Scream, You Die

  Caffeine Nights Publishing

  SCREAM, YOU DIE

  The first DS Scarlett Macey Novel

  Michael Fowler

  Fiction aimed at the heart

  and the head...

  Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2015

  Copyright © Michael Fowler 2015

  Michael Fowler has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work.

  CONDITIONS OF SALE

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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

  Published in Great Britain by

  Caffeine Nights Publishing

  4 Eton Close

  Walderslade

  Chatham

  Kent

  ME5 9AT

  www.caffeine-nights.com

  www.caffeinenightsbooks.com

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-910720-0 5-9 4-2

  Cover design by

  Mark (Wills) Williams

  Everything else by

  Default, Luck and Accident

  Michael Fowler was born and brought up in the Dearne Valley area of Yorkshire where he still lives with his wife and two sons.

  At the age of 16 he left school with the ambition of going to art college, but his parents’ financial circumstances meant he had to find work and so joined the police.

  He has never regretted that decision, serving as a police officer for thirty-two years, both in uniform and in plain clothes, working in CID, and undercover in Vice Squad and Drug Squad, retiring as an Inspector in charge of a busy CID in 2006.

  Since leaving the police he has written and painted professionally. As an artist he has numerous artistic accolades to his name, and currently, his work can be found in the galleries of Spencer Coleman Fine Arts at Lincoln and Stamford. As a writer he is the author of the DS Hunter Kerr series and the DS Scarlett Macey series. He has also written a true crime novel.

  He is a member of the Crime Writers Association and International Thriller Writers.

  Find out more at www.mjfowler.co.uk

  or follow him on Twitter @MichaelFowler1.

  and on facebook

  This is for the real Scarlett Macey

  Also by Michael Fowler

  DS Hunter Kerr series

  Heart of the Demon

  Cold Death

  Secrets of the Dead

  Coming, Ready or Not

  Black & Blue

  (e-book novella)

  Acknowledgments

  I am passionate about writing, but like my previous career it requires the support of a team to provide the end result, and to that end I owe thanks to my initial proofreader Sam Swanney, my editor Emma Grundy Haigh, Mark (Wills) Williams for the cover design and Darren Laws, CEO of Caffeine Nights. Without them this would never appear on bookshelves.

  Once more I want to thank my good friend Stuart Sosnowski, crime scene investigation supervisor. I continually drag him along to the crime scenes I conjure up for my stories and he always provides me with the evidence for my characters to work with.

  I owe a debt of gratitude to Detective Superintendent Lisa Ray, who gave me an insight into her working practices and decision making when a murder enquiry was ongoing.

  Many thanks also to my friend Giles, who helped me with much of the scene-setting in and around Richmond upon Thames.

  Finally, I also want to thank ex-colleague Nick Kinsella QPM, currently working with the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime, who passed on both his knowledge and information into the cruel and degrading issue of human trafficking in certain parts of the world, and in particular how difficult it is to tackle. And, although this is a piece of fiction, I hope my story highlights the tragedy of what is happening to some of the world’s most vulnerable.

  One

  It was almost midnight on Halloween and Scarlett Macey was chasing demons. Tonight though, it wasn’t her usual inner demons she was contending with, but the two masked thugs who twenty seconds ago had steamed into her, bowling her over, and nicked her shoulder bag.

  Now she was haring after them, arms and legs pumping in unison, like a sprinter exploding out of the starting blocks. Even in her heavy motorcycle boots, and them getting a good fifty-yard start, she could see that she was beginning to gain ground.

  Grabbing a lungful of air she bellowed, “Stop, police!”

  Her cry got a reaction. The one wearing the Scream mask looked back over his shoulder, losing some of his pace. But it was only momentary. Kicking up his heels he shouldered his accomplice, shot him a sideways glance and split left across the road. The one to the right took a few more runs and ducked into a side street, disappearing from view.

  For a second the action threw Scarlett, but only briefly. She still had the guy in the Scream mask in her sights – and he was the one running away with her bag. She clawed in more air and drew on her training: as a junior champion at the fifteen hundred metres and a competitive runner at university she knew she had a chance as long he didn’t start scrambling over walls and gardens, though with shop fronts as far as the eye could see there was no chance of that. She upped her pace and zeroed in on her prey.

  Seconds later Scarlett caught him glancing over his shoulder again. She was getting closer. She would have loved to see his face behind that mask. On any other occasion she might have broken into a triumphant smile, but her mouth was sucking in and blowing out air almost simultaneously, as she squeezed that little bit more from her ever-tightening chest. It had been a long time since she had sprinted like this and it was telling.

  Conscious of her ragged breathing she caught herself and sucked in extra air. The adrenaline was kicking in. She could hear the blood beating inside her ears and her footfalls echoing back. The pace was good – measured, fast.

  Another ten seconds you little shit! When she caught up with him she was going to make damn sure he would regret this.

  Then from nowhere a speeding human shape appeared at the corner of her eye. Although the vision was fleeting her brain registered this was her thief’s accomplice who had dodged away at the beginning of the chase. She had no time to react and he smashed into her with the force of a wrecking ball, scuttling her feet from beneath her. She hit the ground hard, hip first, followed quickly by her upper arm and then shoulder. All the air broke out from her lungs and fireworks exploded behind her eyes.

  Gasping for air, the flashes and sparks dancing before her soon subsided and a cloudy night sky entered her vision. She became conscious of running footsteps fading out of earshot. From her prostrate position she gazed along the street. Her two attackers were together again, the one in the Scream mask jogging backwards and staring back at her, waving her shoulder bag in the air as if it was a trophy. She could hear them both laughing.

  The mask’s grimace bore into her and she tried to push herself up but a sharp pain tore from her hip joint, making her wince.

  For a second she lay there fighting to catch her breath, her c
lothing wet through from the puddle she’d fallen into.

  Clenching her teeth, she cursed, “Bastards!”

  Rolling onto her hands and knees she eased herself up and in a fit of temper and frustration kicked up a spray of water from the wet tarmac.

  Two

  An intermittent trill pounded Scarlett’s ears, forcing open her eyes. For a second the noise confused her. It wasn’t a sound she was familiar with. Then last night’s episode tumbled inside her head and she remembered that she’d had to set her morning wake-up alarm on her work’s BlackBerry. Her own phone had been in her shoulder bag.

  She rolled over and groaned as a sharp pain registered in her left shoulder. Another vision of last night flashed inside her head. Closing her eyes for a second she speedily relived it, then flashing them open, propped herself up on one arm and snatched up her BlackBerry. She tapped off the alarm and flopped back onto the pillow. Pain wracked the left-hand side of her body.

  Taking a deep breath she hoisted herself up, threw aside her duvet and slung her legs over the edge of the bed.

  Still got to go to work.

  Groggy and sore, for a couple of seconds she sat there, her eyes roaming around the bedroom, waiting for the pain to subside, simultaneously summoning up enough strength to make the dozen or so steps to the bathroom.

  The room was in gloom and she could tell from the dull coruscating light coming through her curtains and the sound of traffic sloshing through puddles outside that she faced a lousy day ahead.

  Placing her hands on her thighs, easing herself up, she spied last night’s clothing on the bedroom floor. It still looked wet. Then she spotted the tear over the knee of her jeans.

  My best Armanis. Cost me the best part of two hundred quid. I’ll kill the wankers if I ever catch them!

  Pulling away her stare she shook her head. This is not doing any good. Focus! Get your arse in gear!

  She limped into the bathroom, turned on the shower and while waiting for it to warm up checked her face in the mirror. There had been the odd occasion when she had been told that she bore a striking resemblance to Taylor Swift, but no one would make that comparison this morning. The reflection staring back was not a pretty sight. Her mane of dyed copper red hair was knotted and clumped, and her normally intense hazel eyes were bloodshot and surrounded by dark rings – stark symbols of the few hours’ sleep she had managed. Her left cheek was grazed and swollen; she could feel the soreness without even touching it.

  At least there was no lasting damage, she told herself. Then, taking one last look, she stepped into the shower.

  ****

  Twenty minutes later, hair dried and make-up applied, Scarlett examined her artistry in the dressing table mirror. There was still some swelling and faint evidence of bruising but she’d done a pretty good job with foundation and concealer. Satisfied with the result she chose a white cotton blouse and a pair of dark blue slacks from the wardrobe and made her way downstairs. In her galley kitchen she made herself coffee and toast, and with mug in one hand and a buttered round in the other gazed out through the French doors into the garden. Beyond her ghost-like reflection she could see the rain had stopped, but uniform grey clouds dominated the sky and everywhere was damp. The trees at the bottom of the garden still held their leaves, but this morning the autumn colours appeared only as a variety of dull browns. She was just thinking that her garden could do with tidying up the next time she had a day off when the sudden chime of the front door bell made her jump. She shot a glance at the wall clock. It was her lift.

  Trotting down the hallway, clenching her half-eaten slice of toast between her teeth, she answered the door. Her colleague Tarn Scarr stood on the flagstone path looking dapper as always, his short fair hair styled with wax, and wearing a grey suit, white shirt and striped tie. In spite of his stocky build he looked more city banker than the front-line murder detective he was. An image flashed inside her head – her first day as a fledgling detective sergeant entering the office at Richmond CID. Tarn had welcomed her with a cuppa and shown her a vacant desk opposite his. That was four years ago, and since then they had become a formidable partnership; they had spent so much time together on investigations that they could virtually read each other’s thoughts.

  His blue/grey eyes lingered over her face for several seconds. Then narrowing his brow he dipped his head towards her. “That’s new. Get that last night?”

  Scarlett pointed to her left cheek and tightened her mouth.“You’ve not heard what happened then?”

  He returned a puzzled look while still examining her face. “Am I missing out on something here? The last time we spoke was in the pub last night. I said it was my round, went to the toilet and when I came back you’d gone. So how did you get the bruise then? Did you go on to somewhere else?”

  She took on a disappointed look. “I hope you’re not insinuating what I think you are?”

  He offered a mischievous smile, “Well, you have got form.”

  She gave him a playful punch on the arm. “That was below the belt. I’m a reformed character now.”

  “Yeah, okay, I believe you.”

  She held his gaze for a few seconds. “One more word, DC Scarr, and you’ll be getting a move you hadn’t planned on.”

  He let out a hearty laugh.

  She stabbed a finger towards the grazing. “If you’d like to know, I was frigging mugged last night.”

  “Mugged?”

  “Yes, I know! Me of all people, mugged! And I’m pretty pissed off about it, I can tell you. And it especially doesn’t help when your partner accuses you of falling down drunk.”

  Tarn met Scarlett’s gaze and held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry.”

  With a flick of her head she beckoned him inside. “And so you should be.”

  Stepping into the hallway Tarn said, “Come on then, Sergeant, tell me all about it.”

  Walking back to the kitchen, she downed the remaining dregs of her coffee, and put the mug in the dishwasher. “To be honest I left early because I just couldn’t face another drink. I was knackered and hungry, and I’d planned to grab a pizza and have an early night. But I’d only gone a couple of hundred yards from the pub when these two scrotes came from nowhere, decked me from behind and took my bag. My mobile, purse and warrant card was in it. I can do without my purse, but part of my life’s in that phone and you know the issues regarding losing my warrant card?”

  Tarn nodded.

  “I was up until two this morning cancelling my cards and filling out forms in Richmond nick.”

  “Didn’t catch them then?”

  She told him about the chase and how it ended.

  “Ouch! You eyeballed them though?”

  Scarlett shook her head. “Both wearing masks! But I’ll tell you one thing they weren’t your average muggers. They were too big for the teenage gang members we have round here and too well made to be junkies.”

  “So you think you might be able to ID them?”

  She pursed her lips. “I’m hoping so. There’s CCTV dotted around the area, so I’m hoping we can track them to a vehicle or a house.” She pulled her jacket from off the back of a chair and slipped it on, wincing as she put her left arm through the sleeve. “I’m sore as hell.”

  In the hallway she gave herself a final once-over in the full-length mirror, then, setting the house alarm and locking the front door, she followed Tarn down the path. “Anyway, did I miss anything? What time did you call it a day?”

  “You didn’t miss a thing. I think everyone else was in the same boat – it was the end of a very long day. I wasn’t too long following you out. Half an hour tops, at the most. I finished my pint and left with George and Phil. There was only Ella and Gaz in the bar when we left, and they said they were finishing off their drinks and following us.” Tarn popped the locks of his car and went around to the driver’s side. He called back over the roof and pointed inside the car, “We made the front page this morning.”

  Opening the passe
nger door Scarlett spotted a folded copy of the Richmond & Twickenham Times on the front seat. She picked it up as she climbed in and after fastening the seat belt flipped it open across her lap. Emblazoned across the front page was the headline, “BRUTAL RAPIST CAPTURED”. For the past two months the Homicide and Serious Crime Unit, of which she headed up Syndicate One, had been investigating a series of sexual assaults and three reported rapes involving female students attending Richmond University. The man they had dubbed the Lycra Rapist, from the descriptions witnesses had given, had attacked at least half a dozen females over a two-month period, during September and into October, especially targeting lone girls walking through the college grounds in the early evening. On every occasion he had grabbed his victims from behind, dragged them into nearby dense undergrowth and while holding a knife to their throats carried out his attacks. For two of the girls the consequences had been devastating and they were unable to continue with their courses. Scarlett had spent hours trying to persuade them to change their minds but the girls were too traumatised, and so she had given them her personal mobile number and made them a promise she’d keep in touch.

  After the third attack they firmly believed it was a male at or living close to the university, and initially they focussed on this aspect, questioning a couple of male students whose names had been put forward as well as a number of sex offenders in the area, but no one emerged as a central suspect. Then, because of the description, it had been aired that the rapist was someone posing as a jogger who might live close to the tree-lined grounds, such was the speedy nature of his disappearance after the attacks, and the enquiries were redirected. That was until something had struck a chord with Scarlett while examining one of the witness questionnaires, given by a twenty-year-old female student who, having been especially diligent because of the attacks, noticed that a cyclist at the Queens Road entrance to the park appeared to be in the act of repairing a puncture on two occasions over a three-day period and it had made her suspicious. Scarlett had thought this too much of a coincidence, and shared her findings at briefing, expressing to the team that they should set their sights on this unknown cyclist. Two nights ago her hunch had paid off – the rapist had been caught following a sting operation. Detective Constable Ella Bloom, posing as a student, had been pounced upon by him, and members of the squad, secreted around the grounds, had been on hand to apprehend him as he’d tried to flee. He had been revealed as twenty-six-year-old James Green from Twickenham.