Black Nab - Book 1 - DCI Finnegan Crime Thriller Series - Sample
Chapter 1 - Friday 20th February 10:45 pm
Shirley Fox places the empty gin and tonic glass on the table and says goodnight to her friends. It will be the last time she sees them.
Faux cheek to cheek kisses are exchanged.
‘You must be mad, walking,’ Claire says. ‘It’s bloody freezing out there.’
Shirley slides into her parka, pulls the zipper up.
‘I’d call it bracing. Anyway, there’s something romantic about walking arm in arm with Dudley up the old steps, past the church, and abbey silhouetted in lights. It’s atmospheric.’
‘Romantic? Atmospheric?’ Mandy scoffs.
‘You know what they say, girls; if you don’t stoke the fire, it will go out,’ Shirley replies with an impish grin.
‘If you were married to my old man, you’d be throwing a bucket of water on the fire,’ Mandy jokes as the other two women snort with laughter.
Shirley turns to leave. ‘I’ll see you Sunday lunchtime if you decide to go to The Malting Pot for a drink. Me and Dudley will be there from about midday. See ya!’
Mandy and Claire witness their friend disappear through the pub door.
‘Do you think she was quiet tonight?’ Mandy quizzes.
Claire ponders the question. ‘A little. I think she’s had a tough week.’
‘Hmm… maybe. Right, one more before we hit the road?’
‘Aye, why not,’ Claire replies as Mandy collects the empties and heads towards the sparsely populated bar.
Shirley Fox saunters up Church Lane, breathing in the crisp night air, as the waves continue their incessant clamour far below.
She peers at the steps ahead, expecting Dudley and Tyson to materialise at any moment. There’s no sign of them.
An orange glow from a replica Victorian gaslight bathes the ancient cobbled street in a ghostly orange hue.
The moon hangs low, morbid, almost ashamed.
Movement, slight, nothing more than a fleeting shadow. A tingle shoots down her spine. Stomach involuntarily knots.
Stop it, Shirl. You’re spooking yourself. You’ve walked this way a hundred times before. Anyway, Dudley will be already coming down the steps and Tyson will scare off any creeps.
Placing a hand on the railing, she pauses, staring up at the steep incline. Still no sign of Dudley and the dog. She wavers on the bottom step as she fumbles for her phone.
Senses something behind her but doesn’t have time to react.
A hand grabs her face. Rag shoved over mouth and nose. A strong chemical smell. She struggles and tries to scream. Only muffled, muted cries emanate. Woozy darkness approaches. She fights back, spins around. Two fearful eyes glare at her through the slits in the mask. Struggles. Rips at the woollen hat pulled low. It comes free. Sees her attacker.
‘You… but why?’ she gasps.
The blow to the side of the head doesn’t hurt. It merely shocks her. Senses blur, mind dizzy.
She falls. Instinctively throws her arms out in front. Her chin and front teeth graze the stone step. Heavy footsteps thunder down from above.
Desperately tries to remain conscious. A gentle hand turns her onto her back. She’s safe.
It must be Dudley. Why doesn’t he speak? Where’s Tyson?
The caring hands, wrapped in supple leather, encircle her neck then harden.
Gurgling.
Another unseen face behind a ski mask as the pressure on her throat increases.
The only thing she controls—her eyes.
Anger, the last emotion she’ll experience as she glares at the attacker.
How dare you deprive me of life, of love, of ever seeing my daughter again. You have no right!
He reads her rage and leans forward. Sympathises with her predicament. It was not meant to be this way.
Whispers gently into her ear as the first attacker trembles violently, a spectator.
‘Prosti, spi seychas. It’s nothing personal.’
Nothing personal! I don’t think you can get more personal than taking my life. At least let me see your face, you coward!
Hands desperately claw at his head, but he’s too strong. The bottom of the mask rides up slightly and uncovers his neck.
Her eyes fall upon the delicate symbol etched into skin. A flower with creamy white petals encircling yellow florets attached to a green stalk.
Beauty on a beast.
Her eyes flicker as life, with all its sorrows and splendour, ebbs away.
You may take my life, but I won’t go. I’ll be with you every waking moment and in your nightmares. I won’t go! I’m not ready! It’s not my time!
Chapter 2 - Six Months Later - Sunday 16th August 9:50 pm
A vehicle creeps up alongside the diesel bowser. The rumble of the throaty engine dies. Occupants—silent. Their eyes, sharp as a hungry falcon, scrutinise their hunting ground. Windows down, the sweet scent of cut grass permeates the air.
In front, a white Vauxhall Viva, parked. Its elderly driver in the store pressing his bank card against the payment terminal. Only one attendant. Nothing more than a boy, maybe his first job, night shift at a service station. Ten minutes until his night ends and he can reconcile the till, lock up, go home.
The two men in the Land Rover Defender wait. Cool, calm, hardened. Woolly hats pulled down over their eyebrows, black nitrile gloves cover their hands.
Get a move on, grandad, the driver thinks, impatient, edgy.
The old man exits the store and ambles to his car, oblivious of the battered four-wheel drive. He gets in, starts the engine. A man in the vehicle behind steps out of the passenger side and removes the diesel cap. A truck with blazing headlights thunders by with scant regard for the speed limit. Its blinding lights momentarily illuminate the deserted countryside.
The Vauxhall pulls sedately onto the main road and trundles away. Rear red lights twinkle as they recede.
Diesel gurgles into the fuel tank as the click, click, click of the bowser racks up money. The passenger replaces the nozzle, screws the fuel cap on, slaps the side panel. A plume of dirty smoke from the exhaust accompanies a cough and splutter from the engine, pungent, aromatic.
He walks towards the store, his hiking rucksack contradictory with the time and place.
The Land Rover pulls hard and slow to the right, then straightens, partially blocking the store window. A sideways glance from the driver at the young lad behind the counter.
He barely looks up as the man dressed in black saunters in. Unaware as he pulls down his Sherpa balaclava. Unsuspecting as he extracts the twin-barrelled sawn-off shotgun deftly from the backpack.
The driver smirks and swallows hard, his mouth as dry as sandpaper.
The attendant’s mind-numbingly tedious night is over as he stares down the barrel of two cold, dark holes.
He takes the note handed to him.
He reads, clenching his bowels.
He shakes as he thinks of his mother.
He speaks, stutteringly.
Apologises for the fact there’s not much cash. It’s been a quiet night and most people pay by card—like it’s his fault.
The man places the rucksack on the counter as the boy stuffs notes into it.
He asks a dumb question.
The man shakes his head.
Of course I don’t want the fucking coins!
Why do they always ask that?
Maybe I should write it on the note… next time.
He nods towards the cigarette kiosk and glances out the window. Nothing apart from the guttural throb of the diesel engine.
The boy fumbles packets of cigarettes and tobacco pouches into the bag. His eyes comprehend the warnings—Smoking Kills.
Hands the bag over, sniffles.
The man flips the note over and pushes it in his face. The boy nods, understanding—do nothing for ten minutes… otherwise!
He hoists the backpack on, sticks the gun under his armpit, pulls at the zipper on his jacket, turns, stops.
Picks up three Mars bars, drops two into his jacket pocket and tosses the other one to the lad.
Eyes smile behind the mask.
Chapter 3 - Sunday 16th August 11:55 pm - Whitby, UK
Dudley Fox picks up the TV remote control and presses the channel button. The evening news is replaced by a celebrity chef, frying fish in a griddle pan.
“Salmon fillets only need three to four minutes per side. Maybe a minute or so longer on the skin. We want to get that skin nice and crispy.”
He flicks the TV off and huffs. ‘Damn cooking programmes, it’s all that’s on these days.’
Tyson throws him a sad look from his dog bed, as Dudley addresses the empty chair where his wife used to sit.
‘Okay Shirley, it’s time for bed,’ he says as he glances at the clock on the wall.
He walks over to her chair, picks up a red, heart-shaped silk cushion, and fluffs it up before placing it lovingly down against the back of the chair. Grabbing his mobile phone off the mantelpiece, he types a new, but predictable, text message.
Goodnight Shirley. Sleep tight. I love and miss you.
As he hits the send button, there’s an immediate ping, followed by a vibration as Shirley’s phone rattles on the coffee table next to her chair. A smile drifts across his weary face. It’s a familiar routine which plays out every night.
The first couple of times he texted his wife a goodnight message, he felt foolish, almost ashamed of his unusual behaviour, but those feelings soon passed. It didn’t take long before it became a nightly ritual. For some reason, it comforted him. He knew the truth. He was an intelligent man who had no time for God or superstitions, a man of science, and yet the simple nightly text message gave him an earthly connection with her.
***
Stepping from the shower, he grabs a fluffy towel and dries in front of the bathroom mirror. The reflection that bounces back makes him wince. There’s no point denying it. The trauma has taken its toll. Six months ago he was a fit, energetic, middle-aged man who ran daily, worked out at the gym three times a week, and spent many weekends walking in the Dales, or the Lake District with Shirley.
His diet was high in fresh fruit and vegetables, lean meat, and whole grains. He didn’t smoke and only imbibed occasionally; a Sunday afternoon at the local Malting Pot brewery enjoying a couple of pints of beer, or a glass of red wine at dinner parties, a nip of single malt at Christmas. That life was gone, changed forever on a cold February night. Good habits traded for bad. His healthy diet replaced by takeaways and ready-made meals, exercise traded for lethargy and saturnine introspection. His only exertion was walking Tyson once a day.
Drinking was the main problem. It had crept up on him, like Shirley’s killer had crept up on her. He was going through a half-bottle of scotch every day, sometimes more, as he ruminated over old photos and tried to quash the guilt.
It didn’t take long for his weight to increase. His healthy countenance replaced by drawn, grey skin across his face, rather like a side of beef that’s boiled rather than roasted.
The truth is, there are only two things keeping him going; his daughter, and the burning desire to find Shirley’s killer!
In the bedroom, he places his phone on the bedside cabinet, flings the covers back on the bed and slips under them. This is the worst part of the day. Alone, contemplating. Thinking what might have been had he not left his phone in the kitchen and fallen asleep in front of the television on that Friday night.
He’d berated himself for six months on his error, a simple error, a human error that would forever haunt him during his nightmares and through his waking hell.
‘You stupid bloody fool, Dudley. You stupid, stupid, bloody fool. Please forgive me, Shirley?’ he murmurs into the damp pillow.
His thoughts turn to his daughter, Amber, in the hope it will bring some relief, a sliver of happiness, but it doesn’t.
She was in her final year of university when it happened. Shirley had already noticed a few telltale signs when Amber occasionally ventured home for a weekend. The permanently dilated pupils, the slight bruises on her inner forearms, the way she’d stagger in as dawn broke and sleep for most of the day, only to wake exhausted and with little appetite. Then miraculously, by the time evening came around, she’d come to life and be full of zest and nervous, radiant energy. Shirley had noted her suspicions to Dudley, but he had merely laughed it off.
‘She’s twenty-one years old, Shirl. If you can’t go out partying until all hours and have a good time when you’re young—then when can you?’
He winces at his past words and can now clearly see what Shirley had seen then. After innumerable sombre thoughts and stabs of remorse, sleep finally slides through him like a shot of anaesthetic. His eyes close, the pain ends.
***
Bing! Bing!
His heart thumps into his chest as adrenalin and cortisone flood his body. Bolting upright, he flicks on the lamp, grabs his phone and stares at it. There’s a message. He checks the time—1:15 am. He immediately thinks of Amber as panic claws at his insides. She knows not to ring late as it brings back memories of that black night six months ago. Scrabbling for his spectacles, he fumbles them onto his head with trembling hands. He punches in his four digit security code and the phone opens for him. At first, he’s confused before nausea overwhelms him.
It’s a text message… from his dead wife!
Chapter 4
On the west cliff of Whitby, less than five miles away from Dudley Fox’s home on the east cliff, another person is having trouble sleeping.
Frank Finnegan rolls out of bed and shuffles into his tartan slippers. He creeps quietly from the bedroom, making a mental note not to stand on the creaky floorboard. The last thing he wants to do is disturb his wife.
In the kitchen he pulls the plastic tub from the cupboard which houses assorted over-the-counter medicines. With double the recommended dose of liquid antacid dispensed, he necks it down in one.
‘Oh, that’s better. It’s working already,’ he murmurs as blessed relief enters his stomach.
As he replaces the plastic tub, the pitter patter of claws on the varnished cork tiles has him glancing over his shoulder. The dog stares up at him and whimpers as she wags her tail in expectation. Frank fixes her with a severe frown. The dog takes a tentative step back and emits a high-pitched whine as she cocks her head to one side and blinks. Frank’s resolve wavers.
‘Foxtrot, you’ll be the death of me. If Meera finds out I’ve given you a midnight treat, she’ll have my guts for garters,’ he whispers, imploringly.
The dog tilts its head to the other side. Its eyes widen.
‘You little bugger! You always know how to melt my heart. Okay, but not a word to Meera, right?’
Throwing the Jack Russell a chewy stick, he flicks the kitchen light off and creeps up the stairs.
He attempts to climb into bed as silently as possible, but his stout physique is too much for the bed frame to remain silent.
‘Heartburn?’ Meera states, patently wide awake.
‘Sorry, love. Didn’t mean to disturb you.’
‘I told you not to have that second helping of meat and potato pie.’
‘It’s your fault.’
‘How’s that?’
‘If you didn’t make the finest meat and tattie pie in the world, then I wouldn’t have gone back for seconds.’
‘I’ll try harder to make it less palatable next time.’
‘Don’t you bloody dare!’
‘You’re supposed to be on a diet. Anyway, it’s not just the pie, is it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s the bloody job!’ she hisses.
‘Please Meera, don’t start on that again. My mind’s made up.’
Meera switches on her bedside lamp, fluffs up her pillow and stares down at her husband.
‘Frank, you’re fifty-eight, overweight, have numerous health issues, and you’re consumed with your work. It’s not a good outlook. You could have taken early retirement three years ago, with a good pension. The house is paid off. We have a nice nest egg put aside and I earn reasonable money at the hospice.’
‘And what would I bloody do in retirement?’ he grumbles.
‘You have your allotment, your fishing.’
‘Aye, but they’re for my downtime; a chance to forget and relax. They don’t give me the mental stimulation I crave.’
‘What about the Sudoku and the cryptic crosswords?’
‘Sudoku and the Guardian’s cryptic crossword do not give me the same thrill as chasing villains and low-life.’
‘It’s thrills you’re after, is it?’
‘I didn’t mean it like that. Catching rotten apples and putting them away is all I’ve known for the last thirty-odd years since I joined the force. It’s in my blood.’
A heavy silence ensues for a good few minutes as his wife silently bristles.
‘Meera, hear me out for a moment.’
‘Go on,’ she says, folding her arms across her chest.
He turns to her. ‘I know you only have my welfare at heart. And I appreciate that… I really do. You care for me, you love me; we’ve been together since we were childhood sweethearts. But…’
‘Here we go.’
‘But… when I’m on a case whether it be an armed robbery, a violent assault, or a murder, I come alive, my brain comes alive. Every perpetrator of a crime leaves a clue—always. Sometimes they leave many clues, and those people are easy to find. Then there are those smarter ones who don’t appear to leave any trail. They’re the ones I love. My real-life cryptic crosswords. If I give the job away, then I lose that.’
Meera turns to him and snuggles her head into his chest, defeated by his honesty.
‘I know. I’m sorry for badgering you, but you’ve worked so hard for so long that I want you to enjoy the next twenty, thirty years without putting yourself in danger, getting shot at again, working the long hours and stressing about things.’
‘I tell you what, when I turn sixty, we’ll take ourselves away, somewhere exotic for a fortnight’s holiday, and I’ll reassess.’
‘Ooh! Somewhere exotic. You mean the Maldives or Honolulu?’
‘I was thinking more like Cleethorpes or Clacton.’
‘Very funny,’ she yawns as she pulls away and turns her lamp off.
‘Night love.’
‘Night, Frank.’
Silence descends like a heavy shroud as thoughts bounce around Frank’s head.
‘Oh, I forgot to mention,’ Meera begins.
‘What?’
‘I bumped into Dudley Fox today as I was coming out of St Mary’s.’
‘How was he? Did you speak to him?’
‘Yes. He didn’t seem to hear me at first. Lost in a world of his own.’
‘Hardly surprising.’
‘He must have been walking his dog on the beach as the bottom of his trousers were wet.’
‘Spoken like a true copper’s wife.’
‘He cut a sorry figure. A shadow of his former self.’
‘I know. I feel for him.’
‘Is the case still open?’
‘Yes, of course it is. Nearly six months since it happened. It’s been scaled right back, of course.’
‘Any progress?’
‘None, not a sausage. A crime with no motive, no witnesses, no evidence, and no CCTV footage—just a dead body. I’m missing something.’
‘And you still think Dudley had nothing to do with it?’
‘Why would you ask that?’
‘Oh, the gossip around town at the time.’
‘And that’s what it was—gossip. No, me and Zac put Dudley through the ringer. We investigated every possible angle, analysed his phone, his computer, his movements, his friends, his acquaintances. Over thirty hours of questioning. He had nothing to gain by her death; there was no life insurance on her. The house was already paid off. I threw everything at him, and at a time when he was in shock and grieving. Christ, I hate myself for it some days.’
‘You were only doing your job, Frank. He was an obvious suspect.’
‘He was the only bloody suspect! They had the perfect marriage, according to everyone.’
‘There’s no such thing as a perfect marriage,’ Meera yawns.
‘Oi, what’s that supposed to mean? What about our marriage?’
‘Keep your hair on. I was only joking.’
‘Hmm…’ Frank grizzles as he turns onto his side.
‘You’re not too close to it, are you? I mean, we weren’t friends, but we did occasionally associate with them at the bowls club.’
‘No. I can separate personal from police business. It sounds cliched, but when you’ve been in the job as long as I have, you develop a sixth sense for these things. I’m telling you—Dudley Fox did not murder his wife. But whichever bastard did, I’ll catch him… or her, come hell or high water. My only regret is we don’t have the death penalty. What’s the point of throwing someone in jail for twenty to thirty years? It costs millions to the taxpayer, which could be better spent creating jobs for young kids or going into hospitals. If someone kills—intentionally, then they should pay the ultimate price—end of story.’
‘And would you volunteer to be the one who gave a lethal injection, or opened the trap door to another living human being?’
‘Too bloody right I would!’
‘And what if, after a year or so, some new evidence emerged which proved they weren’t the killer—how would you feel?’
‘Extremely unlikely these days, with DNA analysis and modern policing methods.’
‘So, you’re saying there’s never, ever, a miscarriage of justice in the twenty-first century?’
‘No… I’m not saying that unequivocally. Of course, there can always be corrupt people in the police and witnesses who are desperate to implicate someone for their own advantage. All I’m saying is it’s extremely unlikely.’
‘But still a possibility?’
‘Yes, an extremely slim possibility. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. If one innocent person dies but fifty murdering bastards never get to walk the streets again, then it’s a price worth paying.’
‘And if it was our daughter who was innocently euthanised or strapped into an electric chair?’
Frank stiffens with emotion. ‘That’s cruel, and uncalled for Meera.’
She already bitterly regrets her remark. ‘I’m sorry Frank, you’re right. It was thoughtless of me.’
Tension lingers in the air as Meera desperately tries to think of something to say to change the route of her husband’s thoughts.
‘Is it tomorrow your new sergeant starts?’
‘Aye. Although technically it’s today,’ he replies morosely, still thinking of his daughter as he glances at the clock.
‘So, who is he? Promotion or transfer?’
Frank pulls himself away from his morbid thoughts as he curses himself for eating a second helping of the pie.
‘She’s a transfer… from the west midlands. Twenty-nine. She has a good report. Street-wise, keen, all that stuff.’
‘My, my, a she! What’s her name?’
‘Prisha Kumar—detective sergeant of four years.’
Meera laughs out loud. ‘Oh my God! A woman of ethnicity under the tutelage of DCI Frank Finnegan in Whitby, North Yorkshire. Whatever is the world coming to?’
Frank assumes his wife is trying to wind him up but still responds indignantly.
‘I don’t care what colour, size, or shape they are, or where they come from as long as they have an eye for detail, can read body language and are hungry, then I’m fine to work with.’
‘Don’t forget punctual.’
‘Oh, yes, and punctual.’
‘And smartly dressed and have good table manners.’
‘That goes without saying.’
‘Poor girl doesn’t know what she’s letting herself in for. Goodnight, love. Sleep tight and stop worrying. I love you… despite all your faults, you’re a good man.’
‘A good man? Me, the executioner?’ he says followed by a chuckle.
As she snuggles into her pillow, he follows her and plants a tender kiss on the nape of her neck.
His wife shivers and wriggles as Frank slumps onto his back and trawls through the Fox investigation in his head once again.
‘Frank?’
‘What now? I thought you’d gone back off.’
‘Your decision not to retire has nothing to do with the Fox case… has it?’
‘No.’
‘Even the best fisherman can let one slip through the net sometimes. It’s not how you’ll be remembered.’
‘Night, Meera.’
Chapter 5
Dudley Fox, shaking, and still nauseous, sniffs and wipes the tears from his cheek and reads the message again for the tenth time.
Goodnight, Dudley, I miss you too. I will always love you.
Who would do such a thing? Do they know the grief this is causing me?
After Shirley had gone, her phone kept receiving calls and texts from various people. The dentist’s secretary to confirm an appointment. A pair of shoes she’d dropped off at a cobbler to get the heel fixed. Gym membership renewal. Old friends from the past who had obviously not heard the news. Dudley eventually barred all incoming calls apart from his own. He’d even put a block on Amber. Not that his daughter would have been as stupid or maudlin enough to ring her mother’s phone. But now, someone, somewhere, must have hacked into Shirley’s mobile. He eventually types a reply.
BASTARD! Who is this? You sick scumbag! I’ve had to endure almost six months of unbearable grief and you think it’s funny to pull a stunt like this? When I find out who you are your life won’t be worth living!
Hitting the send arrow, he instantly hears his wife’s phone ping in the living room downstairs. He enters the bathroom and throws water over his face. There’s no chance of sleep now. Another bleep from his phone and his anger returns as he marches into the bedroom and puts his glasses on. Another message from the hacker.
Sorry Dudley. I never meant to upset you. I didn’t realise I’d been gone so long. There’s no such thing as time where I am. It seems like yesterday since we parted.
He types angrily, creating spelling mistakes he’d normally rectify.
Fick you! I’m goin straight to the plice tomorrow. You are goig to regrwt this!
A few seconds pass before another ping lights up his mobile. The message has a laughing smiley face followed by an embarrassed smiley face.
Sorry to laugh, but you really need to spellcheck before you hit send… that’s not like you, Dudley. It really is me, your wife, Shirley!
Dudley’s mind is racing and planning. It’s been a long time since he employed the grey matter, but for the first time in an age, he feels he has a purpose. Okay, come on Dudley… think! I need to engage. Get whoever it is into a conversation, and maybe they’ll divulge something about their identity. One silly slip up and I’ll have them. He types his question, calm and rational.
If it is Shirley, do you mind answering a few questions?
A reply comes back within seconds.
Fire away
He makes his way downstairs into the living room and fills a small tumbler with a generous drop of single malt whisky. The liquid burns his throat as he takes a seat and ponders his question, then types.
What was our favourite Christmas film?
Shirley’s phone pings and rattles on the little coffee table. A few seconds pass.
It’s a Wonderful Life
Dudley is surprised, but only for a moment. Lucky guess. That particular film is probably on the top of most people’s lists, especially from our generation.
Next question, what famous line from the film did I sometimes say to you?
The reply takes a little longer this time.
Do you want the moon, Shirley? Just say the word and I’ll throw a lasso around it for you.
Dudley can’t help but smile at the correct answer, as the texter falls into his trap.
You’re not as clever as you think you are, you fool. You’ve now narrowed down the suspects from potentially hundreds to maybe no more than half a dozen. Shirley would have only shared that piece of information with a handful of close friends. Now to play my game.
You’re on a roll. Last question for tonight, Shirl. Where do I keep your wedding ring?
Dudley is the only person in the world who knows the secret location. He smashes his whisky back and pours a refill, smiling smugly as the seconds tick by.
‘What’s wrong?’ he calls out. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
Tyson eyes him warily from his bed as Dudley makes a mental list of Shirley’s close friends and work colleagues. He’ll make damn sure he calls or visits them later in the day. An aching weariness overtakes him as the whisky takes effect.
The clock on the mantlepiece beats out its unending march as all life infinitesimally ebbs away. Eventually, his phone asks for his attention once more.
‘About time,’ he grumbles to himself as he slips his spectacles on. ‘This should be fun.’
Sorry about that, Dudley. Something happened and my connection with you faded
‘Yeah, right? Of course it did. You spineless coward. Well, I’m onto you now. Here’s a little something to give you a sleepless night.’
Before he can type his reply, insinuating he has a good idea who the texter is, a new message drops in.
You now keep my wedding ring under your pillow
His hand involuntarily trembles. The phone drops to the floor as if it were a bar of molten lead. Dizziness fogs his mind, his legs buckle. He steadies himself against the drinks cabinet.
‘You can’t know that! Only I know that, only I know that!’ he screams.
Chapter 6 - Monday 17th August 8:22 am
DCI Frank Finnegan glances at the clock on the wall and huffs, annoyed.
‘Give me strength… not another slacker, please God,’ he murmurs under his breath.
Muted voices from the CID room has him lifting his head to stare through his office window. A young woman with jet-black hair pulled into a tight ponytail is talking with DS Cartwright. He responds by nodding towards Frank’s office. She turns on her heels and heads his way. Frank studies her for a second before focusing his attention back on Cartwright. He’s ogling her, admiring her frame, her rear, her upright, and confident disposition.
Sleazy little git!
Frank has little time for Jason Cartwright. He’d like to get rid of him but doesn’t have the heart, nor the means. Slovenly, tardy, sexist and worst of all—he’s a terrible copper. If they stuck him in Broadmoor for a week, he still wouldn’t be able to spot a criminal. To Cartwright, it was simply a job. It paid the bills and maybe his mates respected or feared him a little more. There were a lot like him on the force. It was harder to get out of the police than into it. Dead wood, treading water, was how Frank referred to their type.
The woman knocks on the door.
‘Come in,’ Frank testily shouts as he studies the latest overnight reports.
‘Detective Sergeant Kumar reporting for duty, sir,’ she says with a confident, excited voice accompanied by a broad smile.
Finnegan leans back in his plump leather chair and nods at the clock on the wall.
‘What’s that, Sergeant Kumar?’
‘A wall… sir?’
‘Very funny, but what’s hanging from the wall?’
She scans the room. ‘You have a calendar, a whiteboard, some sticky-notes, a poster of Lynda La Plante… for some bizarre reason, a clock, and some undistinguishable stains… which to the untrained eye looks like congealed blood or possibly tomato sauce. I could get forensics to analyse it, to be sure.’
Frank suppresses a smirk and pulls his sternest face.
‘Smartarses don’t last too long around this station, so drop the attitude. It doesn’t work with me. You’re twenty minutes late!’
The grin drops from her face. ‘Sorry guv, but the desk sergeant insisted on giving me a whirlwind tour of the station.’
‘Did he indeed.’
‘Only the basics. Toilets, kitchen, interview rooms. He also introduced me to a few people. Probably trying to make a newcomer feel welcome on their first day,’ she explains, pointedly.
Frank folds his arms and studies her intently. She’s a sharp wire, this one. Sassy, smart, not afraid of authority, a dry sense of humour… in other words, a regal pain in the backside. Just what I need, like a hole in the head.
‘Right, come on, let’s go. We’ve wasted enough time,’ Frank says as he lurches from his chair, grabs his weather-beaten overcoat and heads out of the door. They clatter down the stairs and out into the carpark.
‘And another thing—don’t call me guv! You’re not working for the met; you’re in Whitby, North Yorkshire.’
‘Noted, chief inspector. How would you like me to address you?’ she replies tartly, as Frank leads the way to a grubby unmarked Ford Focus in dire need of a wash.
‘When around the public, you address me as inspector, sir, or boss. Around other officers, you can call me boss or Frank.’
‘That’s very progressive of you, Frank.’
He stops dead in his tracks and eyeballs her. ‘Okay, I’ve told you once, I won’t tell you again—drop the attitude. You’ve had a bollocking for being late, take it on the chin, and move on. You’re twenty-nine, not nineteen. I don’t want pouting sulks and snarky comments from people on my team. Do I make myself clear?’
He senses a moment of resistance before she drops her eyes to the ground for an instant before immediately raising them and staring proudly into his face.
‘Perfectly clear, Frank. We’ve got off on the wrong foot. My fault. Can we wipe the slate clean and start again?’
He offers her a wry smile. ‘Aye, fair enough. Welcome aboard, Prisha. Let’s hope it’s a long and happy working relationship. Hop in.’
As he slides into the driver’s seat, he’s oblivious to the eye-roll his new DS makes to the heavens.
The car pulls out onto a narrow road.
‘So, what’s the go, Frank?’
‘Another petrol station robbery, overnight. It’s been the sixth this year in North Yorkshire. Last year they were targeting Northumbria. Looks to me like it’s the same gang slowly working down the coast. Clever. Moving their way around the country. Another ten years and they’ll be back where they started from. Well, I aim to end their little game before it gets out of our jurisdiction.’
‘How do they operate?’
‘There’s two of them. One never gets out from behind the wheel. The other is average height, five-nine, five-ten, athletically built, but not over-the-top. Typically, late at night about ten, ten-thirty they roll in, fill up with diesel, then the athletic guy walks into the store with a large rucksack and a rolled up ski mask. As he enters, he pulls down the mask, draws a sawn-off twelve-bore from the rucksack, then hands the cashier a note.’
‘Saying?’
‘Empty the till and deposit all cigarettes and tobacco into the bag. Never speaks.’
‘Seems a little low-tech, boss.’
‘Aye, low-tech, but effective. Depending on the petrol station, they can get away with anything from a few grand to over ten. Mind you, that’s retail value for the cigarettes and tobacco. On the streets, it would be half that price. So far, they’ve only targeted stations that are in remote places. No towns or cities where there’d be a lot more people around.’
‘Do we have an ID on the vehicle?’
‘An old Land Rover Defender. Early 2000 model. Light green or bluey grey colour. No number plates.’
‘There can’t be too many of them around. Sounds like a farm vehicle.’
‘Or a builders run-around. Bastards. It’s bad enough that people have to work for the minimum wage in a dead-end job without having the bejeezus scared out of them late on a night with a sawn-off shotgun pointing at their noggin.’
‘Any assaults?’
‘Not yet.’
‘With the gunman not talking, it could mean he’s foreign.’
‘Possibly. Unless it’s a ruse.’
‘So where are we heading?’
‘Service station, near Scaling Reservoir on the A171. About a twenty minute drive.’
***
After garnering little additional evidence from the manager of the petrol station, or the traumatised attendant on duty the previous night, Frank offers them the usual spiel and makes his way outside with Prisha in tow.
‘Not much to add from what uniform gave us, boss. Apart from one, or both of them have a sweet tooth.’
‘Who can resist a Mars bar?’ Frank replies as he wanders over to the bowser where the getaway vehicle was parked and crouches down to inspect the concrete. ‘It’s only a matter of time before they slip up. Right, come on, let’s get back to the station.’
They climb into the car and set off.
‘What other cases are on the go at the moment?’ Prisha asks.
‘Too many,’ Frank responds wearily as he manoeuvres onto the main road. ‘There’s a serious assault from a couple of weeks back that left a young man in a coma. A stolen shipment of gin from a local business, estimated at over fifty grand. Or at least that’s what they say. Probably bumping it up for the insurance. But the big one is an unsolved murder from six months ago. A woman by the name of Shirley Fox—murdered on a cold February evening not long after she left the Prince of Wales public house.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘East side of the river. Below the abbey. I’ll take you there later, but when you get back to the station, I want you to go over the case file. There’s a hell of a lot to get through.’
‘Any other details you can give me?’
‘Shirley was fifty-four years old. There were no witnesses. No obvious motive. Hardly any forensics of any note and no CCTV footage.’
‘Curious. Was she married?’
‘Yes, to Dudley Fox.’
‘And he had an alibi?’
Frank appears to lose patience. ‘Prisha, I want you to go over the case file for two reasons; one, to get up to speed with the investigation, and two, a fresh pair of eyes on the details. If I tell you everything I know, I could unwittingly let my opinions sway your interpretation of the facts.’
‘Sorry, boss. I was just wanting to get a head start,’ she replies as she stares at the rolling North Sea in the distance, nestled between verdant fields and a pale sapphire sky.
Frank turns to her and smiles. ‘I’m sorry. Apparently, according to my wife, I can sometimes come across as brusque. I’m not really. It’s simply the Yorkshire way to be forthright.’
‘No need to apologise. I have a thick skin.’
He smiles at her. ‘Your partner should be at the station by now. I’ll introduce you when we get back.’
‘And who would that be?’
‘DS Zac Stoker. Sad business,’ he adds wistfully. ‘He took two weeks’ leave to spend some time with his mother. She was taken into a hospice a few weeks ago.’
‘Oh dear. How is she?’
‘She passed away peacefully last week.’
Stilted silence follows.
‘What’s he like?’
‘Zac? He’s a damn fine detective… in the making. Still some way to go, but he’s a good egg. A big family man.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Thirty three. Been a DS for three years.’
‘Similarities to myself.’
‘You have a couple of years on him in the experience stakes. He has passed his inspectors’ exam, though. How about you?’
‘Passed it last year.’
‘What was your score?’
‘Eighty-nine per cent.’
‘Holy thunder! That’s classed as exceptional.’
