His Third Victim Read online

  HIS THIRD VICTIM

  A gripping crime thriller full of twists

  Helen H. Durrant

  First published 2017

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.

  ©Helen H. Durrant

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  THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.

  CONTENTS

  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

  Epilogue

  AVAILABLE NOW BY HELEN H. DURRANT

  Glossary of English Slang for US readers

  CHARACTER LIST

  FREE KINDLE BOOKS

  For my husband Peter, who has been exploring the Pennine villages with me for years.

  Prologue

  He swiped his finger across the screen of his mobile and screwed up his eyes. What he saw made him feel sick. Bella Richards had a new man in her life. He’d videoed Bella and this Alan Fisher fawning over each other, her fingers stroking Fisher’s cheek, her lips on his mouth.

  She was wasting her time. Bella was no good for Fisher or anyone else. Why didn’t she learn? Sooner or later she would go too far. If that happened, he would have to give her a scare. He knew what Bella, just like the others, was most afraid of. It hadn’t been hard to work out. Very soon, and with very little effort, he would make her nightmares come true.

  Alan Fisher was a complication he hadn’t reckoned with. He would have to sort it. Still, it wouldn’t be a problem. He was a past master at the murder game. As far as the police were aware, there had been five so far. Alan Fisher would simply be added to the list.

  What the police didn’t know was that the five were nothing but collateral damage. They were people who got in the way and had to disappear because they were too close to his real targets. The police had no idea about those. That was because he was clever and meticulous. His ‘perfect crimes’ had gone completely unnoticed. No one had even reported the women missing.

  He had been praying that Bella might be different. The other two hadn’t lived up to expectations. So he had had to kill them. He now had Bella in his sights, and it would be nice if she didn’t become his third victim. All she had to do was make him happy. It wasn’t much to ask, but his chosen ones always seemed to fail him in one way or another. All the same, he persisted in his search. One day he would find a woman who would live up to his dreams. He hoped that Bella was the one.

  Chapter 1

  Day 1

  The policeman dashed into Victoria Station, flashed his badge at the man on the barrier, and ran straight to platform four. He scanned the crowds waiting for the Huddersfield train. There they were. A man and a woman, arm in arm. They were a good-looking couple. Alan Fisher was tall, dark and expensively dressed, with an athletic build. Bella Richards was a slim, petite blonde, her chin-length hair swishing about her delicate features. She took his hand and tried to pull him towards the waiting train.

  “Alan Fisher?” the policeman said with some urgency.

  Fisher nodded.

  “I need you to come with me at once. It’s your wife.” The policeman watched Fisher’s look of surprise quickly turned to shock. All sorts of possibilities would be raging through his mind.

  “Why? What’s the problem?” Fisher asked.

  “I don’t have any details, sir. I’ve been told to pick you up and take you straight to Huddersfield Infirmary.” Easily said, but the words implied the worst.

  “Is Anna alright? Has she had an accident? Is she ill?”

  The policeman shook his head. “Like I said, sir, I haven’t been told anything.” His eyes flicked to the station clock. “We should get going.”

  “I’ll ring the house first,” Fisher said firmly.

  The policeman saw the suspicion in Fisher’s eyes and didn’t like it.

  “There is no one there. I believe the lady who does your cleaning has gone with her.” The words had the right effect. Reassured, Fisher turned to his companion.

  “I’ll have to go. Get on the train. I’ll ring you later.” He bent down and kissed her cheek.

  The policeman took Fisher’s arm. “My car is outside. We should get going. The traffic’s bad at this time of day.”

  Moments later they were driving along the Ashton Road.

  Alan Fisher tapped his fingers on his knees and looked at the officer. “Wouldn’t the motorway be better? There must be a holdup somewhere — the traffic is at a standstill.”

  “I’ll pick it up at Stockport,” the policeman assured him.

  “Has Anna had an accident? She wasn’t driving, was she?”

  “I’ve no idea, sir.”

  “Can’t you find out? You know, get on the radio? Ask someone?”

  “Be patient, you’ll be there shortly.”

  The traffic was moving at a snail’s pace. For as far as they could see ahead, vehicles were doing nothing more than crawling along. Suddenly the officer pulled off the main road and into one of the dozens of backstreets. It was narrow, bordered on both sides by red-brick terraced houses. “Shortcut.” He smiled at Fisher.

  “Are you sure?” Fisher sounded doubtful. “I thought there was nothing down here but the canal.”

  “I know a shortcut onto the Rochdale Road. From there we’ll pick up the M60 then the M62.”

  But Fisher was right. The narrow side street came to an abrupt end at a canal footbridge that no cars could cross. The only thing separating them from the water were rusted iron railings.

  “What are you doing?” Fisher’s doubt had now turned to annoyance. The policeman ignored his words. It was to be expected. “We’ll waste even more time going back.”

  “It doesn’t matter now, sir. This is as far as we go.”

  The look of confusion on Alan Fisher’s face made the policeman smile. He loved winding them up.

  “This isn’t right. This is some sort of scam. Who are you?” Fisher demanded.

  The policeman didn’t reply. He was busy rifling around in the glove box. He knew the man was losing patience and he needed to act quickly. A few seconds later, he was pointing a loaded pistol at Fisher’s temple.

  “Say goodbye.”

  There could be no doubt or confusion now. The look of horror on Fisher’
s face was swiftly replaced by the determination to save himself. The “officer” dodged the first blow. Fisher lunged forward with his fist again. Too late. The “policeman” pulled the trigger, and that was the end of Fisher.

  Chapter 2

  It was the middle of the night. The only light came from a moon that occasionally wandered out from behind thick cloud. It was cold too, which was only to be expected up here in early spring.

  The top of the moor was a bleak spot even on a good day. But at night it was the last place anyone would choose to be. The police car had pulled up at the side of a narrow road that twisted its way between the Saddleworth villages and those on the outskirts of Huddersfield. The body lay beneath a makeshift tent a few metres away.

  The headlights of a second car could be seen in the distance, coming closer. One of the uniformed officers turned to his colleague. “Bennett.”

  “Hope so, then perhaps we can get out of here. My feet are like ice.”

  DI George Bennett worked for Manchester Central. He’d been told about the body and decided to attend. He could have left it to Oldham, but from the initial report it had all the hallmarks of a gangland killing.

  He got out of his car and pulled aside the tent flap. “Who found it?”

  “A bloke from the village down there. Picked up the shape in the headlights of his car. Rang it in, left his number, then did one.”

  “Find him, ask if he saw anyone else, or any other traffic on this road. Do we know who the victim is?”

  “His wallet and phone are still on him, sir. He’s Alan Fisher, a lecturer from a college in Huddersfield. There’s about a hundred quid in the wallet, so it wasn’t robbery.”

  “Pathologist on his way?”

  “I rang it in to Oldham. I presume they’re sending someone out, but it is tricky to find it if you don’t know this area.”

  Bennett looked around him at the bleak moorland. Wasn’t that the truth!

  “This could be him now, sir.”

  Another car was coming along the road, this time from the Yorkshire side. It stopped in front of Bennett’s car and two men got out.

  * * *

  “Trying to make off with our body, are you?” The voice boomed loud through the darkness. “Hope you lot haven’t touched owt that’ll bugger up forensics.”

  Detective Superintendent Talbot Dyson was a big man in his early fifties. He was overweight and his facial features didn’t sit comfortably together. Some would describe him as downright ugly, but there was something about him that made him likeable, even attractive. He was always impeccably dressed. Tonight he was in a grey suit, and a three-quarter length overcoat, with a silk scarf around his neck. He walked towards Bennett and the uniforms flashing his ID, while his colleague went into the tent to look at the body.

  “You have no right here. This one is ours,” Bennett shouted.

  Dyson smiled. “I think you’ll find it’s mine. I’ve got help coming, so we’ll have this road cleared for you very soon.”

  “No you don’t, Superintendent. This man died on our side of the fence. This is our case. Get your man out of that tent, or there will be nothing left for forensics to find.”

  Dyson folded his arms. “This is not a crime scene. It’s merely the dump site.”

  “Whatever it is, leave it to us.”

  Dyson pointed. “Look over there. What do you see?”

  “Road signs. So what?”

  “That one there says we’re in Greater Manchester, which was in Lancashire last I looked. T’other, across from it, says we’re in West Yorkshire. The smart-arse has left him placed half and half, right between the two. He’s playing us, Inspector.”

  Bennet lowered his voice. “I suspect that this is a gangland murder. You must have heard about the trouble we’ve had since Ron Chalker was put away? Every villain in Greater Manchester is reaching for the crown. A bastard I’ve been after for months is probably responsible for this killing. That body could hold the proof I need.”

  Dyson stepped away from him. “It won’t, and you’re wrong.” He turned to his inspector. “Well?”

  “He’s ours, sir. Pistol shot to the head and he’s got the mark.”

  Dyson sighed. “What bloody colour this time?”

  “Blue, sir.”

  “Mark? What mark?” Bennett frowned.

  “On his forearm. A round mark made by a rubber stamp. The type kids get when they go to gigs and the like.”

  “Still doesn’t make him yours.”

  Dyson was trying to be patient. “I think it does, and for two very good reasons, Inspector. For starters, most of him is lying on the West Yorkshire side. Plus, over the last three years we’ve had five others with marks on their arms just like his lying in the morgue in Huddersfield.”

  Chapter 3

  Dyson walked into the largest of the three morgues at Pennine Forensics. The forensic pathology unit was attached to Huddersfield Infirmary and provided services for the East Pennine police.

  “What have you got for me, Sid?”

  “Give us a chance, Talbot. He wasn’t brought in until the early hours.”

  They had worked together on dozens of cases over the years and knew each other well. Professor Sid Bibby was the same age as the super. What was left of his hair was grey, but unlike Talbot, he took care of himself, and maintained a healthy weight.

  Dyson stood over the body of Alan Fisher, picking at his teeth. “Is it the same killer, or what? You’ll know that by now, surely. I’ve got a team back at the nick kicking their heels. Need summat to throw ’em.”

  “Talbot, watch what you’re doing.” Professor Bibby shoved the weighty superintendent out of the way. “We’re running tests on the bullet. It was a .22, fired from a small pistol, same as the others. He was shot in the temple. I’d say the muzzle was held against the skin. See, the entrance wound is surrounded by a wide area of soot, and the skin is seared and blackened.”

  “Anything else?”

  “The mark you know about. He had a dodgy gall bladder, but apart from that, he was in perfect health. I’ll run the usual tests for drugs etc. Not that I expect to find anything.”

  “Did you find anything that’ll help us nail the killer? You know, fibres on the clothes? A smear of blood? The way things are right now, I’d settle for a speck of dust.”

  “Tests on his clothing are ongoing, but if this killing follows the pattern of the others, then I wouldn’t hold out any hope.”

  Dyson walked across to the window. “Why the gap? It’s been over a year since the last one. Where’s the bastard been? What’s he been doing?”

  “Not killing random people, so we should be thankful,” Sid chipped in.

  But Dyson had never thought the killings were random. He’d nothing to back that up other than his gut, and the marks on their arms. He was sure the colour of the mark was significant too.

  “We’ve had three green, and two red. Now the bugger’s going for blue. Anything fresh on the ink?”

  “You’ll have to give me more time. I should have something definite for you by tomorrow. I am going to release the body now. We’ve got everything we need.”

  Dyson gave a weary sigh. “Okay, I’ll trouble you no more. I’ll go and see what I can prise out of my lacklustre team. I keep waiting for one of them to suggest talking to the woman who was with Fisher at the station. Apart from the killer, she was the last person to see him alive.”

  Sid chuckled. “They can’t be that bad, surely?”

  “Oh they are. Doing my bloody head in, the pair of ’em.”

  Dyson currently had Frank Carlisle as his DI. He had been transferred from Halifax, with DC Ian Beckwith in tow. Neither had much to recommend them. Carlisle liked the easy life, and Beckwith was still green around the gills. What Dyson wanted — no, what he needed — was DI Matt Brindle back.

  * * *

  Despite the bleakness of the spot, and the fact that it was only a day old, the place where Fisher’s body had been found h
ad become a shrine. Tributes to the popular lecturer were piled at the side of the narrow country road. The police tent had gone, and there wasn’t a uniformed officer in sight. All that remained was an assortment of expensive blooms, wrapped in ribbon and bearing words of sympathy.

  He cleared his throat and spat onto the ground. What a waste of money. Alan Fisher had had to die. There was no other way — he was too close to Bella. People knew they had been seeing each other. Once she disappeared, Fisher would have been questioned. Plus, the man had promised Bella a future. That was not allowed, so he had paid the price.

  The subject of all these tributes had turned her head with promises he could not keep. Stupid fool! Bella’s future wasn’t with Fisher. And preparations were well in hand. He smiled. Bella was slim, blonde, and she had the finest skin — pale, clear, and set off with the most amazing bright blue eyes. Spending time with her would be no burden at all.

  He knelt down and began picking up the bouquets and balloons one by one. They had been left by friends, colleagues and students from his college. The man read each card in turn before roughly tossing it to the ground. Finally he spotted what he’d been looking for. Her tribute was an arrangement of red roses. He leaned forward and snatched it up. The card caught his attention immediately. The message was simple: “To my one true love, yours forever, Bella.”

  Slut! Why have you spoiled things? Sure, leave flowers if you want. That’s expected. They had worked together. The soppy words tore at his soul and he ripped the card from the bouquet. She was deluding herself. She had not loved Alan Fisher. He put the card in his pocket. He would make her eat those words.

  Fisher’s death was progress. It should have made him feel better. But it hadn’t worked, and now he felt worse. Bella’s life had continued as before. She was still living in the same house, still working at the same job. His mind was in turmoil, so full of fear and hate that it literally gave him a headache. He must act. She needed a further lesson, something sharp and painful. Something soul destroying and so dreadful that it would jolt her to her senses.