Game Point Read online

  Table of Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Game Point

  Malcolm Hollingdrake

  Copyright © 2017 Malcolm Hollingdrake

  The right of Malcolm Hollingdrake to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-912175-12-3

  Have you read the other books in the DCI Bennet Series?

  Only The Dead

  Amazon UK – Amazon US

  Hell’s Gate

  Amazon UK – Amazon US

  Flesh Evidence

  Amazon UK – Amazon US

  For

  Sheila Hollingdrake

  Moira Walsh

  and

  Nancy Doherty

  The

  Dewar sisters

  “There are moments when I feel that the Shylocks, the Judases, and even the Devil are broken spokes in the great wheel of good which shall in due time be made whole.”

  Helen Keller (1880-1968)

  Prologue

  May, 2017

  Cyril never thought he would return to the café, La Cigogne, nor to the beautiful town of Munster, set in the Haut-Rhin department of France, but here he was again. He had promised himself never to return but owing to his recent experiences, he had been drawn there, not pulled kicking and screaming, but seduced by his memories of its stunning beauty, its quiet and of course, its wine. If you were planning to drink to forget, then you could be in no better place to receive the offerings from Bacchus, for forget he must or he knew that he was finished professionally.

  The café offered a moment’s respite from a busy morning’s walk; his hangover had cleared slowly leaving only a hunger for a late morning meal. He stared out across the square as the traffic flowed past, some vehicles rumbling along the ancient cobbles whilst others ran more quietly along the smooth tarmac. Each individual sound rekindled a memory, opened a window to the last occasion he had sat at this spot. He looked up onto the stacks of twigs and branches perched high on the towering chimneystacks of the council offices, the empty nests a sharp reminder of his personal loss. Ironically, the storks would return in the early summer, a legal transit from the African continent.

  The last time he had been there it had been so different in many ways, the weather kinder and the traffic heavier. The constant rattle had competed with the continuous clattering of the storks’ beaks high in their branch-filled, chimney-top nests. He remembered that the cacophony seemed to bring a certain contentment, where the natural world and that created by man over the centuries amalgamated somehow into a tranquil harmony.

  The sound of a car horn brought him briefly back to the present. He wrapped his scarf a little more tightly and relaxed, helped by the e-cigarette held between his lips. He closed his eyes and visualised the storks, long of limb, as they flew in majestic circles from high above before alighting on their branch-woven nests on what appeared to be dislocated knees, ready to regurgitate their stomach contents to their young’s ever pleading, wide-open beaks.

  He shuffled his feet with an unease that could only come from a man entrapped in an inner guilt and regret. He casually moved the remaining piece of flammekueche onto his fork; the Munster cheese, onion and small pieces of bacon tasted wonderful. He followed it with a sip of Alsace white wine whilst glancing across the Place du Marché and towards the church, its towering walls dwarfing the buildings to its right. He checked the clock against his watch as he always did with any clock he saw. He had been there an hour. It was the fifth day of his compulsory holiday, his prescribed and ordered rest. Probably, if he were to be honest, this was why he had returned to the security of the past, to a place he knew so well before it had happened; it was his way of protesting against himself, it was his way of purging the memory of recent events whilst needing the security of familiarity.

  It was the sudden speed of the movement that caught the extremity of his peripheral vision, waking his brain from the shadows of the recent past. The hawk swooped diagonally from high to low across the stone façade of the church building before crashing into its victim, an unsuspecting pigeon that had just left the security of a high ledge. There was a natural explosion resulting in myriad loose, grey and white feathers that cascaded like unwanted confetti in front of the church and onto the steps. The cruelty of nature made Cyril focus on the fine, fluttering feathers, each holding his attention until they all came to rest. As the final feather fell, his memory started to replay the last few difficult months… he’d never lost a colleague before. His mind invoked the once significant and unwelcome receipt of a white feather and he shuddered. He knew everyone had done what was humanly possible, no one had stood back; there was only bravery and professionalism but that hadn’t been enough. He had played the final incidents of the case over and over again and each time a small part of him crumbled and died.

  Chapter One

  June, 2016

  The breathing increased to accompany the ethereal moans and animalistic grunts that grew louder as the firm hips pounded frantically against the soft flesh of the folded female, enthusiastically bent and stretched over the wooden table. She wore nothing apart from a Venetian mask, decorated with curled playing cards forming a crown and an elaborate collar, the gilded lips preserved in a permanent smile. Her long fingers curled and grasped at the far edge of the table top, her back slightly arched to allow maximum penetration. Oil or perspiration glistened along the length of her body, reflecting the bright lights from above. Suddenly the thrusting stopped. A hand leaned forward and grasped her neck before pulling her upright and to her feet. Quickly, strong hands dropped to her shoulders before urgently guiding her body round whilst at the same time pushing her down to her knees. One hand went swiftly to remove the mask and obediently she opened her mouth.

  The neon light on the tripod-held camera, continued to blink bright blue.

  Chapter Two

  Late September, 2016

  It was a fitting end to a miserable day as Mother Nature forced fine needles of icy rain into the exposed flesh of Cyril Bennett’s neck. He quickened his pace as he turned down Belford Street, but here, the wind seemed even more determined to aggravate, whipping the biting rain more strongly as it funnelled its full force between the buildings. Feeling beaten into submission, he stopped before slipping the auction-house catalogue he had just collected inside his overcoat. He defiantly turned up his coat collar before glancing at the clock on the Rogers’ Almshouses’ tower; he checked his watch, shook his wrist and checked the watch again. It was four-thirty and already the evening was drawing
in, helped by the intensity of the low, smothering, overcast sky. ‘Winter’s just around the corner,’ he thought. How he loathed the impending dark, winter days and with them, the increased criminality that always seemed to go hand in protective glove.

  Cyril’s eyes reviewed the vertical stone tower from the clock before they came to rest on the carved bust of the building’s benefactor, a long dead, Bradford merchant, George Rogers. The green-tinged, sculpted features stared blindly back, oblivious to the forces the weather had thrown over many years. Cyril’s eyes fell further until they reached the intricately carved stonework depicting a wicker beehive. It had always been a symbol of industry for Rogers, an industry that had been the source of his considerable wealth.

  Further chills ran down the nape of Cyril’s neck but this time it was not the cold, it was the image. It brought to mind a confusing and distasteful police investigation that had been wrapped up not too long ago. As a consequence, he had never touched honey since; for him its sweet taste was now sullied, it represented evil. He inhaled the menthol vapour from his electronic cigarette before re-focussing his thoughts and walking the short distance to Robert Street and home.

  ***

  He slipped off his shoes before wiping them and inserting wooden shoetrees, a habit. Even now, when he was secure inside, the room seemed cold and a little depressing; the only welcome was the intermittent red flash from the answer phone light signalling his attention. Some people had animals to welcome their return, all wagging tails and barks but for Cyril it was always the blinking Cyclopic eye of the phone. He had messages but as it was Sunday, they would wait. He tossed the catalogue onto the coffee table. He needed a beer.

  ***

  The black, plastic cable-tie bit into her tender flesh as Valerie, in a desperate attempt to work free, twisted her arms that were secured above her head and around what she believed to be the rough, low branch of a tree. She had been left to stand uncomfortably on the balls of her bare feet. Occasionally she weakened and her captured wrists painfully held her full weight. The tape across her mouth made breathing difficult and that covering her eyes rendered her blind.

  At times, when the wind blew with more force, rain stung her exposed, sensitive flesh, the weather now seemed to be against her too, the ally of her human tormentor. Colours flashed and floated within the trapped darkness of her eyes as the rainwater dripped from her hair. It ran down her face, mixing a cocktail of sadness as it blended with her leaking tears. All she could do was ask herself, “Why?” She had been a little late, yes and taken a short cut she might not have walked under normal circumstances, but then the circumstances were anything but normal. She had been desperate, she needed a toilet, it was to take only a minute away from the road. How did they know I was here? How could they know that I’d just go into the bushes away from the road? Why me? Why this? What have I done? The questions tumbled into a confused Gordian knot, a maelstrom of fear, panic and uncertainty. Her head felt compressed, confused, dulled… she tried to remember. What could they possibly want?

  She thought of Paul, her lover. His face swam illicitly into her mind. He was laughing and holding the bright red pill on his outstretched index finger before quickly retracting it into his enclosed palm like a magician. Why had he dropped her off where he did? Surely her duplicity hadn’t been discovered? She forcibly cleared her mind of the thought… she’d been foolish twice. What would her partner, John, make of this? What would she tell him? She began to cry even more.

  Her captor moved around the hanging figure, a red glow from a headlamp lightly illuminated the immediate surroundings adding to the macabre scene. The red filter ensured light would not spill from the darkness.

  The rain stopped but the wind continued to blow. She felt the damp leaves between her toes and the cold made her shiver with involuntary, jerking movements as if she were dancing to the wind’s tune. She knew where she was and she knew whoever held her was close by, watching, waiting. Occasionally, only occasionally, she sensed that he had moved closer; it was then that she felt the warmth of his breath on the side of her cheek. Her sense of smell had grown more acute and she could detect a trace of garlic, just the faintest whiff but it was there. She turned her face towards the breath, strangely finding some bizarre comfort; it was human and it was familiar.

  She had tried to kick out once, hoping to strike lucky, but she had immediately felt the retaliation, a sharp pain had flashed through her face as the flat palm of a hand had struck her nose. It had been hard enough to make her panic and see small, bright lights in the darkness. She had been momentarily unable to draw in air, but the calculated blow had been tempered and gentle enough not to block her airway with blood. It was then that she had heard his voice for the first time.

  “Bright eyes, that was foolish, how disappointing.”

  She gasped again. She had heard the voice before and her confused mind tried to put a face to the words. She failed.

  Time seemed to hang alongside her. Drips from the high branches hit the ground as if counting the seconds of her torment. The metronomic drone of occasional traffic on wet roads was just audible in the background. Life went on, even at this hour. She felt helpless.

  The garlic breath came again, this time close to her ear. The breathing was slow and precise. It wrapped the cold surface of her face with a bizarre security and for one brief moment she thought that she might still be released from this silly game. How wrong she was to grasp such a fine, false hope.

  ***

  Cyril sipped the Black Sheep beer and turned the pages of the catalogue. He was only interested in the art. He glanced up peering over the top of his reading glasses at the Theodore Major oil painting, illuminated by the small spotlight positioned on the wall above the phone. He then noticed the flashing answer phone again. He couldn’t leave it any longer, as always, curiosity got the better of him.

  “You have two new messages, first message, received today at 10:15.” The automated female voice was raw but quickly gave way to familiar, warm tones.

  “Cyril, the body is clean but I need to talk ASAP. Miss you.”

  “Message two received today at 11:22am…”

  “Cyril, I’ve tried your mobile… call me. It’s urgent.”

  “End of messages.”

  Both were from Julie, Dr Julie Pritchett. He deleted them before dialling her number. He always felt afrisson of excitement as he returned her call. Julie had worked as one of the North East Home Office Pathologists for a number of years and gradually they had developed a relaxed, somewhat uncomplicated but intimate relationship. Neither wished to commit fully and so the occasional date was ideal for both. Everyone knew about it but nothing was said openly. Initially, the gossips at the station referred to it as clinical, convenient, selfish and a few believed it to be unprofessional, but on the whole the majority believed it to be none of their business and after a while nothing was said.

  “Good evening, Julie, sorry not to get back to you sooner.” He was truly upset that he had not called earlier.

  “Cyril, where’ve you been all day and where’s your mobile? They’re called mobiles so they stay with you so you can be contacted, not left at home on the kitchen table to keep the cat amused!”

  “Haven’t got a cat,” Cyril protested, his voice flat, playing her along.

  “I know… Good God man! I was making a… Never mind. Listen, some of us have been working. The Coulson body, the guy with the missing finger ends, well, we’ve found them!” There was a pause and Cyril wondered whether she wanted him to make a guess. He was wrong!

  “They were in his stomach contents. Whoever did that to him, made him eat them.”

  Neither spoke as Cyril tried to filter what he had just heard. He had spent a long time in the force and thought he was impervious to what human beings were capable of doing to each other; again he was wrong, twice within two minutes, if he were honest with himself. His skin was not as thick as he had thought it was. He had read somewhere that the epiderm
is grew thinner with age and maybe the medical researchers were right.

  “Do we know how the finger tips were removed?”

  “From what we can see, the most likely tool for amputation was tin-snips or secateurs, a slow and painful process. Evidence is clear that the removal was done over a period of a couple of days and from the state of degradation of the fingertips, they were all consumed at the same time. There are also marks on the body to suggest he’d been strapped down. Tests prove the adhesive was from strong tape. Forensics is running comparisons against samples kept to find the manufacturer and I should have that by tomorrow. However, one definite fact is that he died in a kneeling position, submissive, possibly begging before the coup de grâce! Can you get in early tomorrow?” Julie didn’t wait for an answer. “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Nothing, I’ll pick you up.” He checked his watch. “Say eight?”

  Cyril heard a kiss blown down the phone. “Eight and no shop talk, it’ll keep ‘til tomorrow.” She hung up.

  ***

  The garlic seemed stronger, closer, but now the smell no longer held that sense of comfort. In contradiction, a hand gently cupped the back of Valerie’s head holding her face slightly to the right. The faint tinkle of some jewellery rattling seemed familiar, the hand and evocative sound felt reassuring, almost tender. She made herself relax… maybe this joke was finally over. It was then that she felt the pain, searing, hot and intense like none she had felt before; it burned into her right eye socket as the fine steel shaft burst her eyeball. Mucus erupted from her right nostril, as her body twisted and contorted like an outraged marionette; the tape muffled her scream but the escaping sound was loud. Fingers grasped her nose stifling the noise. The blockage of air made her kick and shake until the fingers clamping her nostrils were removed allowing the cold air to flood her lungs.