Harrowing Part 2: The Kidnap: Railway Detective

By Edwin Tipple

In Harrowing Part 2: Unknown to DI Crosier, the serial killer is on a paid rampage to eliminate those people he doesn't like. But who is paying him? Crosier's attempt to trick the killer only adds harrowing pressure on his wife and children. 

Will a trip to Scotland be of any use in solving his problems? Can the lovely Sergeant Cardin do anything to help the weary Crosier? 

33,000 words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edwin Tipple
• Release date: Mar 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524286019

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Crosiers Map margined jpeg

PART TWO

DEAD PARCEL

21

MAY 26

The note said he should be there at 1p.m. He’d been watching the Kings Arms pub, since nine-thirty, from the coffee bar opposite, but hadn’t seen anyone he knew or looking suspicious. The Wilson’s dray had delivered six wooden barrels of beer and the postman handed some mail to the landlord who stood, arms folded, watching the draymen.

But one can only drink so much coffee, so he’d crossed over the main road and ordered a pint as soon as the pub opened at eleven. That was an hour and-a-half ago.

He’d ordered some ham sandwiches to soak up the beer; three pints already. He couldn’t negotiate with a fuddled brain.

The bar girl brought his sandwiches and a newspaper over to him. ‘Thought you might like this as you’re on your own,’ she said, handing him the paper. ‘Are you waiting for someone?’

‘Yes, I think I am. Thanks.’ He regretted his reply instantly. It was a dumb thing to say. She looked at him puzzled, then retreated back to safety behind the bar.

A woman came through the door at the rear of the bar and said something to her, waving an envelope as she spoke. Both women looked towards him.

He lowered his eyes pretending to read the paper.

‘I think this is for you.’ The landlady, now standing at his table, slapped an envelope down. ‘It came in another envelope yesterday. Said some bloke fitting your description would be here at one-o’clock for it. It’s you, right?’

‘Could be, I’m not sure. I was expecting someone to come here, but I might have misunderstood.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s not one yet.’

‘Well if it is you, you can tell whoever sent it, I’m not in the habit of delivering mail. Understand?’ She, too, returned to the bar and stood behind it, glowering.

His hand trembled on the envelope. No name or postmark.

He fumbled, with a match, to light a cigarette and take a long drag before he dare open the letter. He counted to ten, then decisively opened the envelope. Another typed note said,

CHECK THE CAT

And the warning not to tell anyone was repeated.

The door to the snug opened and he was stunned to see the busybody woman enter and start talking to a woman already at the bar. She removed her gloves, glanced over to where he was sitting. Their eyes made contact.

He smiled.

She turned her back to him.

The woman she was with looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes resting on him for a few seconds, before returning to her conversation with the busybody.

The girl came back to the table to take his plate away, noticed he was shaking and asked if he was okay.

He said he’d had bad news, and ordered a large whiskey.

She went back behind the bar and brought his drink.

He threw it down in one desperate gulp. It wasn’t satisfying. He considered ordering another, but the bar girl had returned to her post.

He’d wait until one-fifteen.

Nobody else had approached him so he prepared to leave as instructed.

Mrs Busybody and her friend turned to watch him go, then crossed to the window in time to see him kick-start his motorbike.

***

He was almost at the house. All the way back, he was trying to figure out what was going on. Somebody was playing with him, but why? He’d teach them a lesson for sure if he found out who the hell it was.

Was he being followed?

He’d taken the long way back, stopping occasionally and suddenly looking behind, but never saw anyone who looked like they were following him.

But then he wouldn’t: nobody was.

He parked his motorbike a few streets away and walked up to the house. The garden gate squeaked as he opened it. He closed it, while glancing at the house opposite. Its net curtains remained undisturbed.

The back door was still locked and the windows looked secure. Hands shaking, he managed to unlock the door and tried to push it wide open. Something was stopping it from opening fully. The cat? Was it dead behind it? Had someone been to kill it?

He knelt down and opened the cat flap. There was a loud meow and the animal shot out at startling speed.

‘Jesus Christ. You stupid bloody animal.’ He stood, took a deep breath, forced open the door and stepped inside.

There was a something wrapped up in newspaper on the floor. It had obviously been pushed through the cat flap. He picked it up and, feeling the weight of it, took it over and placed it on the kitchen table. This whole thing was getting stranger by the hour.

He needed some more liquid strength before he opened the package, so went to raid the drinks cabinet in the front room. He poured a large glass of Bells into a cut glass tumbler and turned to look through the front window.

The busybody woman and her friend had just clambered out of a taxi and were about to go into her house. They looked up and down the street then across at him standing in the window, clearly visible.

He raised his glass to her.

They turned away, entered and closed her front door.

It was time to open the package.

He ripped off the newspaper to reveal an oily cloth which, when unrolled presented him with a handgun, a silencer and six bullets. His pulse quickened, reacting to what he was holding.

There was an envelope, too. Inside, another page carried three type-written lines. His lips moved as he scanned the words.

A warning.

A date.

And a name.

A bigger smile now — he knew the person named. He was already on their hit list.

He finished the glass of whiskey and washed the glass.

The cat flap banged shut; the cat had returned and was shouting to be fed.

He picked up the gun, pushed the silencer over the long barrel and placed a bullet in the chamber.

He took aim at the cat, the barrel targeted on the animal’s nose.

The cat sat patiently, its head cocked sideways questioning his every move.

His finger tightened on the trigger.

If he fired here, the bullet would pass straight through the animal and bury itself in the cupboard door.

Bad idea. He settled for making a noise as if he’d fired.

The cat shot out of the kitchen.

He wouldn’t take the gun away today. Instead he took it and the spare bullets upstairs to hide.

A few minutes later he’d left some fresh food for the cat, locked up the house and had reached the garden gate. It squeaked when opened.

The net curtains opposite twitched. He could see the shadows of two people.

As he walked back to his motorbike he heard the familiar sound of Mrs Busybody’s front door closing.

22

MONDAY, 8 pm

Edward Bright, son of Alex and Judith bright, seemed to have everything he could ever want in life. He was the only child of doting parents who both worked and could afford a nice semi-detached house, a nice new Ford Zephyr and take their son away with them on nice holidays twice each year.

His record at school had been his saving grace in that he was not bright at all, regardless of what his mother and father thought of him. He’d always be showing off, or back-chatting teachers, bullying younger kids and worst of all flaunting yet another flash watch the very next day after he smashed one fighting in the school yard.

She’d fancied him a lot when she first came to his school but so did many other girls, most from a better background than her. He’d turned her down immediately she asked him out. She remembered the way he looked down his nose at her. Something would have to be done, one way or another, sooner or later.

***

Boy told her of his decision in the snug of his local late one night. They were sitting opposite each other at a round table.

‘Liss,’ he said to her, trying to be very casual, ‘you always fancied Edward Bright at school, didn’t you?’

‘What if I did? Wot’s it got to do with you?’ she said, crossing her legs. She turned away from him to scan the bar for eligible men. Her short skirt had ridden right up her thighs.

He had a job to keep his eyes off them. ‘Well,’ he said, nonchalantly trying to see what colour knickers she had on, ‘you know it’s been three years since we did Gilmore.’

She didn’t face him and tried hard not to look excited.

‘I wondered if you were interested in doing another.’

She couldn’t ignore him now. Her head swung round. Her eyes locked on his. ‘Go on.’

‘This isn’t the place to discuss it, but I’ve worked out how we could do his dad.’

They drank up and went back to his place for a more private conversation, and for some more intimate excitement.

***

Alex Bright — who like his father had worked in the