Dead Wrong (2 page)

“I’m afraid it had to be done, and it’s no more than you deserve. You and the others need to be punished.”

Punished
— was that what was going on? But for what and why like this? He’d never done anything like this to anyone, never even come close. Had he been able to, the youth would have made the bastard talk, but as it was, he was unlikely to ever know.

The lad was stood upright, tied to metal girders set against the wall, gagged and barely conscious. Another weak moan issued through the filthy gag stretched between his teeth. He tried to move his limbs against the harsh grip of the cable ties, but the movement caused them to bite deeper into his flesh, worsening the pain.

“I’ve come to the conclusion, maggot brain, that this situation calls for some upgrading,” the voice droned on. “I need to do something that won’t fail to get us talked about.” The words were directed at the limp, shivering mass as if he expected a suggestion. “Keeping you here isn’t enough.”

The lad felt hot suddenly, a fever? His captor’s voice sounded far away and was suddenly lighter. Had he realised this was all a big mistake? Would he let him go?

“Guess what? You cause so much trouble when you’re free, that no one wants you back. At least if they do they’re not telling the police, or anyone else for that matter.”

The youth wanted to switch him off — he was like a persistent insect buzzing in his ear. Obviously he’d expected much more than this silence. He must have expected the folk of that damned estate to rise up and come looking for him. He’d obviously relied on there being press involvement. But all he’d got was a big fat nothing. If his situation wasn’t so horrific, he would have laughed in the fool’s face.

He watched the man clad in white coveralls rub his head as if trying to encourage an idea, release a genie. He would be doubly dangerous now. He wanted results and was losing patience. The look, the body language, it was something the lad recognised. His captor was simmering, ready to blow. Seconds later these assumptions were confirmed as the man snatched up a hammer from the metal bench and slammed it down hard. It made a resounding crash, and the young man shrank in terror. Next time that might be his head.

Tied tight to a beam or not, he was shaking with fright, but the sharp clunk of steel on steel also served to clear his mind. He tried to mumble something, some words of appeal to this bastard’s better nature, but the gag turned the words into muffled gibberish.

“No one’s noticed he’s disappeared yet either.” The captor glanced at the bundle stashed in a corner of the cellar. “I can’t wait forever for them to wake up to the fact that you’re missing too.”

So he’d got his mate as well. He tried to push the fabric from his mouth with his tongue, and mumbled louder. He coughed. He hadn’t had any food or drink for what seemed like days. He was so dry the gag stuck to his teeth, almost solid by now, and rancid. He wanted to explain that of course he would be missed, his other mates, and Kelly, they’d be worried about him.

“No one’s bothered about either of you. Don’t you find that rather sad?”

He was frantically trying to free himself now by pulling forward hard on the beam. His last hope was Kelly. He knew she’d be bothered. She always came looking for him when he disappeared. But would she be in time?

He was afraid, but that wasn’t the only reason why he was shaking. He knew his body would by now be trying to cope with the heroin withdrawal. Why didn’t this fucking bastard just let him go? None of this was his fault. Whatever he was supposed to have done, he certainly didn’t deserve this.

The trembling had started and it would get worse. Normally nothing scared him, but now he was terrified. He didn’t know how long he’d been here; he hadn’t been conscious all the time, but he knew he wouldn’t get out alive, not without a bloody miracle.

He watched as the man in the white coveralls studied an array of stuff he had on his metal bench. The youth squinted — he could make out a whole lot of stuff on there. The contents of the average toolbox, plus a few things you’d use in the garden. With a measured relief he noted that there was no gun. Mind you, at least that would be quick.

His stomach somersaulted as the man picked up the heavy-duty secateurs, and fondled them gently with his latex-gloved hands. They’d be sharp, the lad reasoned with a shudder. Had he used them to detach the fingers from his right hand? He watched as he took a cloth and wiped the secateurs with meticulous care. Perhaps he had and it looked very much like he was about to use them again.

“You’ll be leaving me soon,” were the next chilling words the young man heard. And to accompany them the even chillier snap as the man used the secateurs to cut into a small piece of dowel. Obviously satisfied that they were up to the job, he advanced towards his captive.

“I’m not going to pretend; this is going to hurt. But I need your fingers for my little plan. You do want to be free of this place, and from me, don’t you?”

Yes but not this way
. The lad shook his head, he was frantic. He thrashed about as much as he could in an effort to struggle free. He made a weak fist with his good hand, pulling hard against the girders. He could only shriek through the gag, as the ties embedded themselves deeper into his thin arms. He felt the warm blood trickle over his wrists, and knew it was useless.

He couldn’t see properly in the gloom. He couldn’t scream, and struggling was too hard and painful. Suddenly he retched, feeling the bitter vomit escape around the gag before dripping slowly down his body. He felt the warm flow of the vile-smelling fluid trickle over his belly, and Ian knew he would die here, naked, cold and filthy.

“Relax your hand,” the man said soothingly as he approached, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the smell. “That looks painful . . .” He looked down at the jagged remnants of bone protruding from the boy’s right hand, and the way the blood ran in rivulets to join the other fluids on the floor.

“Let me see . . .” His grip was firm, as he pondered the anatomy. “I’ve never really looked properly before, but the human hand is really quite fascinating.” Letting it drop he took hold of the other hand. Giving his captive a comforting smile, he separated out the index finger, wielded the secateurs with practised confidence and cut just below the knuckle joint.

“One for sorrow . . .” He frowned in concentration.

The pain was unbearable. He tried to scream but the noise that emanated from behind the gag was more like the howl of some wild creature than a sound made by a man. His tortured body jerked uncontrollably, he was losing it. Finally shock thrust him back into a welcome blackness.

***

Satisfied with his efforts, the man in the white overalls produced a cell phone. Concentrating in the dim light, he found the video function and, returning to his unconscious captive, pointed the camera at the bloodied hand.

“Not sure what I’ll do with this,” he muttered to himself, shrugging. “But what I do know is it’ll get me publicity. Who knows, by tonight you might be an internet sensation,” he said, slapping the boy’s face. “Shame you’ll not be around to bask in your fame.”

Taking the secateurs again in one hand, and holding the mobile in the other, he detached the middle finger.

“Two for joy.” He smiled. “Not very joyful now though, are you, you little fool?”

There was no sound this time; the youth was unconscious. Slowly he deftly removed the remaining fingers one by one, continuing to intone the rhyme and film this brutal little interlude. He filmed the whole sequence, from the first agonising cut to the way they plopped one by one, onto the urine-puddled floor, like anaemic chipolatas.

He got out the plastic carrier bag from a drawer under the table. The special one he’d put by for this very purpose. He gathered up the fingers, shook off the fluid and dropped them in. He tied a knot in the top and threw the bag onto his bench. As he did so, his attention was caught by the other bag, the one containing the money he’d found on the lad when he took him. He hadn’t reckoned on there being so much. Drug dealing was obviously a lucrative business. The money was a problem he didn’t have a solution for just yet. But he’d work on it. Something was bound to occur to him.

It wouldn’t be right to leave him like this. The tiny stubs of what was left of his fingers were bleeding profusely. He really should put the young man out of his misery. It would be the kindest thing to do.

He lifted a knife, long and sharp. Would it cut through bone? He really didn’t fancy sawing away at a limb until it slowly surrendered to the thin steel of a blade. He lifted an axe, studying it thoughtfully. He used it for chopping wood. He always kept his tools in good condition and, like the secateurs, it was sharp, and it was a good weight to handle. He ran an exploratory finger along its edge. Would this do? Would this cut through bone or just splinter it? He knew precious little about human anatomy, but one thing he did know — there would be blood. A lot.

His avid daily reading of the press, looking for news of the disappearances, had resulted in a large pile of newsprint. He gathered these up, and spread them around the floor under Ian’s feet. They would serve to soak up some of the blood and make his clean up task easier.

If he’d had more storage room, then he could have despatched him differently, but he needed to squeeze this body into the freezer along with his mates — once he’d dealt with him. So he had no choice. Both bodies would be cut into smaller, more manageable parts.

He was sure now that he’d done the right thing. He was confident that by the start of the new week everyone would know about him. At long last he’d be headline news. An excited shiver fluttered down his spine and a self-satisfied smile passed across his face. He would use the axe.

Giving the implement a few practice swings he walked towards the young man. Ian was groaning now as consciousness seeped back. He must have heard the footsteps, and he tried again to pull against his restraints. His tormentor had to admire the boy’s strength. It probably came from some primal sense of preservation, urging him to fight one last time. His smile was grim.

“Careful, lad, you must be in pain.”

The young man smelled vile. The vomit was still dripping off his chest. He was bleeding heavily and was stood in his own urine and waste. What he was about to do would put him out of all this misery.

Raising the axe high above his head he swung hard with confidence. Ignoring the splatter of blood, and the thud of steel on flesh, he heard the reassuring clang as the axe met the rusty cast iron girder behind the left knee cap. Happy with this outcome he swung again, above the right knee.

He stood back, and watched the blood pour onto the floor. He watched the lad’s body twitch with shock and pain. He watched until the body moved no more, and felt intensely pleased with his handiwork.

He wanted a photograph, he wanted to capture the rather macabre way the youth’s detached legs, still bound at the ankles, leant away from his torso. He fumbled in his pocket for the phone, and felt an unfamiliar thrill fizz like electricity through his body.

This was a feeling he could get used to.

Chapter 2

Monday

Tom Calladine could think of better ways of spending a Monday morning, but the pain had kept him awake most of the night, so he had no choice but to bite the bullet. Moving his hand up to his jaw he tried to rub the offending area, but the dentist moved it away, tut-tutting in his ear.

“Just a few more seconds, Inspector, then it’ll all be over,” he assured him, giving a final prod to his handiwork. “There, all done.” The dentist passed him a hand mirror. “Have a look, good as new.” There was pride in his voice.

Tom Calladine rubbed his jaw again and winced. He didn’t care what it looked like, just so long as it didn’t ache any more.

“It should settle down quite quickly now.” The dentist smiled reassuringly as he removed his gloves and rinsed his hands in the sink. “But if the pain does get too much, then take a couple of Paracetamol. You won’t need anything stronger.”

Calladine hoped he was right. Over an hour in the chair, his mouth held open with some sort of metal scaffolding, was all he was prepared to put up with for one day. He hated dentists: the surgery, the instruments, and the knowledge that what lay ahead would hurt. Root canal treatment was particularly grim.

“I’ll see you in six months, Inspector.” The dentist smiled. “Don’t leave any more problems until they’re as bad as this though,” he warned, nodding at Calladine’s mouth. “At your age you should really make an effort to look after your teeth. I know how busy you are, but your teeth are important, Tom.”

Yet another reference to his age, Calladine thought with annoyance. So he’d turned fifty, what of it? Did that mean his body was about to give up the ghost, and all his teeth fall out? He was getting a little tired of all the remarks he kept getting from people who should know better. They ought to know that with his level of fitness, there was still plenty of life and work left in him yet.

Calladine mumbled something humourless and, rising from the chair, he turned his mobile back on. He didn’t want to talk age, or even worse, shop. He just wanted to regain the feeling in his mouth and be able to down a cup of strong tea. He was relieved when, almost at once, the thing rang. Casting an apologetic glance at the dentist, he answered it.

A female voice spoke. “We’ve got a gruesome one on the Hobfield.”

It was his sergeant, Ruth Bayliss. She was a woman not given to exaggeration, so if she said gruesome then that’s what it was.

“A jogger and his dog found some severed fingers in a carrier bag on the common earlier this morning.”

There was silence as Calladine took this in. “Not an accident, I take it,” he mumbled. His mouth was still numb.

“I’d say not, boss. According to Doc Hoyle the fingers were crudely removed and the bag was left on the seat of a kid’s swing,” she told him. “Just plonked there, deliberately, for anyone to find.”

“You’re talking about the play area at the edge of the common?”