Stalk Kill Howl

By A. J. Davidson

Stalk Kill Howl ̶ a horror mystery.
Northern Ireland 1981. Having survived the bloodiest years of the Troubles during the ‘70s the people of Northern Ireland pray that the ‘80s will bring better times. Newry CID welcomes a new Detective Inspector, but Harry Reid has little idea of the fresh horror he and his Royal Ulster Constabulary colleagues will be forced to confront. Paramilitaries are being targeted by a new type of vigilante; a ferocious killer more wolf than human. Harry’s determination to end the wolf-man’s murderous spree means putting his life on the line by working with one of his most dangerous adversaries. The scope of Harry’s obsession encompasses the killing grounds of South Armagh, the Ukraine, and the Falklands, eventually reaching a bloody conclusion after more than thirty years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. J. Davidson
• Release date: Nov 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463292341

A. J. Davidson

AJ Davidson is a traditionally published author and playwright, who, in Spring 2010, made the switch to Indie. He is keen to explore the potential of a rapidly changing publishing world, and is enjoying the closer contact with his readers that e-books afford. AJ has a degree in Social Anthropology. Married for 32 years, he has two children, a Harrier hound and a cat called Dusty. Not one for staying long in the same place, AJ has lived in many countries across several continents. He has worked as a pea washer, crane-driver, restaurateur and scriptwriter. A member of the ITW. Represented by the Jonathan Williams Literary Agency.

Book preview

STALK

KILL

HOWL

By

A J Davidson

For Daisy

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:

AJ Davidson on Smashwords

STALK KILL HOWL

Copyright © 2019 by AJ Davidson

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Other books by AJ Davidson https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/ajdavidson

Fiction:

An Evil Shadow –A Val Bosanquet Mystery

Death Sentence – A Val Bosanquet Mystery

Moon on the Bayou – A Val Bosanquet Mystery

Sandman – A Val Bosanquet Mystery

The Kingdom – A Val Bosanquet Mystery

A Stillness Lost – A Val Bosanquet Mystery

Job’s Comfort ̶ A Val Bosanquet Mystery

Paper Ghosts

Wounded Tiger

Piwko’s Proof

Churchill’s Queen

Decoys

Non-Fiction:

Kidnapped

Defamed!

Stalk Kill Howl ̶ a horror mystery.

Northern Ireland 1981. Having survived the bloodiest years of the Troubles during the ‘70s the people of Northern Ireland pray that the ‘80s will bring better times. Newry CID welcomes a new Detective Inspector, but Harry Reid has little idea of the fresh horror he and his RUC colleagues will be forced to confront. Paramilitaries are being targeted by a new type of vigilante; a ferocious killer more wolf than human. Harry’s determination to end the wolf-man’s murderous spree means putting his life on the line by working with one of his most dangerous adversaries. The scope of Harry’s obsession encompasses the killing grounds of South Armagh, the Ukraine, and the Falklands, eventually reaching a bloody conclusion after more than thirty years.

CHAPTER ONE

Wehrmacht First Aid Station 1942

Sanitätsoffiziere Luther Schemm stood up from the rough-hewn plank table bearing the barely alive soldier whom he had just divested of both legs above the knee. He felt bones in his spine grate as he straightened his back and took a moment to wipe his face with the sleeve of his blood-soaked surgical gown. Dusk was falling outside the dilapidated stone barn a kilometre from the western bank of Dnieper River in the Ukraine. Exploding shells and mortars and the sharp rattle of gunfire seemed never-ending. It was still dark when the first casualties reached him sixteen hours earlier. An initial trickle of wounded men soon turned into a flood as the dead and dying were delivered to his door by Kűbelwagen, two-wheeled cart, horseback, and occasionally on foot. Barbarossa, the Fuhrer’s audacious plan to invade Russia, and the army’s early success took many at High Command by surprise, even those who had played such a key part in the lightening fall of France.

But the early triumph experienced by the German troops brought problems and many headaches for the support battalions; the advance into Stalin’s backyard so rapid that the Blitzkrieg tactic was in danger of running out of steam. Fuel was already in constant scarcity and munitions were severely depleted. Buoyed by the German enforced hesitancy, partisans had launched a fierce counter-offensive from the opposite bank of the Dnieper and were inflicting heavy casualties. The nearest functioning field hospital was a full sixty kilometres further west of the Dnieper. Schemm had been reduced to saving German lives with little more than his surgical skill and any medical supplies his orderlies could scavenge from dead Red Army soldiers. And the communists were notoriously ill equipped. Some prisoners were taken alive but with no spare men to act as guards it was a clemency they could ill afford and more often than not the order came down to execute them. The sharp crack of firing squads used to be a familiar soundtrack to their advance but now with ammunition so low the unfortunate wretches died from their throats being slit by the blunted steel of German bayonets.

The rapid thrust through Ukraine owed much to their enemy’s early reluctance to fight as much as to the German military might, though that was one thought Schemm kept to himself. The Ukrainians deemed they had suffered long enough under Uncle Joe’s tyranny and simply fled ahead of the marauding German army and the Luftwaffe, burning buildings, vehicles, crops, and slaughtering the livestock as they went. The German generals soon became disenchanted with the concept of the troops foraging off the captured land. Now the soldiers were fortunate if they enjoyed one hot meal a day.

Schemm adjusted the paraffin storm lantern so the weak light would better illuminate the amputee’s stumps. With no anaesthetic to dull the man’s agony it was almost certain he would fall into shock and die before reaching the field hospital. His patient had bit through his tongue and would be a crippled mute if by some miracle he survived.

Miracles like everything else were in short supply on the Eastern front.

Everything except blood.

He wasn’t saving lives; he was little more than a butcher in some primitive abattoir.

Take him away, Schemm commanded his two sanitation orderlies.

The amputee was immediately substituted by a tank commander, a young fellow Berliner known to Schemm. They first met less than forty-eight hours before and spent an evening with some other chess aficionados, playing out a draw over a bottle of schnapps. Nothing would persuade Schemm that young Captain Klaus Beck hadn’t fumbled a move or two so the draw was inevitable. A Knight’s Cross with oak leaf cluster hung round his neck testifying to the courage of its recipient; presented by the Fuhrer’s own hand for heroism displayed during the encirclement of 20,000 men of the 51st Highland Division south of Dunkirk.

Sniper bullet to the upper chest, the orderly said.

Schemm made a quick examination of the only friend he had made since leaving Berlin. The next medal awarded to his young chess opponent would be posthumously. He was already slipping into shock from blood loss and any attempt to remove the sniper’s bullet lying close to the heart would mean certain death. Under normal surgical conditions he would be fairly confident of saving the man’s life, a transfusion would stabilise Beck and permit enough time for the delicate surgery. But he wasn’t working under normal conditions; he was standing in a centimetre of gore without a drop for transfusion.

The captain’s eyes flicked open and he grinned crookedly. Looks like checkmate this time.

Hush now, Klaus. We’ll have you up and about in no time.

You’re a better player of chess than poker. The man’s face clenched in agony as a wave of hurt coursed through his body. His eyelids closed slowly.

What prisoners have we? Schemm demanded of the orderly, pressing a bundle of clean rags against the small hole in the dying man’s chest, afraid to apply too much pressure in case it stilled the almost imperceptible rise and fall.

I’m not sure there are any. They’ve all been executed.

Don’t just stand there, Schemm barked. Have someone check. I need a live prisoner, the younger the better.

It was a huge risk, but if he managed to save one life today it would be worth the gamble. He felt sure that Klaus Beck would have recognised the impossible odds and not hesitated going all in.

Within minutes a male child of around fourteen years was led into the barn by a soldier using a single crutch to support himself and wielding a Luger pistol in his free hand. They had tied the arms of the young adolescent behind his back, probably before handing out a beating with their boots and rifle butts. His clothes were little more than thin dirty rags and he went barefoot. The child’s face was a network of bruises and welts. One eye was swollen shut and blood trickled from his left ear. The other eye displayed no fear rather it exuded a certain feral awareness, reminding Schemm of how a deer he once stalked gazed at him moments before he pulled the trigger of his Mannlicher rifle.

We caught him hiding in the forest, probably living rough on berries and roots while trying to connect with a group of partisans, the guard said.

He’ll have to do, Schemm said and turned to the orderlies. I intend transfusing his blood into the captain before I dig for the bullet. Lay him on the instrument table. Bind and elevate his legs and find something to raise the height of the table a few centimetres. His heart will do much of the work but we can always benefit from the assistance of gravity.

We don’t know his blood grouping, the orderly said. We would be killing the captain if it’s not compatible.

We don’t have the equipment or the time to check his blood type. Maybe we’ll get lucky and it will be O- or the captain’s will be AB+.

Schemm had heard the rumours circulating round Berlin how doctors were experimenting with transfusing blood from young donors, usually Jews, into rich elderly patients in the hope that it would contain extra vigour and vitality. AB+ type was the universal recipient grouping while O- type could be safely transfused to any recipient regardless. If the Ukrainian child was O- or Klaus AB+ then the young chess player might be blessed with a slim chance of survival. Certainly a greater chance than the feral boy would have; even transfusing every last drop of the prisoner’s blood might not be enough. He would have to work fast.

As the orderlies set to work moving the instrument table into place and strapping down the child, Schemm prepared as best he could the few instruments he would require. The hollow needles were rinsed in a basin of raw Ukrainian vodka, as were the tweezers, forceps, probes and a couple of scalpels that still held an edge. He shook off the excess spirit and arranged the equipment on a metal tray that he had already wiped down with a vodka-soaked sponge.

Schemm examined the child as he wrapped a leather strap round his upper arm. Perhaps he misjudged the captive’s age. The boy was severely malnourished, his ribs pushing tautly against his skin. Closer to sixteen or seventeen. The boy turned his head as Schemm swabbed a patch of his upper arm with neat vodka. Not realising what was about to happen, the boy did not struggle against his bindings. The doctor’s experience on the Eastern front taught him that most Russians and Ukrainians accepted death as just another capricious quirk of fate.

Unstoppable and inevitable.

Inserting the needle into a raised vein, Schemm made sure the clamp sealed the rubber tubing before releasing the tourniquet and tying it around Klaus’ arm. His fingers seemed as thick as bratwurst as he forced himself to work at a feverish pace. When the rubber tubing linked donor and recipient Schemm used his left hand to open the clamp while his other hand sought out Klaus’ heart beat with his stethoscope. Monitoring blood pressure would be a waste of time.

Either the transfusion would work or it would kill him.

Twelve hour-long minutes after releasing the clamp allowing the donor’s blood to flow Schemm opened his probe and dropped the sniper’s bullet into a chrome kidney dish. One orderly had already prepared the curved needle and cotton in preparation for the sutures. The donor lay motionless, his one undamaged eye rolled back in his head, his chest perfectly still.

An empty vessel.

The doctor took a deep breath before making a start on closing the captain’s wound, wondering what the boy had been called.

When satisfied that he could do no more for his chess-playing companion, Schemm stepped outside into the night. He needed a cigarette badly. The ground shook as a shell exploded nearby.

His cupped hand shook as he lit one of the foul Russian cigarettes taken from a dead Red Army soldier. He sucked in a long inhale and held it deep down in his lungs as he contemplated how little it had cost him to become a life taker.

The full moon emerged from behind a cloud low on the skyline above the trees.

A howl more primeval than any human scream drifted from the forest; a wolf howling at the moon, no doubt emboldened by the stench of blood and carrion pushed by the wind along the banks of the Dnieper.

CHAPTER TWO

October 1981

The drizzling rain and low cloud hanging over the Mourne Mountains did little to improve the dismal appearance of Newry as Harry drove down Edward Street towards his new barracks in Corry Square. A mere three weeks had passed since that drunken afternoon at Newforge. A drinking session that earned him the ire of the Chief Constable and cost him a transfer to El Paso, the handle some Royal Ulster Constabulary comedian had hung on Newry town owning to the fact that it was close to the border and full of bandits.

Harry pulled his aging Ford Granada up in front of the sandbagged Sanger and, winding down the window, flashed his warrant card at the policeman manning the security gates. The barrier squealed as it rose shakily admitting him into the carpark in front of the Victorian stationhouse. Concrete blast walls and three metre high link-chain fencing marked the perimeter of the station grounds, offering limited protection against RPGs. Harry parked next to some Portakabins and slipped his personal protection weapon, a .375 Ruger Magnum, into a pancake holster attached to his belt. In Belfast he had grown into the habit of keeping his sidearm stashed down the side of the driver’s seat within easy reach. Just one of the Force Orders RUC officers were given to increase their security when driving in traffic. A gunman riding a motorbike could easily thread his way through traffic and get off a couple of head shots through the window before you had time to pull your sidearm from its holster. The RUC phased out their previous personal protection weapons, 9mm Walthers, after a royal bodyguard’s semi-automatic jammed during an attempted kidnap of Princess Anne.

Harry passed a couple of uniform officers carrying Sterling sub-machine guns as they made for the rear of an armoured Land Rover. One of them nodded at Harry with a sly smirk; his arrival must have been relayed inside by the peeler manning the gate. It was easy to read his thoughts; another dumb cop who had fucked up and been blocked – RUC terminology for a punishment transfer. El Paso would no doubt have several blocked officers. At least, Harry thought, he was still wearing civvies having held onto rank in CID, though further promotion would be in the distant future, if at all.

The inside of the station house was as depressing as the exterior and stank of vomit, sweat, and piss. The steel shutters blocking entry of any natural light were a reminder why many of the RUC’s stationhouses were still referred to as barracks. The nicotine-grimed walls bore a display of tattered posters, one advertising the confidential phone-line and another warning drivers not to leave their vehicles unattended in urban areas. A third was a reminder for land owners to clear their fields of ragwort, proving that Newry, HQ for H division, was located in predominantly a rural district.

Harry introduced himself to the desk sergeant.

You’re expected. Welcome to Newry, Sergeant Davy Black replied, taking a break from reading the Sun and holding out his meaty hand. Detective Chief Inspector Campion requested that I send you straight up to his office. He nodded at a flight of stairs. First floor, second door on the left. The CID office is on the ground floor at the end of the corridor. The glass greenhouse in the corner will be your office.

Harry thanked him and moved towards the stairs. A drunk was sprawled across one of the wooden benches set against the rear wall of the front office. He was the primary source of the vomit and piss stench.

Youse all orange bastards youse lot, he slurred in Harry’s direction.

Harry paused and glanced down at the alkie. You’re wrong old man, never wore a Sash in my life. I’m a black bastard. He reached out and grabbed hold of the wino’s dirt-encrusted jacket and hauled the bag of bones to his feet. The meanest, blackest bastard you’ll ever have the misfortune to meet. Got it?

The alkie crashed down onto the bench when Harry released his grip, fear and puzzlement filling his face.

Got it? Harry spat.

Yeah, yeah, the drunk said, cowering as though expecting a punch to follow.

Don’t ever forget it.

DI Reid, a moment if you would, the desk sergeant said in a voice that was more command than request.

What?

Geldof is harmless, there’s no need to throw your weight around with him.

Geldof? That his real name? Harry asked.

I don’t think anyone remembers his real name. He comes in every Monday steaming drunk to report his wife missing. We let him sit here in the dry ‘til he sobers up. Left alone, he’s good as gold.

What happened to his wife?

Disappeared one Monday morning about ten years ago and was never seen again; probably hopped a train to Dublin.

Harry started up the stairs with mixed emotion. Although he didn’t feel too proud of himself for putting the fear of God into the unfortunate wretch, he was certain that Geldof and the desk sergeant would lose little time spreading the word around the bars and stationhouse; there was a new sheriff in El Paso and he was a hard case. That did not unduly trouble Harry, he wouldn’t be in Newry long enough to worry.

Locating the DCI’s office, Harry gave the door a solid knuckle rap.

Enter.

It was clear to see even though he was seated that DCI Paddy Campion was a tall man. A weather-beaten face; his wiry hair was the colour of steel wool though his moustache was as dark as builder’s tea. He threw Harry a welcoming smile and invited him to take the weight off. There was a wall map of H-division behind him. It bore too many coloured pins for comfort. The DCI had a stack of chunky plastic binders piled high on either side of his desk.

Any trouble finding us? he asked amicably.

No, though it’s been a good few years since I was down this way. Harry noticed that Campion was wearing a pioneer pin in the lapel of his dark blue suit signifying that he was teetotal. Great, Harry thought, a transfer to El Paso under a DCI who didn’t drink. The Chief Constable was really determined to teach him a lesson.

The DCI must have caught Harry’s focus on the pin. He smiled and said, This is Newry, you’ll learn soon enough that things aren’t always as they seem.

He leaned forward and pulled open the bottom left-side drawer of his desk, lifting out a bottle of Jameson’s whiskey and two glasses. Without asking, he poured a healthy two fingers into each before reaching one across to his new detective inspector. The DCI winced visibly as he leaned forward to close the drawer as though his back was troubling him.

A little eye-opener. We’ll drink to your transfer, either the one that landed you here or the one that will take you out. Your pick.

Harry knew which option he was toasting as he raised the glass to his lips.

Swallowing most of his whiskey, the DCI explained. Headquarters likes nothing better than a senior detective who’s Catholic and doesn’t indulge in the devil’s buttermilk. I would prefer to think that I’m a DCI because of my investigative track record but we both know that would be the bigger lie. You’ll find Newry much like North Queen Street in that respect.

Harry had heard enough about DCI Campion to know that his claim was false modesty. The guy had been responsible for the arrest of three arms smugglers as they attempted to land their murderous cargo on a beach near Rostrevor.

Sir?

Next to no chance closing cases. Our work load is dominated by terrorist-related murder, almost all Republican, either the Provisional Irish Republican Army or the Irish National Liberation Army. The Protestant paramilitaries don’t operate in any significant way in this sub-division since we arrested the main members of the Glenanne Gang, unfortunately some Royal Ulster Constabulary and Ulster Defence Regiment personnel amongst them. There’s a cease-fire between the two Republican groups at the moment but I can’t see it lasting long. It never does. All terrorist murder investigations will be led by the Regional Crime Squad, with us in CID doing the bulk of the donkey work. Very few terrorist crimes ever reach the charging stage. If by some freak we actually solve a murder then the RCS will be sure to step in and take the credit. That’s if Special Branch doesn’t queer it for them.

Harry realised that cracking a quick case to get him back in Chief Constable Jack Hermon’s good books and earn him a transfer back to the big smoke was a forlorn hope.

The Dark Side, Harry said ominously, referencing the Stars Wars movie that had come out a few years previously. As you say, it’s much the same in Belfast. Nobody talks to the RUC, unless Special Branch is holding something compromising over them.

Probably more so here, Newry being Newry. You can’t walk through the station without tripping over Special Branch, MI5, E4, or even the damn SAS. The Republican paramilitaries are paranoid at the best of times and the Dark Side strive mightily to keep it that way. The more internecine or nutting killings they can engineer the happier they are. It seems to have slipped their minds that a peeler’s first directive is to preserve life.

The nutting squad was what the Provos called the Active Service Unit gunmen tasked with interrogating, torturing, and terminating the lives of suspected informers, before dumping their broken bodies by the roadside or in a sheugh as a warning to others. That’s what you’re driving at when you say very little is at it seems in Newry?

The DCI winced again as he leaned forward to refill both glasses. "Smoke and mirrors. Trust your instincts, always think for yourself and you’ll be okay. If you ever feel that you’re losing your grasp on reality, just