The Third Breath Read online

  The Third Breath

  DCI Bennett Book 7

  Malcolm Hollingdrake

  Contents

  Also By Malcolm Hollingdrake

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  A Note from Bloodhound Books:

  Acknowledgments

  Only The Dead

  Hell’s Gate

  Flesh Evidence

  Game Point

  Dying Art

  Crossed Out

  Copyright © 2018 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 2018 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

  Also By Malcolm Hollingdrake

  DCI Bennett Series

  Only The Dead ( Book 1)

  Hell’s Gate ( Book 2)

  Flesh Evidence ( Book 3)

  Game Point ( Book 4)

  Dying Art ( Book 5)

  Crossed Out ( Book 6)

  Praise for Malcolm Hollingdrake

  "This was a complex piece of story-telling with a lot of characters but it all worked for me. A very enjoyable read." Kath Middleton - Kath Middleton Books

  "Fantastic read ... I absolutely loved it, and can't wait for the next installment." Liza Murray - Turn The Page

  "The gripping investigation and various layers held my attention throughout and I love how Malcolm Hollingdrake is able to light the mood occasionally to give us a well-earned break from all the crazy." Eva Merckx - Novel Deelights

  "The various plotlines are well-crafted and draw you right in, one of the reasons this excellently written thriller with its beautiful descriptive sentences is captivating and intriguing." Caroline Vincent - Bits About Books

  "The action in this book started on page one and didn’t let up until the very end – it was a classic detective/police mystery with a creepy plot and villain." Ashley Gillan - (e)Book Nerd Reviews

  "The story is written well, thrilling and fast paced. You really won’t want to put it down." Gemma Myers - Between The Pages Book Club

  "Another excellent book by the talented Malcolm Hollingdrake I am looking forward to more in this series." Jill Burkinshaw - Books n All

  "Fans will not be disappointing with Crossed Out it is one hell of an engaging read which I couldn't put down and highly recommend giving..." Shell Baker - Chelle's Book Reviews

  "Crossed Out is an intense, criminally insane book which encompassed every piece of my soul with literary salivation." Diane Hogg - Sweet Little Book Blog

  "The writing style as always was superb and I thoroughly enjoyed the whole thing, being gripped by the end of the first chapter." Donna Maguire - Donnas Book Blog

  Dedicated to Lal and Jim Grice.

  Dear family friends.

  Prologue

  Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides.

  André Malraux

  Novelist

  Previously

  Knowing his father was critically ill had impacted little on Cyril’s emotional state, but the news had brought with it a moral dilemma. He knew that he had neither the appetite nor the enthusiasm to reconnect with his past, a past that he thought he had successfully locked away in his memory, deep within a vacuum, hidden, closed off and forgotten.

  Why he had gone to see his dying father in his last days, he would never really understand; maybe it was his partner Julie’s sensitive guidance, maybe his own copper’s curiosity, or was it the last opportunity to eventually tell his father what he truly thought of him? Whatever the answer, after that visit Cyril was assured that the correct decision had been made. He had matured and he could see that life and relationships were not purely black and white. His ice-like emotions towards his family were beginning to thaw and for that reason, he had decided to attend the funeral.

  You will find, as with all books, that turning over the first page is easily done with a simple flick of the finger. You will, I hope, feel a flutter in your stomach and a keen sense of anticipation of what is to come… Well… I feel those same emotions; I feel that tingle of illicit excitement as I prepare each step, even now, as I lift the white enamelled freezer lid and look inside at my work; every victim is a new chapter…. And I remember that I must do unto others as they have done to me but I must do it with a greater degree of subtlety.

  As the results of my labours unfold in the local and national press, I receive the same excitement, the same anticipation you feel as you start this book… so… it could be said that we are not too dissimilar… are we?

  1

  The tiny ice crystals had formed what looked like an armoured sheath of semi-translucent particles that seemed to hover above the frost-burned flesh. The hair, almost white, spread halo-like around the head. With the introduction of the relatively warm air, a milky-white mist mingled and hung just above the cadaver, a protective, smothering layer.

  “You look at peace. It’s good to have you close where I can see you. What do they say, Keep your friends close and your enemies closer? Yes, closer.”

  He lowered the lid on the old chest freezer and his fingers tapped out an indiscriminate tune on the lid.

  He found it difficult to hold the fine wires and to work as intricately as he had anticipated. It was a struggle on account of the limited sensitivity and feeling in the ends of his fingers, even when wearing the ultra-fine latex gloves. No matter how warm the room or what time of year his fingers seemed semi-paralysed. They had diagnosed Raynaud’s disease but then what did they know? Before starting each delicate process he blew on them and rubbed his damaged fingers to generate what he hoped would be greater blood flow, therefore bringing some feeling to the numbed flesh.

  As he blew warm breath across his hands he frowned but then let his focus drift to just above the bench to the news cutting pinned to the wall, one edge curled in defiance. He dabbed it with his finger as his gaze shifted to study the technical drawing taped alongside; it was hand drawn but no less detailed for that. Every wire and miniature circuit board was coloured and sequenced. His finger pressed against the paper and followed each wire until sto
pping at one, a green and white striped line that snaked from its starting position to its conclusion. He repeated this action on the bench but instead of being spread flat over a distance of six inches as in the wiring diagram, the work was constrained into an area no bigger than an egg cup. By using a large, illuminated magnifying glass he ensured that there was no snagging or corruption of the soldered joints.

  Every few minutes a wisp of smoke, the result of the hot iron melting and fusing flux and solder to the wire, would drift to one side as each connection was secured. Once finished, the electronics looked like a coloured crochet disc as it was fitted into a stainless steel cap.

  After two hours of careful work, the electronics-filled cap was connected to its base. It was then easily attached to a container. A small, disc battery resembling a silver coin was placed in the designated holder. He closed the lid before locking it in position with the safety catch, trapping tightly the neoprene seal ensuring that nothing could enter or escape. It was a perfect fit. There was silence apart from the occasional cooling click from the gas soldering gun.

  After a further inspection the engineer flicked off the lid’s safety catch before making some minor adjustments. He moved away from the bench to the far side of the room before picking up a remote key fob similar to that found attached to a car key. He was satisfied that things were ready for the first test.

  “Three, two, one!” His thumb gently pressed the button as excited eyes focussed on the container. Nothing happened. He sighed out of frustration but soon a string of expletives bombarded the container. Putting down the fob, he moved back to the bench, adjusted the magnifying glass into position and stared at the electronics. It only took a minute for him to detect his error. He cursed a second time. Fingers fumbled with the battery and he turned it over before checking carefully that it was correctly fitted.

  “You go to all this trouble with a fine, detailed design and then you go and put the battery in the wrong way,” he admonished himself before moving back across the room and picking up the fob. He was ready and his heart rate accelerated.

  “Three… two… one!”

  As he pressed the button for the second time, the lid of the container flicked open automatically with a degree of force that momentarily startled him. It remained wide open, held with a spring, one hundred and eighty degrees from its closed position, therefore opening the mouth of the container fully.

  “Boom!” he shouted. “Got ya!” A large smile spread across his face.

  Moving back to the bench, he unpinned the news cutting and reread through it. He looked at the date he had written in the margin. No mention of the human cost… There never is, it’s all down to money…. Was it so long ago? It was time to move on and he carefully folded the paper. Striking a match he lit one corner and allowed the flames to lick his fingers. The heat brought a smile before he dropped it onto the asbestos mat he had used when soldering. He then brushed the delicate ashes into the waste bin.

  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, it shall be,” he whispered. “Boom!”

  He needed sleep.

  The morning dawned fine as the engineer split the venetian blinds and peered out. At least the weather would be on his side. A flask sat on the windowsill already wrapped in a quilted jacket. He flicked off the safety catch, picked up the remote and pressed the button. Just as on the previous day, the lid snapped open. He was ready for the difficult part of the operation. He needed to arm it and for that he would work with care. He could make no mistakes at this stage he knew that to his cost. He would then be ready to travel.

  The late afternoon train journey from York to Harrogate had been pleasant enough. As his carriage approached the station, he breathed on his hands and rubbed them together before carefully collecting his rucksack and moving to the automatic door. He enjoyed the growing feeling of excitement as the adrenalin slowly flushed through his system. Even though the day was warm, he wore thin, breathable running gloves. The light on the side of the door turned from red to green and as he tapped it, the warning beeping sound signalled its intention to open.

  There was always something special about a station, the enclosed passageways, the echoes, the order, possibly the anonymity of being in a crowd, a crowd seemingly moving in one direction with a purpose to escape. He stood for a moment to allow those eager, those possibly late, the uncertain, the sightseers or simply the unrushed, to leave before him. The smell of coffee and pastries filled his nostrils and for the first time that day he felt hungry.

  When he reached the entrance to Station Parade, the traffic was busy, all heading in one direction. He stood momentarily, allowing the warmth from the sun and light to welcome him. Turning left out of the station, he knew that it would take only ten minutes to walk to the car park. There would be time to sit on a bench near The Stray, to watch the world go by and to remember the good times. He did not want to reach his target too early; he needed the car park to have emptied of shoppers’ and tourists’ vehicles. He needed it to be quiet.

  Patience was the key to success. He had hours to wait but he would walk The Stray. Simply to watch would be reward enough as the time to act would come soon. He had all the time in the world.

  The distant trees silhouetted against the blue, a bank of mountain-like clouds had slowly built from the east creating identifiable shapes that became real to his furtive mind.

  As the clouds began to dissipate, the light slowly diminished leaving the increasing traffic to flow along the A61. It was time to move, time to check and take stock before crossing the road and walking up Tower Street.

  The concrete multi-storey car park was to his right. He knew the vehicle would be in there, it would just require a brief search. He looked away as a car waited by the barrier, the driver eager for the metal arm to lift. As it quickly departed he entered. As yet the lights had not come on, leaving the corners of the building wrapped in partial shadowy dark. Walking up the first ramp, he heard a car engine start on a level above, the echo making it difficult to determine the floor it was on. He found a dark space and waited.

  Within minutes, the car’s headlights danced along the walls as it made its way to the exit, the engine note amplified within the hollow space. The building was cooler than he had expected but then the sun never penetrated the lower levels.

  He inhaled and the familiar aroma, a smell found in many multi-storey car parks, stung his nostrils, a cocktail of exhaust gas and urine. As the car turned onto his level the headlights briefly illuminated his target, the blue Jaguar F-Type, parked on level two.

  It was situated away from the dark corners and positioned below a CCTV camera. That brought a smile. Holding a key fob that he had cloned earlier, he approached the car. Obediently, the lights flashed as the alarm was turned off. The locks sprang open. From his rucksack, he withdrew the container he had worked on; it was armed and a very different vessel. Much larger than a family thermos flask, it was much heavier too. It was wrapped in a thick, black quilted jacket. He flicked the safety clasp that helped secure the top, checking that the seal was still intact before opening the passenger door. With great care, he placed it in the footwell of the car before then moving to the driver’s side. From the pocket of the rucksack he took a small box. Within was a cocktail glass. He held it up, carefully removed a glove and flicked the rim with his fingernail. It rang, bell-like, the sound faintly echoing within the low-ceilinged space.

  “For whom the bell tolls,” he whispered as he placed it in the shallow space under the driver’s seat before adding one more item. He grinned inwardly as a rhyme played in his head, a rhyme from his childhood. The next step would demand great patience as he would have to wait indefinitely for the owner to return, but then time was the one thing of which he had plenty. For this to succeed, the timing was critical and if his calculations were correct, it should all soon be over with one press of the key… over in a flash!

  2

  Cyril was the last to go to bed. He sat nursing a glass of red wine and stared
out into the darkness of the garden. He was trying to put everything into a perspective that he could reconcile and therefore come to terms with the situation in which he found himself. The funeral of his father had affected him more than he had ever thought possible. An owl called somewhere in the distance.

  It was not unusual for cars to be left in the multi-storey car park overnight. Often it was a result of the owner having one drink too many. It was exactly nine thirty when the shutters came down cocooning the Jaguar in the darkness that only held the echoes of the outside world. It would be another nine hours before the discovery would be made and only then by accident.

  It took a while for Cyril to realise that it was the silence that woke him. Smiling at this thought, and the sudden awareness of his surroundings, he opened his eyes fully allowing them to focus on the leaching, early morning light that played and danced with the mottled shadows flickering across the strangely familiar ceiling. Hearing Julie’s slow, rhythmic breathing, semi-muffled within the bed sheets, was reassuring and he let his body relax before stretching out his hand to feel her familiar warmth. He looked back at the moving patterns and thought of his father, reflecting on the previous day’s funeral, on the coffin and the ceremony. Cyril had been emotionally dead, he knew that he would be. There was no love lost between them, but to him, after a great deal of soul-searching, it felt important he should be there, the right thing to do; an only son has responsibilities, irrespective of the bitterness and history. In his mind it was simply an obligation, and now his duty had been fulfilled. He recalled the words of one of his heroes: When in doubt, do the courageous thing. It had been far from easy but he knew that he had honoured those emotive words.