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

by Robin Roughley

  Rae drummed his fingers on the table as he continued to glare at the men. ‘Any ideas, anything at all?’ he demanded.

  When no one answered he spun away in disgust and strode across the room to the window. The view revealed a darkened street, the meagre glow from the streetlight did little to push the shadows back. He stood glaring out into the darkness, the image of Tam’s severed head, mixed in with the jumble of bloodied waxen hands and feet, locked in his mind.

  He thought back to when they had first started running drugs for Ronnie Jensen, gaining his trust until the right time came to take over. They’d been in their early twenties, keen to cut out the middle man and get to where the real money was. In the end, Jensen had decided it was better to retire to Spain rather than end up sliced into bite-sized chunks and spread over the local fields.

  Rae and Tam had taken over and then the real cash had started to flow, though Jimmy had known that to stay out of the nick he had to be clever and that’s where Arnie Phelps had come into the picture. Phelps might have been a cracking solicitor but he also knew every scam going, so the money they made was filtered and cleaned and the property developer front was put into place to make Jimmy’s business dealings legit.

  Now, someone had killed Tam and Jimmy had no doubt that he would be next in line. The thought didn’t scare him, in fact it had the opposite effect, it focused his mind and made the ball of fury inside iron hard.

  He imagined a faceless bastard out there somewhere, scheming and making plans to take over, the thought stoked the fury until it was raging almost out of control. The years spent with fuck all had hardened him to most things and the truth was Tam’s death would be hard to come to terms with but he would manage it and when he found those responsible he would make sure they suffered before they died.

  Turning, he looked at the men sitting around the table, their faces all in lockdown, arms folded.

  ‘Acton, I want you with me, the rest of you can fuck off and get this sorted, and I want to know what you find out – ASAP,’ he said as he waved his hand towards the door.

  Seconds later, the room was empty apart from Acton, who rose and walked over to the window.

  ‘Don’t worry, Jimmy, we’ll sort it,’ he said, slipping his hands into his pockets.

  Rae raised an eyebrow. ‘If I have to rely on you lot to get to the truth then I’m already screwed. Now, go and bring the car to the front.’

  Acton simply nodded before turning and walking from the room.

  Rae turned back to the window, his mind clicking though the options, his dark eyes brimming with hatred.

  27

  Margaret Chumley flicked the hood of the Barbour over her head as the rain came down in a heavy drizzle. The border collie raced past, oblivious to the elements, flying along the hedgerow, nose to the ground, taking in all the early-morning scents.

  She shivered as a gust of wind blew rain under the hood and into her face. She’d had a quiet night at the petrol station, spending the majority of her shift reading magazines from the shelf and playing Sudoku. In eight long, boring hours, she had only served three customers through the night hatch, and one of those had only wanted cigarettes and mints. As soon as she arrived home she had collected Sheba and headed out on her usual route.

  That was the beauty of owning a dog, it stopped you sitting in the chair with your feet up, as soon as Sheba heard the key in the front door she was ready for the off. Plus, after a long shift of sitting down it was good to stretch your legs and feel the wind in your face, even if that wind was laced with rain.

  The dog ran back to her before turning, dashing off around the corner and vanishing into the gloom. Pale light was just starting to seep over the horizon, tinting the grey sky with a splash of red. Despite wearing wellingtons, Margaret circumnavigated her way around the numerous water-logged potholes, the rain pattering a drum roll on the hood of her jacket.

  As she reached the turn in the lane, Sheba reappeared and Margaret drew her right arm back and sent the tennis ball flying along the lane, immediately the dog turned and sprinted after it, making Margaret smile. After her last dog had died of old age, Margaret had sworn she wouldn’t have another, she was close to sixty now she reminded herself, and it hardly seemed right to get another animal at her time of life. Though the truth was, with Lucy gone, Margaret would finish work and then simply sit in the house watching the sun come up or flicking on the television. Time would pass and she would still be there three hours later, staring at the screen like some zombie, before heading up to bed where she would lie awake fidgeting as she tried to sleep.

  In the end, she had gone to the local dog rescue and picked Sheba and now her life was back in balance.

  Sheba barked and Margaret squinted into the rain, she could see the dog about thirty yards away standing slightly to the left. A loud bark split the air and the sound brought Margaret to a sudden halt, her face creased in confusion.

  She’d had Sheba for over twelve months now and one of the things she loved about the dog was that she wasn’t a barker. The postman could drop letters on to the mat and Sheba would sit in the hall, her tail swishing, as Margret bent down to collect the mail. For a couple of seconds, the sound ceased and Margaret blew a sigh of relief but then Sheba started again, louder this time, barks full of distress that echoed along the lane in one continuous blast.

  Margaret started to walk forward, hands thrust into pockets, the rain blowing in her face making her squint as she grew closer. Slowly, the shape on the ground materialised and Margaret felt the first quiver of unease, she slowed from a brisk stride to a hesitant shuffle as she tried to figure out what was laying at the side of the lane.

  Sheba threw her head back and howled and Margaret snatched the hood back from her head. She stopped, her heart began to beat faster as if somehow her brain already knew what was on the ground and was sending out the warning signals.

  Wiping the rain from her eyes with a shaking hand, she slowly edged forwards. Then it was if a shroud had been lifted from her eyes and the gory tableau was revealed in all its horror. The man lay on his back, arms outstretched, the white T-shirt drenched with blood that had spilt from the mangled wreckage of his head.

  Margaret Chumley stood in the rain-drenched morning, one hand clasped to her mouth, her eyes locked on the body in front of her. Sheba stopped howling and silence descended, broken only by Margaret’s frantic breathing and the pitter patter of the rain filling the puddles.

  She had no idea how long she stood there, the rain continued to fall on the dead man’s face, washing away the blood, revealing the true extent of the damage. Then the spell was broken and Margaret turned and ran, her mind ragged, her right hand desperately trying to locate the phone in her pocket.

  This time she ran straight through the puddles, her feet splashing in the water, hood down, hair plastered to her head oblivious to everything but the need to get away from the body. Sheba started to howl again and the sound chased her down the waterlogged lane.

  28

  Marnie could feel the pulsating heat all around, scorching the air, the smoke filling her lungs tinged with the foul stench of burning flesh. She leaned out of the demolished bedroom window with the child in her arms and took a frantic gulp of clean air. The house seemed to groan around her as the ancient timbers roared with flame. When she looked down there was no sign of Luke Croft, waiting, with arms outstretched, the smoke from below shifted in the stiff wind as another window exploded outwards in a shower of red-hot glass.

  Marnie cried out for help but received no reply, the child in her arms started to slip and she tried to hold on, the heat at her back was increasing with every passing second; throwing a terrified glance over her shoulder she saw the bedroom door warp in the inferno heat.

  She whipped her head back around, the child looked at her with huge terror-filled eyes and then the door behind her exploded inwards, the sheet of flame roared into the room and …

  Marnie snapped awake, the scream trapped
in her throat, her hands – raised above her head – opening and closing, grasping at thin air. She bolted upright in bed, eyes wide, convinced she could hear the roar of the flames, taste the acrid stink of the sizzling fat-filled air.

  ‘Oh God!’ she gasped, kicking the duvet back with thrashing legs.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, feet planted on the carpet, head bowed, she tried to steady her racing heart.

  Leaning over, she fumbled the pack of cigarettes from the drawer; seconds later, she blew the smoke out on a shivering gasp then got up and crossed the room to yank back the curtains, looking out of the rain-patterned window.

  She pushed it open and leaned out, letting the drizzle sprinkle into her face in an attempt to wash away the vestiges of the nightmare. Taking another pull on the cigarette, she gripped the windowsill and shook her head in despair.

  She tried to think back to a time when her dreams weren’t filled with the horrors of the past and found that she couldn’t. After Abby had been taken, the bad dreams had been a constant all through her teenage years and although they had lessened over time, they would always resurface with a vengeance. However, since she had escaped the burning house a new nightmare had been added to the mix, Conrad Boland wreathed in flames, his mouth stretched wide, smoke-filled screams poured out in agony-filled madness as he burned; taking the truth with him, he fell through the wooden floor to be consumed by the furnace below.

  She knew it was all about guilt, guilt for not saving Abby and now those feelings were being compounded by her failure to get to Boland before the flames took him.

  With a world-weary sigh, she dropped the cigarette to the waterlogged lawn below, closing the window with a thump.

  She looked around the room, the duvet pushed to the bottom of the bed, the pillows scrunched. She was heading for the landing when her phone started to ring, making a detour, she picked it up from the bedside cabinet.

  When she saw DCI Reese’s name flashing on the screen she pressed the loudspeaker before sitting on the edge of the bed.

  Thirty seconds later, she was back on her feet as Reese told her about the dead man found on the country lane.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ she said, hanging up and running from the room, leaving the bed unmade.

  Five minutes later, dressed in dark trousers and grey sweatshirt, she grabbed her waterproof jacket, shrugging it on as she left the house; the rain still lashing down as she jumped into the car and reversed off the drive.

  Another day in paradise.

  29

  Conway popped the tablet from the foil and tossed it into his mouth, washing it down with a glass of milk. With a grimace, he looked around the empty kitchen before glancing towards the rain-swept window.

  His brow furrowed as he thought of David Hamer, his face unrecognisable. Hamer had been terrified, two of his fingers broken and yet he hadn’t stopped there, he hadn’t been satisfied with the punishment. He felt a flutter of shame and snarled in anger as he rose and took the glass over to the sink. If he wanted to find out what had happened to John and Rowan, then he would have to forget any feelings of guilt – either now or in the future.

  After checking his watch, he rolled a cigarette, time to get a move on, he had a busy day ahead and already he could feel the clock ticking, the impermanence of time forever speeding up until the sand in the hour glass ran out and then …

  Slamming the front door behind him he strode out into the rain, his face stamped with determination, once more steeled for whatever the day brought.

  30

  ‘Christ what a mess,’ Marnie said, looking down at the body with shocked eyes. The remains were under the cover of the scene of crime tent, the front open allowing access. Reese was silent, his face set with aggravation, looking down at his dripping umbrella. Doc Kelly crouched on his haunches at the side of the dead man, for once even he looked a little green around the gills. Marnie spotted the clear evidence bag on the waterlogged ground, she could see the black wallet inside along with a mixture of notes.

  ‘Do we have a name?’ she asked.

  ‘Fortunately, the wallet had a driving licence in it, say hello to David Hamer,’ Reese said, as he pulled the evidence-bagged licence from the pocket of his jacket.

  Marnie put out a hand and took it, Hamer was smiling, his face tanned, his dark hair swept back, a gold stud in his right ear – but his eyes held a hint of mockery.

  Looking down, she grimaced at the crater of blood and gore and tilted her head slightly, the earring was in place, a small nugget of gold amongst the grey and red.

  Doc Kelly continued to study the damage as Marnie handed the licence back to her boss.

  ‘I’ve got Bev Harvey trying to find out what she can about the dead man, as soon as she finds anything she’ll let us know but considering the killer left the wallet and cash behind it’s safe to assume the guy wasn’t robbed,’ the DCI explained.

  ‘Do we know what was used to cause that amount of damage?’ Marnie asked.

  Kelly looked up and wiped the rain from his face. ‘Amongst all the mess there’s a definite boot imprint high on what remains of the forehead.’

  ‘You’re saying someone stamped on his head?’ Reese asked in disbelief as the rain continued to fall, sounding loud on the roof of the tent.

  Kelly nodded. ‘Several times, you can see the skull’s been crushed and you wouldn’t get that from just one blow. If you look, the head is in soft, waterlogged ground which would have absorbed some of the impact, so I’d say between five and ten times to do that amount of damage.’

  Marnie shivered as she imagined a boot slamming down repeatedly onto the upturned face. Reese spun the umbrella sending a circle of rainwater spraying out, his face locked in a scowl.

  Stepping around him, Marnie crouched at the foot of the body. ‘His shoes are relatively clean, which means he didn’t come here on foot.’

  Reese tugged at his left earlobe. ‘So, he was driven here, murdered and left for anyone to find. No attempt made to hide the body?’

  Kelly nodded slowly. ‘And then we have this,’ reaching down he lifted the right hand from the puddle of muddy water to reveal the damaged fingers.

  ‘Two fingers broken,’ Marnie said, her eyes narrowing at the sight.

  ‘Which means Hamer was tortured before he was killed,’ Reese added with a heavy sigh.

  Suddenly, Marnie had an image of the bag crammed with body parts.

  Kelly backed out of the tent and looked over to where two ambulance men stood by the side of a Transit van with blacked-out windows. Beckoning them over, the three of them moved out of the tent while Hamer was loaded into a body bag.

  ‘I’ll get cracking on the autopsy, as soon as it’s done I’ll give you a call,’ Kelly shouted over his shoulder, following the men across the muddy lane towards the van.

  Reese put up his umbrella and Marnie shuffled to the left until she was sheltering under it.

  A moment later, Bev Harvey climbed out of the passenger side of a squad car and walked over, picking her way around the puddles in an effort to keep her feet dry.

  ‘Tell me you’ve found something?’ Reese asked as she came to a halt, shoulders hunched against the rain.

  ‘Hamer has a record for dealing, he served six months in twenty-fourteen, prior to that he was cautioned for shoplifting on three separate occasions,’ she paused to look at her notepad, ‘he’s also been checked out for assault.’

  “Checked out?” Marnie asked with a frown.

  Harvey nodded. ‘A few months ago, we were called out to the Derage Green Estate. One of the neighbours heard screaming and shouting coming from one of the flats. I’ve just spoken to Paul Clark on the way over here – he was the attending officer – according to him it was a domestic. Hamer was there along with a woman named Drew Watkins. Paul said she had a black eye and bruises on her arms and legs.’

  Reese peered out from under the umbrella, his eyes hardening. ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘As Paul rem
embers it, Watkins refused to point the finger though it was obvious what had happened. Hamer was questioned but kept his mouth shut, although he did say that Watkins had fallen in the kitchen and cracked her head on the corner of the table.’

  ‘No doubt that was bollocks,’ Reese commented.

  Marnie grabbed her ponytail and dragged her hand down, squeezing the water out before flicking the droplets away. It was the same old story, a woman beaten at the hands of her partner and then refusing to the point the finger. Marnie felt the first stirrings of anger towards Hamer as she pictured him looming over some faceless, terrified female, safe in the knowledge that she would never breathe a word about the abuse. Marnie knew from past experience that once the police had been called and the victim said nothing then it reinforced the hold of the abuser and bolstered their feeling of power.

  ‘Do we have an address?’ she asked.

  ‘Flat number sixteen, Derage Rise,’ Bev answered immediately.

  Reese nodded appreciatively. ‘Right, Marnie, take Bev and check the place out. If this Drew Watkins is there then find out what you can about Hamer, warts and all.’

  Marnie headed over to her car with Harvey by her side.

  Once inside the car, Marnie flicked the heater to full blast, flicked the wipers on and slid the zipper down on her jacket.

  The wipers sprang to life, swishing the water from the screen and revealing the trough of water where Hamer had died.

  Bev clicking the seat belt into place, glanced over and remarked, ‘What a way to go.’

  ‘Mm,’ Marnie replied, already thinking of Hamer as an abuser rather than a victim.

  Dropping the handbrake, she drove down the lane, the tyres splashing through the standing water, the anger inside starting to build.

  31