Leviathan: Jack Neely, #1

By Jack Neely

Jack Neely – one time sailor, one time regulator, one time Detective Inspector; full time emotional mess and drop out.  Once happily married, his life is a perpetual 'Nearly', the nickname given to him in the Royal Navy, punning on his surname, as he so nearly gets what he wants, but is always thwarted by under ambition and laziness. A series of seemingly unconnected murders is now testing the Portsmouth CID. Jack must find the link and stop the senseless killing. 

VJ, Ahab and Mouse are peddling their wares at local raves, providing the detectives with another line of investigation.  Mouse is the brains, but VJ is the leader and when Mouse tries to warn the group to lay low following the rape and murder of the 5th victim he is overruled by VJ.  Mouse however, is taking no chances.

The characters each have a variety of prejudices, the blacks hate the whites and vice versa, the men hate women, the police hate their superiors and the Navy Police hate their civilian counterparts.  As for Jack, in the words of Chief Inspector Ian Morrow, his boss, "He's not racist; he hates everyone".

Both Jack and The Naval Provost, Commander Turner, are Special Forces trained and despite needing each other; a deep seated hate still lingers.

As the action draws to a close the distinction between the good guys and the bad guys becomes more and more hazy and we learn more about the seedy side of investigations in high stakes crime. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Neely
• Release date: May 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386577539

Book preview

Chapter 1

She hit the wet, hard ground with a dull thud, the loose chippings of gravel and tarmac biting deep into her arms and her pretty face, as she rolled awkwardly toward the gutter.  Finally still, the rain pooled around her fine hair before being drawn slowly toward the drain; blood oozed into the water literally draining her life away.  Curtains remained closed as the car door slammed shut and the driver pulled away with a screech of tyres.  No one here took any notice any more, certainly not enough to call the police for every car door that slammed during the night or boy racer who used the street to avoid the speed cameras dotted along the main roads.  So she lay, motionless and ignored in the gutter of the street, until the chance passing of a police community support officer.  He spotted her from the corner and quickly radioed the call. He bent down, felt for a pulse and called again, this time as an incident requesting assistance.  It was a fast response time, a little under 5 minutes, when the ambulance arrived at the scene but those five minutes were 2 minutes too late.

The rain had lashed down hard all that night; in fact it was a bad night all round, wind, driving rain and a general air of malease, by now the rain had all but washed away the ink on the small piece of paper which had fallen from her hand, what remained legible were the letters  ‘ia and n’. It would be meaningless to anyone who had seen it, but one of the first possible clues had been washed away and now trickled quickly toward the drain; the ink eerily mixed with the blood of the victim.  The blue emergency lights flashed repeatedly across the street corner reflecting back from the glistening, wet brick, adding to the sad spectacle taking place before me.  The Police Community Support Officer, a cheaper and uniquely British invention, due largely to the Governments reduction in Police budgets, said the ambulance had arrived too late, the young girl had still been fighting for her life as he arrived on scene. He trembled part shock, part cold; he could do nothing for her. How do you get used to this? He pointed to the lifeless shell.

Simple, I replied, You don't.

Now I watched, helpless, the life drained from the frail young body, like the smoke lifting from dying embers of my last cigarette, inevitable but unstoppable.  A chill silence fell around the scene like a stage set of a movie, and we watched the medical team working in apparent slow motion, the urgency drained from them; now it was just plain old decency.  The deep red blanket flicked from black to red in time with the erratic blue and white flashes cast from the vehicle emergency lights.  The two paramedics gently folded the lifeless arms over her chest, and then picked up the edges of the blanket and tucked them delicately underneath the thin mattress.  With a last look, the female paramedic closed the eyes of the girl and folded the last blanket corner across the once pretty but now torn face.  The stretcher was then lifted with an ease confirming the awful regularity of such events and was slowly pushed into the stark brilliance of the back of the ambulance.  The doors closed with a final clunk and once back inside a rap on the side of the cab for my attention, then; blue lights still turning, but sirens now silent, they drew off into the night and away from the scene.  The PCSO walked away, just another report for him to complete, and a ton of paperwork he could do without before going home at the end of the shift.  I could knock a few doors and be told to fuck off; but why bother.  It could wait until morning, after all no one ever saw anything. The small sliver of paper made its way toward the drain and disappeared.

I stood a while; cold, tired and some would say world weary.  My old trench coat wet to the lining did its best, my battered old trilby still faithfully guiding the rain away from my face and more important, the warmth of the cigarette. I shuddered, wondering why I still did this dismal, crappy job.  For some godforsaken reason, this was where my new battle ground had been set; far different from the open wasteland of the Falkland Islands where I once fought to undo wrongs of a foreign nation.  Now the desolate tundra of East Falkland was replaced by the wet, dark, cold and, at this time of the morning, deserted streets of Portsmouth.  The enemy no longer the uniformed professional soldiers of other Nations but ‘soldiers’ of a darker and deadlier kind.  These were ‘soldiers’ of the drug barons, their targets indiscriminate, often weak, generally unwilling but always easily manipulated.  These so called ‘soldiers’, infesting our cities like cockroaches, inhabit derelict buildings; their prey is only the weak and the needy.  But this is no derelict building; it is my home and just like in the Argentine Invasion in 82, I have been ‘called’ to defend it.  My name? Jack, or at least that’s what my friends call me. You can call me Detective Jack Neely, and if someone needs another fucking war then I’m just the man to take it back to them.  So far; the cockroaches have the upper hand, in fact you’d probably say they’re winning, but it’s still early days; just give me half a chance and I’ll deliver. I flicked the dying embers and rubbed the cigarette stub in the dirt and started to walk away. My old boss had once said I did my best thinking in shitty situations; tonight’s dead girl, coupled with the walk back to the station in the rain, is definitely one of the shittier situations of late.  So all in all, maybe I’ll come up with something half decent and if not; I can always pick up more cigarettes on the way; if the late store is still open.

Chapter 2

The sun rose early the next morning, the brilliance of its light sneaking through the gaps in the partially closed Venetian blind that adorned the window of the office.  I woke; stiff from another night in a chair, stale pizza and coffee on the desk and the smell of cigarette ash in the air.  To be honest, I felt like shit and probably looked it too.  I glanced at the clock on the wall, six o’clock and all was well! Yeah right! I looked at the watch perched precariously on the edge of the desk, 4 o’clock it said reminding me that it had stopped during the night.  I would have to get the battery changed eventually, it had stopped during the night; but that was over a week ago, seemingly when the killing began, still at least it was right twice a day; which is more than could be said about me lately.

But wait; I’ve not introduced myself; I’m Jack Neely, but my name was changed a long time ago by my classmates in the Royal Navy. Tradition gave everyone a nickname, if they deserved one or not! The one they gave me, once learned never forgotten, was Nearly Neely not a good one I grant you; but it sort of stuck and it was always the same.  Later someone explained that I was nearly the class leader, nearly the fastest runner, nearly the best shot; alas that was to be my life; nearly, always nearly but never quite there! But you know I thought Fuck em all, I really didn’t care, then or now, but after seven uneventful years in the service of Her Majesty I decided I needed a change.  I transferred from being nearly a sailor to become a Regulator, a police man to you, but a police man in a Royal Navy uniform and through this change I eventually found my true calling. 

Out on the streets of Portsmouth, driving a white Provost van; night after night a continuous round of  picking up the drunken sailors of Her Majesty’s Fleet for delivery and safe keeping, in the warm cells of HMS Nelson, the barrack Headquarters outside the Royal Naval Dockyard Portsmouth.  Over the years, I watched; I studied the dregs of society learning what made them tick, how they think, what they did; watching but never fully understanding what drove them to live their lives in squalor of alleyways and doorways of Southsea, the so called ‘up market’ end of town.  Night after night I watched.  The regulars even waved as the van drove past, the street girls flashing a bra or an oversized arse as they sauntered toward their prey, the young sailors draped across the bars and dance floors.  Sailors unaware that they were about to be taken for all that they had before being dumped unceremoniously at the taxi stand, of course having first paid the driver.  But that was the good old days, drunken sailors and drunken tarts; not that they don’t still exist, but now the faces of the night are much darker, uglier.  Gangs of youths; they dress the same but are ‘crying out for attention’ and ‘to be different’; yet they wear their own form of uniform, dark jogging pants, expensive running shoes and hooded tops.  They wear their hoodies drawn over their faces to preserve their identity, the only subtle difference being the occasional baseball cap peak protruding even further than the hood, casting ever more of a shadow over the unknown face. 

It was the arrival of these bastards that really caused the start of the ‘cancer in the city’, the cancer of designer drugs and rival gangs plying their trade.  Of all night raves where innocent kids were fed brightly coloured pills and the promise of heaven on earth and all for the unexpected price of only £5. Five pounds was all it cost nowadays, just five pounds, the price of a happy meal in a local burger bar; and you too could meet your maker; just like the poor girl found earlier in the gutter, in the rain, violated and all alone.

But I have moved on again, leaving the Royal Navy after nearly making the rank of Master at Arms, finally I’d seen and acknowledged the emerging pattern.  I left the mob and joined the Hampshire Constabulary and eventually made the grade for C.I.D; so here I am, now wandering the same streets again, this time without the luxury of a heated white van.  This time I have only a faded and worn warrant card, a threadbare trench coat, battered trilby and distant memories of my time in the Portsmouth drug squad for company.

Chapter 3

N eely! What the fuck is going on out there? The door of the office crashed open and the door frame was filled by the, not insubstantial, figure of my current boss, Chief Inspector Iain Morrow.  He paused, Jesus Jack what the fuck is going on in here?  He looked around, his keen investigative eyes taking in every detail.  Have you and Gill had another episode?  Because I’m sick and tired of you crashing in this office, you’re acting like a fucking tramp with nowhere else to doss.

I tried to sit up straight and flicked my overlong civvy haircut back. No Gov, I just got caught out in the rain again last night and you know how it is; I just needed to wind down a little and before you know...

Yeah, don’t I just know, look what’s the score out there? Is this some fucking lunatic offing young girls for fun or what?  Do we know who the latest victim is yet?

I shook my head, Nothing yet, the way parents are today, they probably won’t even realize she didn’t come home until they get back in from work tonight.  We will run her prints but she’s not a john and it’s unlikely we will have her on file.

How old?

Looks maybe 19 if she’s lucky.

Jesus, 19 and in the gutter, what is the world coming to?  Any news from the doc yet?

I slouched back, too knackered to really care, Looks like another one, same M.O. as the last 3 killings.  Dark street, young girl dumped from a van or moving vehicle, pupils shot and the same green dye on the gums.  Whoever she is, she’s definitely victim number four.

Poor Bitch, Morrow raised a hand clutching his forehead, what do we have to go on?

I sighed, despite my thinking time last night. Nothing much; no easy connection between the first 3 victims but we’ll look again after we find the name of the 4th, the only things in common are they are all young, although not the same age, and they are dressed up for a night out.

What about the staining on the gums?

"Normal food dye as far as we can tell, forensics have trace substances around the gums but they all seem to come from different foodstuffs, as far as we can tell the victims are all from different places and the only link is the dye colour and the M.O!’

Keep me posted, I think we may as well settle down for the long haul, let’s just pray for a lucky break.  Morrow turned and left the room banging a fist on the door jamb as he went. Why me? he muttered under his breath, and why now?

I collected what megre thoughts I had along with my ‘emergency’ shaving kit and headed to the washroom to the clapping sound of my fellow CID officers.  Yeah, yeah, I raised a finger to the room but did not raise my head, there was no need, fuck you all too!  I didn’t need to see the way to the washroom, I knew the way instinctively, I’d spent too many nights in that chair; I’d have to go home and face the music some time, just not today!

Chapter 4

Abed-sit on the other side of town was as much in disarray as the offices in CID, here three bodies lay comatose on old settees that once matched as genuine three piece suites, but not here; and not for a long time since.  The fake leather settee was the largest, and so supported the largest of the males, the springs had sprung their last many months ago but this was Vince’s ‘fave’ bed.  Vince had been born in Jamaica and christened Vincent Bartholomew Jenkins, but as a child he was just VJ for short.  His father had been a beach worker, running the family stall, selling deckchairs and other sundries to the holidaymakers.  You wants it you gots it! was his motto, anything you needed he could provide, literally; anything.  Girls, booze, drugs, you get the picture.  VJ’s father had kept many contacts in low places, but it was the drugs that made the real money though; he’d started small with just a little weed and tobacco, selling poor strength reefers to the American rich kids with more money than sense. It was some time later that he’d moved up to where the real action was, Coke, H and finally Crack; that was where the real profits were gained.  Fifty bucks a pop, he’d say, and if you is lucky, one pop is all you needs.  He never really knew what crack did to a person or just how addictive it was, but he thought he did; and to tell the truth he just didn’t care!  But when he’d started to cut his own rock, that was when the real trouble began; bleach, Clorox, talcum powder, anything which wouldn’t alter the colour was mixed in, he could turn two ounces of the pure stuff into nearly a pound of the new stuff; and all the extra profit came directly to him.  His version of Crack Cocaine – ‘Crap Cocaine’ he called it; and soon it flooded the beach areas.

It was inevitable that one day the real Mr. Big of the beaches would catch on, but VJ’s father was an opportunist and a risk taker.  That was why VJ was now in England; still on the run, his family lost to the crabs on some deserted beach, his father ‘blinded and bled’ by the henchmen of the true Mr. Big.  They’d caught up with him in a bar when he was too drunk or stoned to realise who he was talking to; and what he was saying!  Of course, just like Portsmouth today, no-one in the bar saw anything.  Not as the baseball bat smashed across his knees, nor when he crashed to the floor writhing in agony.  No-body remembered the screaming drunk who’d been dragged across the floor to the door and out on to the pavement before being bundled into the back of the pickup truck.  Not even the barhop who’d mopped away the blood and spilled beer remembered seeing anything.  That was just how it was!

The body was discovered two days later on a beach by a woman walking her dog.  The sun dried head protruding from the old fishing net that surrounded it.  The eye sockets, picked clean by the crabs, provided shelter from the heat for scores of insects, pleased at the ready-meal abandoned in the night.  The dried blood formed a trail to the tongue ripped out and cast on the sand as a warning, and now acted as a trail to food for the thousands of fire ants which carried the rotting flesh back to the nest.  When the rest of the remains of the body were dug out, the police found more than one hundred cuts to the legs and torso, just deep enough to bleed but not enough to kill; the insects did the rest.  Attracted by the blood they burrowed deep inside his body tearing though the flesh and muscle to get to the organs buried deep below.  Once inside they moved toward his heart and lungs and slowly dismantled the delicate beating tissue, scurrying back and forth until all that remained was bloody void.

The coroner said it must have taken him in excess of a day to die, and for all that time he was buried alive, he could do nothing except know he was being eaten from the inside out.  In the beginning, his body had  put up a valiant fight but, in the 30th hour, it finally gave in to the massive six legged invasion and a final darkness took hold as he slipped into the next world abandoned, mutilated and alone.

His wife and daughter had suffered little as the hollow point bullets crashed into their skulls.  Their life extinguished quickly; but luckily for VJ, he’d been drunk in a ditch and had not made it home that fateful night.  When he was sober enough to return home, the sight of the police cars, fire trucks and ambulances sent alarm bells through his thick, still groggy head.  He’d felt no sorrow for the loss of his family; what had they ever done for him anyway? 

He stayed away from the house for over a week before returning in the dead of night and retrieving the packages his father had hidden.  Even he was surprised at what they contained.  One envelope wrapped in Clearwrap contained bundles of cash.  Too much to count at the time but he estimated there were thousands of dollars strapped together by the elastic bands.  When he finally returned to his beach lair, a derelict 20 foot fishing boat, deposited under the trees thirty yards up the beach by a storm, he counted the cash.  There was a lot he could do with fifty thousand dollars but he knew he’d not be allowed to do it in Jamaica; he had to get away and start living his own life, either that or join the rest of the family.

Now, three thousand miles away and ten thousand dollars poorer he had that life, maybe not exactly the life he had expected but, it was good enough to give him the start he needed.

Ahab, as he liked to be called, had found VJ in a nightclub called Hero’s, he modeled himself on the lifestyle of ‘rap kings’ but without their trappings of success.  The red baseball shirt and reversed baseball cap were the only connection to the United States he had, not that he had ever been there; but he read books and knew the places to be talked about, besides, who else knew he’d never actually left the county of Hampshire on the south coast of England.  He walked the walk and talked the talk and was convinced he was going to lay the great white whale of humanity at his feet, he deserved it!  Black is Back, he slurred, and when you’s been with Black; there aint no turnin back!  Then with a swish of his hand and a click of his fingers he would saunter off; the heavy chains of office adorning his wrists and neck glinting as he swayed through the crowds into the glaring lights and the music so loud it hurt.  Except now, now he just lay slumped and dazed from the nights toils.  His urine stained jeans an unpleasant reminder of just how ‘blasted’ he was, it was as if he’d just blended into the mess surrounding him.

The third figure in the room; the diminutive ‘Mouse’, curled up in the corner of the smallest settee. Now Mouse was a real find for VJ; smart, intelligent but most of all weak.  A born follower his father would have said, at least he would have, if he cared enough to make any form of observation about his son.  Mouse had never called himself anything other than Mouse; therefore he had no other name.  His juvenile criminal record was also in the name of Mouse thereby giving him some kind of almost legal status, something like a name change by deed-pole, but without the expense and the lawyers involved.  At least not in the usual sense!

Chapter 5

The young unidentified girl lay on the metal table in the centre of the room, the large operating light casting a brilliant glow over the body and ending in a pool of white on the stark tiled floor.  Dr Grace Desani, head pathologist for the Hampshire area, sat at her computer screen preparing the report which would be generated on completion of the autopsy.  She looked through the Plexiglas window into the tiled room and still wondered, after all these years, had she made the right choice.  She could have been a life saver, but now she considered herself an Angel of the Dead.  She’d been top of her class in medical school with offers of placements from the best hospitals in the country, her future was bright, the professor had told her, the sky was her limit but only if she decided to make it so.  Then, one cold Friday night her dreams had been shattered, her sister, only 26 years old was found battered, bruised and naked in a field not four hundred yards from their home. So close and yet so far.  The police could offer no explanation as to why she had been attacked or who had attacked her and to this day her killer still roamed free.  It was just a one off; an unfortunate accident, Grace had been told.  Single killings are much harder to solve, she was told, no pattern you see.  The detectives had done all that was possible, so they said, when the case was removed from the active list.  Oh, it was still an open case, they insisted, but they would wait and act on any new leads that came about, of course keeping the family informed of any progress.  That was eleven years ago and the progress reports had stopped, in fact they had stopped after only 2 years. 

The pain and anguish she felt for her sister had turned her medical prowess toward forensic medicine, if she could help identify the cause of death perhaps she could help catch the killer; it was too late for her only sister, but deep down inside she knew she could help the families of the victims she saw.  It was this that kept her sane, if that was what you could call it.

Her private life was in tatters, she had last been with a man; she thought a while, – so long ago she could not remember the last time.  Who could love a woman who cut up dead bodies for a living anyway.  She had to agree, it was not an easy thing for any man to consider let alone be there when she crept home at night. She couldn’t imagine him saying Hello dear, how was your day?  There was no way she could give an honest answer, no man deserved to know all of the details and as much as she tried she just couldn’t bring herself to say, Oh it was alright today dear, whilst thinking ‘Only 2 bodies today dear, a kid in a hit and run and a battering with rape.’ What kind of woman could do that to a man, and what kind of man would want to share that with her?  And so it was at the end of every day, arriving home alone, falling into bed, glass of red wine in hand, to stare at the cracked plaster ceiling until sleep came and carried her away.  She would always be alone, she knew that now!

The telephone rang making her jump and bringing her back to the stark reality of the mortuary.  She reached over and picked up the receiver.

Hello, Dr Desani speaking.

Hi Doc, it’s me Jack, Jack Neely, I was just calling to say that we still have no idea who the young lady on your bench is.  I was wondering if you had any preliminary findings for me, anything I can be getting on with.

I’m sorry Jack, I am just waiting for the guys to prep the body, I may have something in a few hours, and I’ll call when I’m done.

Thanks Doc, did we ever find anything else about the food dye on the other three girls?

Only that they had eaten a couple of hours before they died but there were no traces of the foodstuff in the stomach contents so whatever it was must have dissolved almost instantly.  We are still waiting for the full toxicology report but preliminary readings give traces of calcium, you know like anti-acid tablets.  It’s probably nothing but it may be worth a look.  Oh and there was no sign of stomach ulcers either, but there was the residue of bile and vomit in the trachea and strangely enough in the lungs, although that does happen if someone suffocates on their own vomit.

And you are certain it was calcium?

Well as certain as I can be, but we’ll know better when the Tox report arrives.  Don’t worry I won’t forget you.  Grace replaced the receiver and thought, forget you; how could I forget the only man that has ever said more than a few words to me in the last half dozen years.  Shame he’s married though, could have been worth a shot.

I replaced the phone.  Freshly shaven and finally feeling clean after the shower I fastened the top button of my 3 day ‘clean’ shirt and placed a tie on the desk.  Today was Blue day, in fact every day I wore a tie it was Blue day, I suddenly realised I only had 2 ties and they were practically the same, Jack, I thought, you really are a sad bastard!  I lifted the grey sports jacket from the wardrobe and looked out of the window to the market car park below.  I wondered what all of those people down there were thinking, where they were going?  They scurried about like ants, barely missing each other, as they dance around corners rushing here and there.  Never a care for each other until the TV newscast giving details of a death; then the usual response of ‘oh the poor girl, that could have been my daughter’ or ‘what were her parents thinking letting such a young girl out late at night.  I bet she never even had the taxi fare home that must be why she was walking.’  If only they knew, I thought, just what a seething den of iniquity they inhabited, masked by daylight but a writhing pit of snakes and worms by night.  Yeah if only they knew! 

My tie smartly in place, full Windsor knot and all, and the jacket brushed clean, I thought a woman would consider me as not half bad.  A little of the middle age spread, to be expected I kidded myself, but still a strong jaw line and powerful manly shoulders.  I looked in the mirror, ‘You know old boy, when you take the time; you scrub up quite well, it’s just a shame there’s little worth taking the time for anymore’, or anyone for that matter.’ 

Grace, washed and prepared for the autopsy, entered the room and walked slowly to the table.  The two mortuary assistants, one opposite, Sean, with the camera and directional microphone, the other, David next to her with the instrument trays, the full range of medical instruments sterilized and arranged in neat rows.  The only difference between this set up and an operating theater, the absence of an anesthetist; and of course the life of the patient.

Scalpel, here we go again she thought.  She held out her gloved right hand and the long silver shaft of the knife was placed in the palm.  The first incision was the classic Y shape incision, by far the most invasive of any medical incision designed to give easy access to the entire upper body section.  The scalpel traced a line from the ear to the shoulder of the girl and then to the breast bone on the left side, to be joined to the same point on the right, then one continuous cut right down the middle from sternum to the mons pubis.  The music started to play as soon as the rib cage was cracked open; the Brandenburg Concerto’s were Sean’s choice today, calming and tranquil.  It was just a shame; Grace thought as she worked, this poor girl had probably never even heard of them.

Chapter 6

VJ finally woke around 11.30 a.m. which was a little too early for him to be at his best.  He yawned loudly and stretched as far as he was able given his bulk and the confines of the settee.  He raised a hand and turned his wrist trying to focus on the glittering Rolex watch, his first major cash purchase.  To many, the jewel encrusted watch would have just been too tacky to wear but not for VJ, he had plans; he aimed to be the Mr. ‘T’ of Southsea; modeled on the famous character B.A. Baracus from his all time favorite T.V. show ‘The A Team’.  BA always wore enough gold chains and bracelets to hold a warship in place and jeweled rings, chains and watches were exactly the trappings of wealth and power that VJ admired.  So what if he was the only one who dressed the way he did! That was just the way he liked it.

He rolled off the settee and on to the floor like a giant drunken slug, the thump absorbed by the bulk of his frame.  He reached for the TV remote and pressed the power switch bringing the old black and white TV into life.  He flicked channels finally settling on the Fox Cartoon and then flopped in place to wait to come round fully.  The noise of the TV startled Mouse who was next to wake.

Yo man, what the fuck is all the noise? It’s like middle of the fuckin night over here!

VJ spat toward the waste