driver’s uniform: plain navy trousers and a matching jacket. Insignia on the sleeves and a silver winged logo above the chest pocket. Small details that gave the impression of someone official. He’d purchased it from a fancy dress shop in Chicago for $39.99.
Suspended above his head was a double strip light, its contented hum only showing itself during pauses in the programme playing on a nearby radio. The presenter asked a question in his mature, measured tones. The studio guest’s voice, in contrast, was shrill and increasingly insistent.
There can be no flexibility on this. Absolutely none. How could a society that classes itself as civilized even consider it? I mean really, how could it? The whole thing is just another example of the victim-blaming that occurs every day in our male-dominated—
He pressed a button, cutting her off mid-sentence. He hoped for some relief, but as the song playing on the next station wound to a close, the DJ began to speak. The female DJ.
Sorry if I’m harping on about this, listeners. But ten litres of wine, per person, per year? Just tipped down the sink? Ten. Litres. I’m getting quite emotional here. Those bottles weren’t half empty, people, they were half full! Oh, oh, the sheer waste! Lara, in Timperley, has texted to say that she sometimes pops the cork on a red, only to realize—
He clicked again, more aggressively this time. The radio fell silent.
Annoying loud bitches, would they never shut up?
He let the quiet settle in then turned his attention back to the console. It was a little larger than those used by genuine delivery drivers, and he’d sheathed its casing in rubber, just to be safe. But a casual observer would never know the difference.
Its upper surface was dominated by a glass touchscreen. This was where they’d believe a signature was required. The stylus for writing it was metal. A wire ran through the coiled plastic cord attaching it to his creation. That wire then connected to a row of nine-volt batteries concealed in the casing.
The beads of solder he’d just applied had now cooled. The Royer circuit he’d built inside it was complete. Further along the workbench was a polystyrene block. Embedded in the block was a metal coat hanger bent into the shape of an upturned hand. The clips of a meter had been attached to what represented the thumb. Everything was set.
He put his glasses on and took a breath in, composing himself. Then he lifted the console clear and spoke politely to the wall. ‘Delivery, madam. Yes, for this address. If you could please sign for it here.’
He slid the s
tylus from its holder and laid it across the palm of the improvised hand. The internal mechanism of the stylus had been taken from a 100,000 volt Micro Stun Gun he’d purchased during the same trip to Chicago the previous month. He’d booked his flight the day after receiving final confirmation that his employment had been terminated at the college in Manchester where he’d worked for the last twelve years.
He regarded the stylus for a moment longer then pressed a button hidden from view on the device’s underside. A bright blue flash lit the room and the stylus jumped up as if trying to yank itself free of the plastic leash.
He calmly put the console back on the mat, took his glasses off and leaned forward to read the meter.
4.21 milliamps.
Enough to send an adult female flying backwards. Enough to send her crashing to the floor, completely powerless. Enough so he could then silence her. Forever.
ONE
A head poked out of the door and looked left then right. ‘In you come, ladies and gents, boys and girls.’
The officer who’d spoken was well in to his forties, veins in his temples accentuated by a haircut that had left little more than fuzz.
Sean Blake got to his feet, as did the rest of the group. They glanced awkwardly at one another, each of them clutching a cardboard box. Who was going first?
‘Jesus,’ the officer sighed, a palm pressed against the door to stop it swinging shut. ‘Marko, lead the way, will you?’
The person beside Sean immediately stepped forward and disappeared into the incident room. Sean glanced at the remaining two people. As both were female, he took a step back to let them through first. But the nearest one – who he guessed was about the same age as him – gestured with her chin. ‘You’re the detective.’
With a shrug to show he didn’t think that trumped manners, Sean stepped into the noise beyond.
The incident room held over a dozen workstations: cups, photo frames, paperwork and other paraphernalia scattered around most of them.
An officer on the far side of the room stood. ‘Anyone got a Samsung charger I can borrow?’
‘Christ, Ted. Again?’
‘Yeah, sorry.’
Troughton pointed. ‘The two empty ones, over there, in the far corner. Ladies, civilian support is off to the right. I think your table’s the last one.’
As Sean followed his fellow detective constable across the room, he could feel the eyes of the other officers settling on him. His black brogues, not even two days old, had his toes in a terrier-like grip. Shit, he thought. You’re walking like a weirdo. Stop it.
The other detective had broad shoulders and a confident way of moving. At about six foot two, he was a good four inches taller than Sean. The difference in height made Sean even more aware of his own stocky build: when feeling uncomfortable, he tended to hunch forward. He knew it made him appear defensive or wary. Even a touch aggressive.
Beside one of the workstations was a window. His new colleague made immediately for it. Box held above the desk, he glanced back. ‘You OK with that one? When I was here before, they had me sitting here.’
Sean took a quick look at the rejected workstation. A filing cabinet butted into the space beside the chair. Definitely the arse end of the deal. The other detective’s assumption rankled with him. ‘No.’
He’d already placed his box down. ‘Sorry?’
From the corner of his eye, Sean saw the nearest two detectives’ heads turn.
‘This side has miles less room. I don’t really want it, either.’
‘Oh.’ The other detective’s hands stayed on his box.
Sean plonked his on the chair and extended a fist across the desks. ‘Rock, paper, scissors?’
‘Rock …?’
‘You never played it?’
‘Yeah, but years ago—’
‘On three, then. Come on.’
Reluctantly, Wheeler lifted his knuckles.
Sean checked the other man’s eyes. He’ll choose rock, he thought. People used to getting their own way usually do. ‘One, two, three.’ He straightened his fingers to signify paper.
The other detective only had a middle and forefinger extended. Now smiling, he made a snipping movement.
Shit, Sean thought. ‘It’s yours,’ he stated, transferring his box to the desk. ‘I’m Sean Blake, by the way.’
‘Mark Wheeler.’
They were still shaking hands when the officer who’d directed them across appeared. ‘Right, you’ve been given your login details before coming up here?’
They both nodded.
‘Good. Marko, I don’t need to give you the low-down of where things are.’ He paused. ‘In fact, you can let Sean know. It is Sean, isn’t it?’
He gave a nod.
‘I’m Inspector Colin Troughton, office manager. You’ll be dealing mostly with me. Marko, how did that last rotation of yours go? What was it again?’
‘Financial investigations, over at Chester House.’
‘But you preferred the hustle and bustle of the Serious Crimes Unit?’
‘Any day.’
‘Well, you obviously made the right impression when you were here. Congratulations. And, Sean—’ the man’s voice underwent an almost imperceptible shift – ‘I gather this is also your first stint as a detective constable?’
‘Yes, sir. It is.’ He caught the glint of something in the other man’s eyes. Amusement, perhaps? Probably, Sean concluded, guessing his tie was wonky or a tuft of his wavy black hair was sticking up; it was usually doing something it shouldn’t.
‘There’s a briefing in ten minutes, so get yourselves sorted out. I’ll check the girls know what they’re doing.’
Sean didn’t sit down; his eyes had been drawn to the noticeboard on the end wall. A pair of photos dominated the display. The faces of two women. He already knew their names: Pamela Flood and Francesca Pinto. Pamela Flood’s body had been found five days ago in the front room of the flat she rented. She was in an armchair in the front room, but that hadn’t been where she’d died. Lividity beneath the skin of the buttocks and abrasions under the armpits suggested she’d been dragged into the front room and propped in the chair post-mortem. Unusual, but nothing more than that. What had pushed her death into the category of bizarre was the fact her mobile phone had then been forced so far into her mouth, it had lodged at the back of her throat.
‘Hear the detail about Francesca Pinto they’re holding back on?’
Sean looked across the desks. Mark flicked back his fringe of blonde hair then beckoned him towards the noticeboard.
From the facial photos alone, the contrast between the two women was obvious. Francesca Pinto looked well-off. Her skin was clear, make-up tastefully done, hair properly styled. She had been smiling when the photo – probably sourced from a partner or family member – had been taken. Her teeth were white and even. Something worth showing off. She also looked about ten years younger than Pamela Flood, though, Sean knew, they were almost the same age.
Pamela Flood looked like she’d had just about enough of life. Her skin sagged and her eyes were dull and tired. Dark curls – too regular to be natural – hung low over her forehead and each ear. Her mouth was partly open, even though she wasn’t smiling. Her bottom row of teeth was visible, and they looked more like a row of rickety fence posts. Brown and with gaps.
Francesca had been found two days ago. The fact her body had been arranged in the same way as Pamela’s had led to the investigating team’s rapid expansion – and the two detectives’ arrival that morning. Sean came to a stop beside Mark. ‘Her phone was also in her mouth, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ Mark replied, hands in pockets, eyes on Francesca’s face. ‘But her handset was a newer model. Bigger.’
‘Bigger?’ Sean glanced at his colleague, wondering how that was significant.
Mark nodded. ‘To fit the phone in her mouth, her tongue had been cut out. No sign of it at the scene.’
TWO
Sean saw the number o
n his phone’s screen and felt his shoulders sag. Mum. Ringing now, of all times. His new appointment was letting her relive her own time in the police … still, ignoring the call was unthinkable: she might need help. The familiar procession of grim possibilities started to parade through his mind.
Mum sprawled on the kitchen floor, her walking frame on its side.
Mum marooned midway up the stairs, the chairlift having stopped working.
Mum stranded at the end of the front door’s ramp, the batteries in her wheelchair dead.
He was glad Mark Wheeler was still over at the noticeboard, now talking with a couple of detectives he must have met during his previous rotation. Turning his seat so he was facing the filing cabinet, Sean accepted the call. He could hear a low rumble and, above that, a knocking sound. It was growing more urgent. ‘Mum? Everything OK?’
‘Sean? Are you there?’
‘Yes, Mum.’ The usual surge in his temples as his heart began to thud. ‘Can you hear me?’
‘Oh, there you are. It’s clearer now.’
‘I said, is everything OK?’
‘I’m on a bus, surprise, surprise. There’s a terrible rattle each time we pull away. The driver says it’s the panelling.’
The noise subsided.
‘That’s better. Can you hear me?’
He sat back, tension melting. ‘So you’re all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
Checking no one was close enough to hear, he whispered, ‘Mum, it’s my first day.’
‘That’s why I’m ringing! To wish you luck.’
‘You already did that. This morning, before I set off?’
‘Well, yes. But still. So, you’re there, in the incident room?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you got your own work space?’
He focused on the filing cabinet inches from his face. ‘Kind of.’
‘And there’s only one other DC brought in, aside from you?’
‘Mum, I’ll tell you all this later.’
‘It’s just … I’m so proud of you, Sean.’
He glanced over his shoulder. Mark was walking back towards their desks. ‘Thanks. There’s a briefing in about twenty seconds. Got to go.’
