Cut The Threads: A Serial Killer Thriller That Will Keep You Hooked (DS Marnie Hammond Book 2)

by Robin Roughley

  He was so lost in the terror that he was unaware of Conway leaning towards him, when he felt another finger grabbed in a vice-like grip he blinked and abruptly he was back in the car, the pain in his hand throbbing to the beat of his thudding heart.

  ‘Jimmy Rae!’ Hamer screeched.

  Conway grunted, twisted the finger and Hamer was screaming again.

  ‘Please!’ he begged as the agony reached new heights.

  ‘Rae is in charge, right?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, Jimmy runs everything, I was only keeping an eye on some of the girls for him,’ Hamer whinged.

  ‘Big man is he, this Jimmy Rae?’ Conway snarled.

  Hamer nodded his head rapidly. ‘No one fucks with Jimmy,’ he said, whimpering as the pain kicked in again.

  ‘I take it he supplies the drugs as well?’

  Hamer clamped his lips together in an effort to stop the fear blurting out the words even though his head continued to nod in the affirmative.

  ‘Emma Winstanley did a runner from the flat and it was your job to get her back?’ Conway asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Hamer whispered.

  ‘Did Rae know she’d escaped?’

  Tears slid from Hamer’s glassy eyes. ‘Not at first, I wanted to get it sorted before he found out, that’s why I went to the hostel.’

  Conway glanced through the windscreen at the darkened lane. ‘If Rae is as big as you say then someone like you would have been well down the pecking order, so who did you report to?’

  Despite the pain, Dave Hamer felt a flicker of embarrassment, his tormentor was right, Jimmy Rae had no real interest in him, in fact he knew that if they passed in the street then Rae would have no idea who he was. Hamer felt the colour flood his face as Conway looked at him with his hard, brown eyes.

  ‘His name’s Tam Whitlow. He gave me twenty-four hours to get her back to the flat, that’s why I went to the hostel.’

  ‘And John Hall kicked you out?’

  Hamer sniffed and nodded. ‘I told Tam and he said he’d sort it and I thought Rae would go ballistic when he found out but I haven’t heard anything so I just carried on.’

  ‘Did Whitlow supply you with the drugs?’

  Hamer paused before answering. ‘Everything comes from Jimmy, Tam just dishes the stuff out and keeps his eye on things.’

  ‘Where does Whitlow live?’ Conway asked.

  ‘I don’t know the address.’

  ‘But you can direct me?’

  Hamer managed to nod as the pain began to travel up his arm like liquid fire.

  ‘Right, you can give me directions while I drive.’

  Dave Hamer bolted up in the seat. ‘No fucking way, if Tam knows I’ve grassed him up he’ll kill me!’

  Conway turned to look at the terrified man in the passenger seat. ‘So far you have two broken fingers but believe me that will be nothing if you don’t show me where Whitlow lives.’

  Hamer jittered in the seat, his heart pounding, his pulse racing.

  ‘If you refuse then I’ll beat you to death and dump you here,’ he paused to let the words sink in, ‘your choice.’

  Hamer licked his lips, the terror crashing through his flimsy defences. ‘Go to the end of the lane and take a left,’ he whimpered.

  Conway smiled, his teeth flashing in the gloom. ‘There’s a bottle of water and some painkillers in the glove box, I suggest you take a couple.’

  Hamer felt the confusion clatter around his fractured mind and then he was fumbling the glove box open with his good hand, reaching in he pulled out the bottle and pills.

  ‘I can’t open the lid,’ he sounded like a small boy who is faced with an insurmountable task.

  The smile on Conway’s face grew wider still. ‘Yeah well, life’s full of disappointment,’ he said, flicking the lights back on and driving away down the narrow lane.

  23

  Rowan watched the sliver of light beneath the door, her fragile mind close to breaking point. She stood in the centre of the room, hands by her sides, her young face wrought with fatigue and fear.

  When she heard the key in the lock, she backed up towards the bed and waited, the door opened about six inches and the familiar brown bag of takeaway food was pushed into the room along with a litre bottle of cola.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked.

  The door remained ajar, pale light crept into the room.

  ‘Please, I need to know,’ she pleaded.

  Silence stretched out and Rowan became convinced she could hear shallow breathing beyond the door.

  ‘If you let me go, I promise I won’t say anything,’ she offered in a whisper.

  ‘Why would I let you go?’ the voice asked.

  Rowan lurched back and sat down on the bed with a thump. It was the first time her captor had spoken and hearing the voice seemed to bring the full weight of her situation down on her narrow shoulders.

  ‘You can’t keep me here; the police will be looking for me, my father will be out there and if he finds you then—’

  ‘No one is looking for you,’ the voice interrupted.

  Rowan hitched in a sharp breath, the room seemed to close in around her, the smell from the chemical toilet making her gag as the fear smothered her mind.

  ‘You’ll be staying here until I say otherwise,’ the voice drifted into the room, the door creaked shut, cutting off the meagre light.

  Rowan Hall started to cry, big salty tears that spilled from her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. She tried to hold on to the core of determination inside but she felt her resolve slipping, as if she somehow knew that the voice spoke the truth. But how could it be true? She mouthed the words, feeling the pressure around her heart tighten, making it difficult to breath.

  She tried to fathom the words, but she couldn’t get past the fear that they had induced in her. Rowan collapsed onto the bed hugging the foul-smelling duvet, gathering it in her arms and squeezing it tight. The man must have lied, there was no way her father would ever stop looking for her, unless … the thought hit her like a hurricane blast, the only way her father would stop looking was if he was physically unable to help her.

  ‘He’s dead,’ she whispered and felt her heart break with the certainty of the thought.

  “You’ll be staying here until I say otherwise.” The words echoed around her terrified brain, she had no real concept of the meaning yet still the words stripped her emotions bare, leaving her shuddering with fear.

  Rowan Hall clung to the duvet in the fetid room and felt any hope of rescue die.

  24

  Marnie sat at the kitchen table, the mug of tea clasped between her hands, the cigarette burning away in the ashtray, trailing smoke towards the ceiling.

  She pictured Chelsea Whitlow on her knees, her head hanging low as the despair kicked in. Jimmy Rae had told her everything, not bothering to spare the woman any of the gory details. Marnie had moved forward and tried to place a comforting hand on her shoulder and Chelsea had lurched upright as if Marnie’s touch was abhorrent to her.

  ‘Don’t fucking touch me!’ she’d screeched, snatching her phone from the ground and storming back to the house.

  On the journey home, Marnie had called Reese to fill him in on the details, the DCI had sighed heavily down the phone. When she asked him how he had fared with Rae he had grunted in aggravation.

  ‘Let’s just say he refused to cooperate,’ the DCI replied.

  ‘He’ll look to sort it himself,’ Marnie said as she drove along the darkened roads.

  ‘I’ve got Dawber and Willis keeping an eye him, not that I expect it to do much good. I mean, in this day and age the bad guys can bloody Skype one another, they don’t even have to meet up to cause carnage.’

  ‘Rae has a few hard-core heavies working for him, so no doubt he’ll have them all out there trying to find the people responsible for killing Whitlow.’

  ‘Right, first thing in the morning go and have another word with this Chelsea Whitlow.’

  ‘
I can’t see her talking.’ Marnie had replied as she pulled onto the estate.

  ‘Yes, well, a few hours thinking how her brother died might loosen her tongue.’

  ‘She’d never grass Rae up.’

  ‘I realise that but perhaps she might know if anyone is trying to muscle in on Rae’s sordid empire.’

  Seconds later, she had pulled onto the drive. ‘OK, I’ll go back in the morning and see what she has to say.’

  ‘Good, now have a good night – what’s left of it,’ Reese said, ending the call.

  Now, she took a sip from the cup, grimacing when she pictured the contents of the bag, the head jammed inside along with a scattering of hands and feet, the interior soaked with blood and gore.

  It was obvious that Whitlow had been targeted and the fact that the killer had turned up at Rae’s house meant that Whitlow had spilled his guts, yet he had still ended up dead, which pointed to a high level of savagery. Whoever was trying to take over obviously had no interest in the softly-softly approach. They were hitting hard and fast, making sure that Rae knew they meant business; the trouble was Marnie knew that Rae would meet the threat with the same level of brutality.

  Stubbing the cigarette out, she headed across the kitchen and emptied the dregs down the sink before swilling the cup. The view from the window had changed. Gone were the fields of wheat and rapeseed, now the only crop was rabbit-hutch houses, one or two had lights shining in the windows, some remained empty, a forest of for sale signs sprouted like alien trees in the small front gardens.

  Ten minutes later, she slipped beneath the duvet, her hair still damp from the shower.

  Tentatively, she closed her eyes and the pale face of Tam Whitlow stared up at her with one terror-filled eye, his mouth stretched wide, tongue protruding.

  Dragging the duvet over her head she hunched up her legs like a child who knows that the bogeyman exists and is on the prowl.

  As her mind drifted, the gruesome image of Whitlow diminished, replaced by that of her sister. Abby had been eight years old when she had been taken and Marnie’s tortured mind conjured the familiar image of torment. Boland had lashed out, leaving eleven-year-old Marnie on the ground amongst a mash of wet leaves and gravel. Then he had picked Abby up and casually walked away with her slung over his shoulder, and all Marnie could do was watch as he vanished into the trees, Abby’s wet hair dangling behind him.

  Marnie Hammond slept locked in the never-ending nightmare, her tears staining the pillow.

  25

  Dave Hamer’s head lolled on the headrest, the pain in his fingers pulsated with the galloping beat of his heart.

  Earlier, when they had driven along the street, Hamer had slid lower in the seat, panicking as he saw Whitlow’s sister talking to some woman with brown hair tied back in a ponytail.

  ‘Do you know the women?’ Conway had asked as they drove past.

  ‘The shorter one is Chelsea, she’s Tam’s sister,’ Hamer explained, cradling his damaged hand against his chest as Chelsea ran to the house and jabbed the key into the lock before vanishing inside.

  ‘And the other?’ Conway pulled up on the left and turned in his seat.

  Hamer had licked his lips as the hard eyes stared at him. ‘I don’t know, I’ve never seen her before.’

  They waited in silence, Conway kept glancing in the mirror, thirty seconds later, the unknown woman had driven away. Then Chelsea Whitlow had come storming from the house and jumped into the BMW and swept past and he had pulled out and followed.

  A ride across town and Conway watched Chelsea pull onto the drive of a large house before jumping out and dashing to the front door. By the time she had the key into the lock, Conway was driving away.

  Twenty minutes later, the car began to jolt and lurch, Hamer opened his pain-filled eyes to find the headlights lancing out along a darkened lane, he looked out, disorientated, no idea where he was. His mouth felt parchment dry, the pain had reached his shoulder, sweat coated his body, leaving his shirt stained with spray tan and clinging to his back as he tried to control the fear.

  ‘Where are we?’ he managed to whisper.

  Conway ignored the question, the car continued to bump along the rutted lane.

  Hamer twisted his head left and right but the darkness was absolute. They might have been all alone, miles from anywhere, miles from help for all he could see.

  The car came to a halt and Conway pushed open the door and climbed out. Hamer shivered in the seat, watching the tall man walk around the front of the car before opening the passenger door.

  ‘Out,’ Conway demanded, stepping back.

  Dave Hamer didn’t want to move, he shook his head from side to side, the fear building. Staying put may be giving him a false sense of safety but it seemed a hell of a lot better than getting out of the car.

  Reaching in, Conway snatched the collar of Hamer’s jacket and dragged him from the car.

  ‘Please, I did what you asked, I showed you where Tam lived and …’

  Grabbing the lower half of Hamer’s face, Conway forced his head up.

  ‘You’ve made money out of selling young girls to—’

  ‘That wasn’t me!’ Hamer managed to gurgle as Conway’s hand gripped ever tighter, the fingers digging deep into the soft flesh.

  Tom Conway leaned in close, a moth danced by in the headlight glare, Hamer breathed in through his nose, smelling his own fear and the cow shit from the fields that bordered the lane.

  ‘Emma Winstanley is sixteen years old, she had a crap home life but you just saw her as an easy target, you tricked her into thinking you would treat her right and then you drugged her and forced her into having sex with any bastard whilst you pocketed the cash and swanned about like a fucking big man!’

  ‘No, no, it wasn’t me, she—’

  ‘She trusted you,’ Conway’s hand tightened.

  Hamer tried desperately to pull away but he had nowhere to go. ‘Please, I—!’

  Tom Conway slammed his free fist into Dave Hamer’s upturned face, his nose cracked, blood spurted, running down his chin, coating his teeth red.

  ‘You had no intention of looking after her!’ Conway bellowed as he drove his fist forward again, smashing into the bloody pulp.

  Hamer’s eyes fluttered as he desperately tried to stay in the here and now but the pain overloaded his senses and his vision started to blur out of focus.

  All his life he had played the hard man, strutting around Kirkhead with a spring in his step, knowing that any association with Jimmy Rae was worth its weight in gold for boosting his reputation. Yet now, as his head snapped back again and the blood flowed, he realised that working for Rae could have deadly repercussions.

  When the third blow slammed home to the sound of a cheekbone cracking, Dave Hamer gave up the struggle and succumbed to the darkness, his eyes rolled back, his body grew limp.

  Conway allowed him to flop back onto the rutted ground then he stood up and looked down at Hamer, his face a ragged mash of cuts and bruises, the flesh already swelling, the eyes purpling. Then he thought of Emma, her life in ruins, her memory banks full of a parade of faceless perverts all paying to have sex with her while Hamer smiled and collected the cash. The anger roared through his brain, he thought of John and Rowan – missing since John’s run-in with David fucking Hamer.

  With a snarl, he raised his right foot, slamming it down onto the bloody face, the remains of Hamer’s damaged nose splintered and crumpled. Somewhere in the darkness an owl hooted as Tom Conway repeatedly slammed his boot down on Hamer’s head, the skull cracked under the impact, brain matter leaked out into the wet mud. Half a minute later, he stepped back and wiped his gore-stained boot in the tall, wet grass at the side of the lane.

  Pulling out the tobacco pouch, he rolled a cigarette, blowing out the smoke on a long murmur of satisfaction.

  He looked up at a sky filled with stars, his eyes moving back and forth as if searching for something. Thirty seconds later, he lowered his head and took
a final pull on the cigarette before flicking it into the ditch.

  It wouldn’t make things right for Emma Winstanley but at least now she would have the chance to get on with her life, try and put the past and any thought of Hamer behind her.

  With a grunt of satisfaction, he walked around the car and climbed behind the wheel before driving off down the lane.

  Somewhere in the darkness, a bird cackled as the rat moved forward out of the grass, head raised, nose twitching as it drew in the scent. Seconds later, it scurried over to feast.

  26

  The upstairs room of The Crown was cluttered with stacked chairs, an ancient upright piano stood in the corner, the atmosphere sombre as Rae explained about the death of Tam Whitlow.

  Acton sat with Stevie Harrow on one side, Paul West on the other, Alan Crab and Peter Rawlins opposite with Jimmy Rae at the head of the table, his face carved with hatred.

  ‘Tam was a mate and I want the twat responsible found,’ he paused to let the words sink in, ‘I want him here, in front of me, so I can kill the bastard!’ he growled looking around the table, his eyes boring into each man in turn.

  Acton nodded in understanding as West moved uncomfortably in the chair at his side. Stevie Harrow folded his arms, keeping his face neutral.

  ‘Now, I want to know who would have the balls to do something like this?’ Rae asked.

  Blank faces stared back at him and he felt his anger grow until his face began to change colour.

  Harrow eased back in the chair, recognising the signs of imminent violence. ‘We were talking about this, Jimmy, and there’s no one who springs to mind.’

  Rae gritted his teeth. “No one who springs to mind”,’ he mimicked. ‘I know, let’s just forget it. I mean, Tam might have been a mate but what does it matter if someone cut off his fucking head?’

  The five men all glanced at one another, their expressions furtive and nervous.