“Why don’t you think before opening that trap of yours, hmm? It might get you in trouble.”
“I couldn’t give a fuck anymore.” Matt flicked his cigarette into Tommy’s chest and shrugged. He began to walk away. “You can tell Curtis if he’s got a problem with me leaving, he knows where he can find me.”
“We’ll be having a chat about this soon, son. Trust me.” Tommy yelled out after Matt, who faded into the shadows. Matt threw up his hand with a raised middle finger, before disappearing from view. Tommy, his face distorted in an ugly scowl stood with his hands on his hips. He spat on the ground, on the verge of losing his temper.
Lewis slid off the boot of the car.
“Let him go, Tommy. You know what Matt’s like.” Lewis’s voice was high-pitched and croaky. “He doesn’t like having to answer to you or to Curtis.”
“Lewis, the next time you ever tell me what to do, I will break a bone for every fucking word you use.” Tommy turned, his eyes piercing through Lewis like razor blades. “Is that understood?”
Lewis nodded in agreement when the door burst open again. The footsteps were heard first, along with the clicking of a zippo. Smoke filtered through the air, the smell of the cigar thick and heavy. Curtis emerged through the smoke and the shadow, adjusting his belt. He looked flushed, tired.
“Get rid of her.”
Tommy nodded and Curtis took a big puff on his cigar and blew it out as he watched his brother faithfully walk over to the doorway to oblige him.
“In the stomach,” Curtis demanded, his eyes flickering with twisted delight.
“Curtis. Come on. Hasn't she suffered enough?” Tommy asked, his voice trying desperately to hide its disgust.
“It's not a request.”
Tommy stared at his brother, who took another puff on his cigar, his face disappearing behind a cloud of thick, grey smoke. Tommy sighed and walked to the shutter, his head shaking. Curtis smirked, watching his brother obey his order before heading to his car.
He walked past both Lewis and Harry, barely acknowledging their existences, and got into the back seat of his Bentley. The window rolled down and a puff of smoke filtered out.
Tommy could hear the crying before he could see her. He always hated this part, the walk through the darkness to see what his brother had left behind. He knew it was wrong, but his loyalty to his brother was unbreakable. Curtis was a disturbed man, Tommy would never deny that. But whatever it was that happened, Curtis protected Tommy and his siblings from it. Tommy knew their dad was a bad man, one of the worst criminals London had seen. Curtis took the brunt of their old man's twisted actions and maybe that contributed in some way?
Tommy didn’t know.
And he never asked.
Helen heard the door open again, followed by the echo of footsteps approaching. She would have cried out, but she was emotionally, physically and mentally exhausted. The second man had hauled her off the chair by her hair, before punching her twice, once in the face and once in the ribs. There was a trickle of blood from her mouth to the floor that had expanded to a puddle.
Her top was ripped, her breasts exposed and pressed against the cold, dusty floor.
Somewhere in the room were her jeans and underwear, which he had thrown in whatever direction as he ripped them off her.
The footsteps drew closer and with the last ounces of energy she had, Helen tilted her head to look through her quickly swelling eyes.
Tommy.
He lowered himself down, squatting near to Helen with a genuine look of sorrow on his face. He knew this woman was innocent in all of this. She had a life that he and his brothers had just completely shattered. He reached round to the back of his trousers and from the band he pulled out a very large, very sharp hunting knife.
Helen’s eyes widened as much as they could against the bruising and she tried to muster words. Tommy put a hand over her mouth.
“Don’t. It won’t make it any easier, trust me.” He gripped the knife with his hand, and lowered his arm towards her body. Helen was crying, trying her hardest to beg for mercy. Tommy looked at her, his eyes cold.
“I’m sorry, Helen. It’s nothing personal.”
Helen felt the searing pain burning through her as the knife was rammed forcefully into her stomach. Tommy held it there, staring her dead in the eyes as she felt the striking agony course through. She could feel the warm flow of blood as it oozed out from the wound and once Tommy pulled his hand back out, it came gushing forth.
Tommy stood up and took a step back away from the rapidly expanding pool of blood. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the blade and the blood from his hand, before turning and walking purposefully back to the door.
Helen lay in silence, feeling her strength and life ebbing away from her. The room’s darkness moved, ghostly black shadows reaching out to take her to the afterlife.
Her eyes felt heavy.
She thought of Lucas. How he looked. How he smelt. How he kissed her. How he held her.
How he loved her.
How she loved him.
In the distance she thought she could hear the high-pitched wailing of a siren.
Helen closed her eyes as consciousness left her.
Officer Starling pulled the collar of his police-issue coat up and willed his body to warm itself. The rain was hitting the earth as hard as it could, the cold spreading with every drop that fell. He blew into his hands and rubbed them together, thinking about maybe climbing into a warm bed with his girlfriend for the hour between his shift ending and her having to leave for work.
That was the one thing he most hated about the nightshift. The bitterness of darkness.
He let out a sigh and turned and walked back down the path through Russell Square Park, looking around for any further clues. Officer Boulder was taking a statement from a young couple, huddled under an umbrella and dressed as if their night was just beginning, not ending.
“So you didn’t see anyone?” Boulder asked, not looking up from the notepad that he was trying to cover with his hand.
“No, Officer,” The young man answered politely. ”I tripped over the shoe there and then found the handbag over there… seemed a little peculiar, y’know?”
Boulder nodded, scribbling down. Starling watched approvingly, knowing he was working with a like-minded man of the law.
II mean, you’d notice if you’d forgotten your handbag. I know I would.” The lady added, her face telling Starling she feared the worst.
“Also, her purse and phone are in there. The phone is smashed the pieces,” the young man added.
“So you moved the bag and its contents”' Boulder asked, careful not sound accusatory.
“I’m afraid so,” the young man didn’t take offence. “I thought maybe we could find her phone and be able to contact a friend or something?”
The young man shrugged and he and his girlfriend both looked on helplessly. Starling took a few steps forward, aware that he must have seemed like the more intimidating of the two. The rain slapped against him as he approached.
“You did the right thing calling us,” he reassured them with a warm smile. “We have her driver’s license and we ensure that these items are returned to her.”
“Oh good,” the girl seemed relieved, holding onto her boyfriend’s arm. “You hear so many stories that my mind just leaps to the worst-case scenario.”
“Well, you’ve been a tremendous help,” Boulder said warmly, scribbling the final notes before flipping the note book closed. “If we need any further information, we will be in touch.”
“No problem, officer,” the young man replied.
“Have a lovely evening,” Starling said, indicating they could leave. The two of them smiled and left, heading towards the exit of the park to re-join the London nightlife.
“What do you think?” Boulder asked, bending down to collect the scattered items. Starling didn’t turn to his colleague, instead he stared out into the darkness beyond the trees. He closed his
eyes, allowing the wetness of the night to crash against his face.
“I think we need to find this woman.”
Suddenly, Boulder’s radio began to crackle into life. Attached to the breastplate of his Met vest, he struggled slightly turning the volume dial with a wet, gloved hand.
“Any available units, we have a grade one call, immediate response. Anonymous call. Reports of a serious sexual assault on a female. Vale Park Industrial Estate, Bermondsey. Any available units.”
The two officers looked at each other instantly and Starling gestured at all of the possessions spread out across the wet, stone path.
“Bag them and take them. Quickly!” He turned and walked briskly towards the exit, back to their car, and detaching his own radio from his chest in one fluid motion. “Officers three-three-four and four-two-nine attending. ETA fifteen minutes.”
Starling turned back to Boulder, who had collected the evidence and was rapidly catching up. He took a deep breath, the night changing in a matter of seconds. They exited through the gate, Starling jogging around the front of the car and sliding into the driver’s seat. Boulder hopped into the passenger side, clicking his seat belt and firing up the siren.
“Is a member of SOIT en-route?” Starling said into the radio, as he turned the ignition, the motor of the car roaring awake from its cold, wet slumber.
A faint cackle from the radio.
“They are aware. The Sexual Offence Investigation Team will meet you on scene.”
“Received!” Starling barked. Boulder looked at him as he whipped the car into reverse, the blare of the siren causing the traffic behind them to stop. With his hand firmly on the wheel, Starling yanked it downwards, the car spinning around, cutting through the main road. He shifted from reverse up to fourth in a matter of seconds and accelerated up Holborn High Road, slashing through the army of rain drops.
“You don’t think it’s her do you?” Boulder asked, a sense of dread dripping from every word. Starling kept his eyes on the road, weaving in and out of the cars and buses that had haphazardly moved to the side of the road to clear a path for the wailing blue light.
“'I don’t know, Henry,” Starling said coldly. “I just pray we get there in time.”
The white police car turned the corner, whipping around the static traffic and disappeared into the rain in a whirlwind of noise and flashing lights.
Fletcher was hunched over one of the metal filing cabinets at the back of the office, finishing off the implementation of a basic yet efficient colour coded sticker system. It may not have been crime fighting, but it was a job he took seriously and was proud as he stepped back and admired the organised rainbow. Working a double-shift that ate into his lonely Saturday was just the tonic he needed, the thoughts of the afternoon’s earlier heartbreak were being repelled, held back by more pressing matters.
“Lovely stuff!” He afforded himself a smile and trudged back to his messy desk, paperwork and files he had pulled from the cabinet piled everywhere. He briefly scanned the desk, finding his mug of coffee and he took a sip. He grimaced - it had gone cold, but he still sunk the rest of it in a few gulps allowing the caffeine to shoot through his old body.
“Fletcher.”
He turned to see Officer Patrick McCarthy approaching his desk, holding what seemed to be an ID card in his hand. McCarthy was a small, plump man with pasty white skin, fluffy ginger hair, and a thick Irish accent. He was also a fine police officer, resigned to desk duties for a few months after injuring his knee in pursuit of a carjacker. He limped all the way to Fletcher’s desk, casting a disapproving eye over the mounds of paper.
“Don’t worry, Pat,” Fletcher reassured him. “It’s all going back in the cabinet.”
Before he could proudly explain the order he had brought to the cabinet, McCarthy raised his hand to cut him off. The expression across his chubby face told Fletcher that something had happened.
“What is it?”
“It’s not good, Fletch.” McCarthy shook his head, looking at the desk.
“What?”
McCarthy went to speak, struggled for the words and then let out a sigh accompanied with another shake of the head.
“Pat, what the hell is going on?” Fletcher looked over his colleague’s shoulder, watching as a few uniformed officers jogged towards the exit of the station, fastening their met vests and checking the equipment on their belts.
“We received an anonymous phone call about a young woman being attacked.” McCarthy shook his head, having always hated having to say it out loud. “She was raped, Fletch.”
“Oh god!” Fletcher put his coffee mug on top of the nearby shelving unit and held onto it, steadying himself as the horrifying news set in.
“She was abducted in Russell Square Park. Two of our officers were called in as her possessions were recovered. They responded to the anonymous call but it was too late. Whoever had done it was long gone, but…” McCarthy scowled, his mouth pulled into a thin line of anger. Fletcher waited for merely a few seconds.
“But what?”
“They fucking stabbed her.” McCarthy’s pale face illuminated, red flushing through his round cheeks. “They raped her and stabbed her! Sick bastards!”
Fletcher raised a hand to his mouth, his thoughts immediately with the poor girl and her family. He thought of Annabelle and was instantly thankful that it wasn’t her. McCarthy handed him the ID card he’d almost crushed in anger, his other hand balled up into a fist.
“Starling sent this back, he’s at the scene. It’s her driving licence.” He reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a brand new smart phone. “This is her phone. We need you to contact her local police, get them to find her husband.”
Fletcher nodded, obligingly taking the items and finding some space to lay them on his desk.
“We charged her phone as the battery was dead. It hasn’t got much juice but it has enough. Going through the texts he is spending tonight at a friend’s house. Alex, is the friend’s name I think. It’s in the text messages.”
“Sure,” Fletcher said with conviction, wanting to do what he could for this woman. “What was her name?”
McCarthy smiled at Fletcher, appreciating that this old, retired policeman genuinely wanted to know.
“Helen. Her name is Helen Cole.”
“Okay. Well let’s make sure we do everything we can for her.”
“Aye,” McCarthy agreed, patting Fletcher on the arm and awkwardly turning away, doing his utmost to avoid putting pressure on his bad knee. Fletcher looked at the woman’s driver’s licence, the piercing blue eyes staring back at him. She was a gorgeous woman, her face a symmetry of beauty that exuded happiness. Judging from her address, she was a long way from home. A long way from her safety.
Yet something was gnawing at Fletcher, something banging at the side of his mind like a woodpecker. He felt like he knew her, that he could remember meeting this woman before.
Helen Cole.
He looked up from the licence as McCarthy made it to the doorway.
“Hey Pat!” he called out, causing McCarthy to turn around, wincing slightly at the pain. “What did you say her husband’s name was?”
Fletcher drew a breath, making a silent prayer that the name to come out of McCarthy’s mouth was not the one he thought it might be.
“Lucas. Her husband’s name is Lucas.”
Fletcher froze.
His prayer had gone unanswered.
Lucas feared the worst when he and Alex heard the knock on the front door. His bemused best friend got up quickly, scurrying across the living room to answer it.
Lucas hadn’t heard from Helen, which was unlike her. She may have been out drinking with Mary and he was aware it had been a while since she’d seen her old friend.
But Helen would always let him know she was okay.
Always.
When he heard the soft, well-spoken voice of Officer Chamberlain apologise to Alex for calling so late, he felt his stoma
ch flip, like someone had put his insides into a washing machine and set it to maximum spin. He tried to push himself up off his seat, his hands pressing on the table but he felt no strength in them.
A dark dread spread across him.
When Alex informed the officers that Lucas was right inside, Lucas could feel the build-up of vomit begin hurtling up his windpipe, only to fall back at the last minute as he swallowed. He pushed himself up, steadying himself on the table.
Dianne had wandered down the stairs in her dressing gown and switched from sleepy to concerned the second she saw the uniform of the police officer.
He offered a sympathetic smile.
It was all he could do.
The officer began to speak to Lucas but he couldn’t focus. The room began to blur around the edges, objects began to merge with their surroundings. The words turned into a humming sound buzzing around Lucas but didn’t register.
Alex held his hands up to his mouth in shock. His hands dissolved into his face. Dianne fell to the floor crying, her wailing disintegrating into the low, deep humming surrounding Lucas. The fluorescent blur extended an arm out, a comforting hand on Lucas.
He batted it away, feeling dizzy as he stumbled against the table, glass bottles falling and smashing, cards tipping onto the floor.
He heard a crash and felt shorter.
He had dropped to his knees, but as he looked down he couldn’t see them.
An image of Helen flashed into his mind.
He hunched over and vomited, an unstoppable current of sick pouring from his throat. He was sure it was Alex who placed a hand on his back in a vain attempt at provided him with comfort.
Everything registered as nothing more than a blur. A horrible mixture of fading images and incoherent sounds.
An emptiness crawled through Lucas, burrowing through his body like a swarm of insects.
Alex maybe offered some words of comfort. He couldn’t tell.
That loud, far off sound could have been Dianne crying.
Perhaps Officer Chamberlain was giving him information.
One by One: A brutal, gritty revenge thriller that you won't be able to put down. Page 9
