Flesh Evidence: a heart-stopping crime thriller 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

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Flesh Evidence

  By

  Malcolm Hollingdrake

  Copyright © 2016 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 2016 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

  Prologue

  7th August 1976

  The heat of the long summer showed no sign of abating. The south-facing windows of the hospital trapped more and more of the day’s incessant heat; the waiting room seemed to grow increasingly claustrophobic as the air grew thick, warm and sticky, emphasising the indelible hospital aroma. Pamphlets full of advice for young parents hung as listlessly as the air from discoloured, cork-lined walls, each held at one corner by a solitary drawing pin of varying colour. Ian Dixon let his eyes follow them round the room. He counted the different coloured pins to alleviate his anxiety. It was then he heard his name disturb the silence. Butterflies shot through his stomach.

  “You have a son, Mr Dixon. Congratulations!”

  His heart raced as he moved towards the delivery room. There, cradled in Jose’s arms, was his first born, a son, Samuel.

  Chapter One

  Early August 2015

  The keen edge of the blade ran diagonally across the white, stretched flesh, squeezing various sized, pomegranate-coloured beads of blood sitting precariously on the white skin’s surface. Some gorged and swelled more than others before bursting and running round the curvature of the arm. Other lines, now healing, criss-crossed near them. The muffled sound from taped lips and the twitching torso danced involuntarily to the music playing in the background, adding a certain frisson to the macabre pantomime.

  It was always their eyes, no matter how young or how old, their eyes told the true story, like crystal balls projecting deeply within those dark pools, their torment and their fear. Those same crying eyes followed the tormentor as the tip of a tongue traced the sliced flesh, removing the remaining blood-filled beads one by one. The lips then moved away before coming together, savouring the metallic, sharp, bloody taste; for one person in the room, it was a perfect end to the day.

  “You’re not sweet enough yet my young friend. Maybe it will take another week, maybe a fortnight but we’re in no rush are we? And the only thing you get from rushing is chance children!”

  A smile moved across the blood-marked lips. “That’s my father’s advice you know and yes, I did have parents although I’m sure you might think only a bastard could keep you locked away from the world.”

  Tears continued to fill the eyes that were now pleading and so alive as the throb of the youth’s pulse bounced along his sliced arm.

  “You know I can’t release you, not yet anyway, you’re not ready.”

  A gloved hand removed a rolling tear from the youth’s cheek. The blood-tinged tongue licked it from the blue latex before switching off the music.

  “Time for you to rest and calm down.”

  The light went off and the world was black and silent again.

  Chapter Two

  Late July 2015

  The shrill screams carried by the wind managed to infiltrate the music streamed to Tony’s ears from his phone. He paused, removing his left earphone to listen. Yes, there, much clearer and more high-pitched now above the squeezed sounds he felt vibrate into his closed hand. He smiled to himself as the excitement grew within him. He had been looking forward to this for such a long time. He returned the earphone and thrust his hand deeply into his pocket.

  His fingers began to fumble the coins for the fifth time. He ran them through his fingers one at a time like an umpire counting off the balls in an over. There were definitely eight or was it nine? He checked again. Once satisfied, he slipped his hand into his back pocket and removed the folded notes. Two fives and four tens; he returned them and tapped the outer pocket still able to feel the outline. He smiled to himself partly in pleasure; he felt no guilt. If his dad ever discovered that he had stolen money from anywhere, let alone the house, there would be hell to pay, but he was smarter than that, he had learned to be patient, to choose the correct moment. He only took money when he considered it to be safe, the odd coin here and there but more on the occasions when his parents returned from a night out. It was easy to get up early and slip the odd fiver away when it was left, crunched in the bowl in the kitchen along with car keys and the odd tissue. There had been a couple of times when his father, not suffering from a slight hangover, had questioned whether his mother had taken any money, but that was as close to suspicion as it got. Nothing was ever pursued, his father simply responded with a quick raise of the shoulders and a quizzical look. It was then Tony would ask for a pound for this or that and predictably he would succeed. A double victory!

  The Stray Fair was the main reason for the deception; well you couldn’t go to a fair with only a few quid, some rides alone were more than his weekly spending money.

  The grass was still damp from the afternoon’s rain. Tony’s shoes were already soaked through from the kick-about earlier. When he removed his earphones he could hear and see the Fair, the loud music collided with more loud music, each ride operator trying to outdo the other. The myriad flashing coloured lights along with the chorus of intermittent screams from excited girls produced a Siren’s welcome against the darkening day. Tony’s heart fluttered with excitement. He replaced his earphones and stared, the noise from the Fair now drowned out by the shrill music bombarding his ears.

  “Tooonnneee!” Colin’s voice sounded like a football fan calling his favourite team, emphasising the last vowel for what seemed like an age.

  On the fourth call Tony heard it and turned. Colin and Mark ran towards him arms outstretched like aeroplanes coming in for attack.

  “You’re bloody late! You said the war memorial.” Tony looked at his phone. “Half an hour ago!” He flicked off the music.

  “And you’re bloody deaf…da,da,da,da…bandits from 7’oclock.”

  Tony removed his earphones and wrapped them round his mobile. “Funny, I don’t think.”

  “Mark couldn’t get money from his dad until he’d washed up and taken the dog out. It’s like the Gestapo at his house. Any road, we’re here, we’ve money to burn and there’s fun to be had. Dodgems, Waltzer and then maybe we
should try the killer ride ‘2xtreme’.” He emphasised the word and pulled a terrified expression as if it were totally evil. The boys laughed more at the gurned face than the thought of the ride as they began to run towards the Fair.

  It was busy. They headed straight for the Waltzer, the ride’s flashing lights, blasting music and screaming girls proving an aphrodisiac to the three lads. It was better than they had expected and they rode it twice.

  “Bloody Hell it’s fast! I’ve got a feeling I might be losing my tea sometime tonight!” screamed Tony, struggling to make himself heard. The cars were spun eagerly by the staff who always seemed to pick the ones containing the prettiest girls.

  “Some fighter pilot you’ll make, you tart. You can go on your own after the next ride. These are my best jeans and I don’t want you pebble-dashing them with mashed up beans on toast.” They laughed even more.

  ***

  Tony was right. At about ten o’clock, after a final fling on a carrousel, he bought a hot dog, drank the complimentary sweet, fizzy drink and within minutes threw up into a convenient waste bin.

  “Jesus Colin, did you see the colour of that? It was like blancmange.”

  “I’m done!” Tony wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I feel like shit. Anyway, I’ve to be in by eleven. Coming?”

  “You’re grey boy, really like a ghost. I told you not to eat the crap they produce at these places. Probably got some strange plague. No, one more ride for us. Remember Tony, some guys are tougher than the rest.” They started laughing and slapped him on the back.

  Tony pushed in the two earpieces and turned on his phone’s music, adjusting the volume to near maximum, blotting out the surrounding sounds before starting to walk away from the Fair. The sudden feeling of nausea swept through his stomach and the stinging, acidic taste hit the back of his throat. He felt a prickly heat flush through his body and then felt suddenly cold. He kneeled by some bushes surrounding a copse of trees bordering the edge of The Stray. Remnants of the hot dog mixed with a pink froth exploded from his lips as the sweat formed on his forehead. The music still flooded his hearing.

  The gloved hand touching Tony’s head was gentle at first, almost caressing, definitely reassuring. It remained as Tony saw another hand offering a pack of tissues and then a bottle of water.

  “This’ll help you. You look terrible.” The voice was gentle and comforting.

  Tony turned and saw the friendly lips move as if in slow motion but he didn’t hear the words. He smiled, confused by the sudden illness and took the offerings.

  “You need some help. Come.”

  ***

  It was the absolute fear in Tony’s eyes, the look of uncertainty, hopelessness and incomprehensible bewilderment, the near surrender that brought the greatest thrill. It was like a shot of pure adrenalin. Even in the cold and dark of the container you could still see it and feel it. The same Tupperware jar was placed into Tony’s left hand, a plastic spoon protruding from the lip.

  “Eat, Tony!”

  That’s all the person said. Those same lips moved, seemingly gentle and strangely caring. Tony’s stomach turned as he fought back the nausea of fear. A gloved hand ruffled his hair. This time there was no reassurance.

  “If you scream, you know what the result will be, but after this week together we’re getting to know each other better, we understand what we like. Don’t we, Tony?”

  Tony could see the gleam of the knife. His eyes looked at the lines on his arms and in places he noticed the remnants of dried blood smearing his white skin. The blade slit the grey gaffer tape holding his bound right wrist and elbow to the arm of the commode.

  “Eat whilst I take away your mess.”

  The galvanised bucket was lifted from the wooden space beneath Tony’s seat; the faeces produced a strange, almost sweet smell as the container was brought out into the open.

  “We’re nearly there.”

  Tony could hear the deep inhalation and the rattle of the bucket’s handle.

  “ Five minutes to eat, no longer.”

  Tony moved his free arm, grabbed at the spoon and ate. The jar’s contents were the same as yesterday and the day before that but it was food. And this was all he would get until the following day.

  Chapter Three

  Late August 2015

  The whiteboards surrounding the incident room were full of images; Tony Thompson, wearing jeans, Tony Thompson wearing his school uniform, his football strip, his Air Cadet uniform. They helped form a clear picture of the youth, his safe return being their immediate goal. There were also the photographs of his parents, relatives and friends, all annotated whilst Scene of Crime images filled another board alongside maps of Oatlands’ Stray. The files had grown over the three weeks since his disappearance but there was nothing; it was as if he’d been swallowed up, gone.

  DCI Cyril Bennett had been asked to support the investigation team but it was with a clear understanding that it was purely support. His Governor’s words still played in his head. “Sensitive interaction, Cyril. No bulls, no broken china!”

  The missing youth seemed to have simply vanished. CCTV footage showed nothing, Forensics had their hands tied, as there was no real crime scene unless you counted the whole area that comprised The Stray Fair site. The surrounding area had been submitted to a fingertip search and specialist dogs had been used. They’d found the three areas of vomit, two matching Tony’s DNA. The results had shown that the contents contained syrup of Ipecac, a drug used to induce vomiting. It was strong evidence to suggest Tony’s abduction.

  Cyril flipped through the files, his rimless reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. There had been the usual false alarms from a nationwide media request for information. Three people had admitted to the abduction and murder, two others had purported to be the missing child whilst two offers of help from people who could telepathically determine where the youth would be if they were given an item of his clothing had been politely rejected.

  “And to think these people breathe the same air as us, Owen. Jesus!” Cyril tossed the file onto his desk and leaned back. “The sad thing is that each and every one of these reports had to be investigated…just in case.”

  “I sometimes wonder if it’s not worth giving psychics a chance, you know, a piece of clothing and letting them follow their instinct,” Owen stated with a degree of naïve enthusiasm.

  “And what if one of these attention-seeking visionaries is a journalist and writes that the North Yorkshire Police are so desperate, so inefficient that they have to resort to quackery. I can read the headline now, Owen, ‘North Yorkshire Police Force couldn’t find its own arse with its hand in its back pocket!’ So the answer to your question is a simple, no! What do we know of the drug found in the sample?”

  Owen picked up the file before placing it in front of Cyril. “It was only a suggestion, Sir, as from where I’m sitting, nobody else seems to hold any answers.”

  Cyril read aloud. “Made from one fourteenth of an alcoholic extract of the root and rhizomes of Ipecac root…” he then mumbled as he read…”Quick first aid use at home for accidental poisonings…used by individuals with bulimia nervosa… Our lad wasn’t weight conscious was he, Owen?”

  “No, Sir, sport mad, built a bit like a whippet.”

  “Designed then to induce vomiting. Check with the parents re his eating habits.” Cyril paused. He had always had an aversion to bodily fluids, particularly when not his own and he definitely had a phobia about vomit. You could almost see him shudder at the thought. “Says that it’s been discontinued. Global production was stopped in 2010.”

  Cyril raised an eyebrow and closed the file. There was a long pause.

  Owen returned. “Ate like a horse parents have said. There’s no medication in the house other than general stuff and that’s locked away.” Owen added the piece of paper to the file.

  “Let’s go through national missing persons again narrowing it down to sex, age and similarities to the miss
ing lad…let’s say over the last five years. Work through POLKA, (Police Online Knowledge Area) there should be more links with external agencies.”

  Owen typed in the details and awaited the results.

  “With those parameters...” Owen paused putting his tongue between his teeth as he scrolled down the screen. “We’ve two at the moment, a Joseph Fairclough and a Jason Townsend, missing August, 2011 and December, 2013, but others might follow. They’re now both cold cases. Joseph was out visiting a friend in…” Owen paused collecting his thoughts. “Knutsford?”

  “It’s in Cheshire, Owen. And Jason?”

  “Late night shopping in Liverpool.”

  “All three were in the north of England. Any Fairs around Knutsford at the time?” It was as if Cyril were thinking out loud. “I guess there was nothing like that in Liverpool unless there were a few attractions set up to keep kids amused whilst parents were trawling the shops. Please check.”

  ***

  Tony lay on the bed, a single LED bulb hung from a wire suspended from the rusting, blue steel roof. Condensation had marked the ribs that ran widthways across the old container causing the paint to flake. A spoon gently pushed the food into the boy’s mouth whilst the other hand supported his limp neck. Death wasn’t that far away. His semi-naked body seemed to have shrunk, his skin taut across his ribs. Tony neither needed taping nor locking up, his body was beginning to fade.

  He’d done well. Three weeks seemed a long time. At first he had refused the food but as the days went on he was only too happy to co-operate you might even say he was clearly eager. Two days should see the light in his eyes extinguish and then the work could begin. The gloved hand lowered Tony’s head onto the soiled pillow. There was now more of a chill in the air. The same hand lifted the piece of chalk and marked carefully another tally on the steel wall. The now silent, moving lips of the captor counted the days.