Addressed To Kill: The Inspector Stark novels, #3

By Keith Wright

By award-winning author and veteran CID detective Keith Wright.

 

Christmas can be Murder!

It is 1987. A perverted criminal psychopath is on the loose. An innocent young woman is murdered in horrific circumstances.

DI Stark announces; 'Christmas is canceled,' and his team investigates during the festive season; aware that every second the maniac remains free, it moves him closer to his next victim.

A second woman is raped and brutalized.

How is the killer discovering intimate secrets about his victims? Why does he insist on terrifying them in the lead up to the attacks? What is driving this depravity? Who will the next victim be?

In his attempts to protect the public, DI Stark makes a colossal error of judgment, which will have appalling personal consequences.

Keith Wright's professional knowledge of police investigations, coupled with a formidable talent for storytelling, combine to make his third novel a must for all crime fiction enthusiasts and thriller readers alike.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Keith Wright
• Release date: Oct 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781701998803

Keith Wright

Keith Wright's series of crime thriller are set in 1980s Nottingham, England. Keith's first novel was shortlisted for The John Creasey Memorial Award by The Crime Writers Association as the best debut crime novel globally. He has received critical acclaim in The Times and Financial Times and other quality newspapers. His fourth crime thriller 'Murder Me Tomorrow' won best crime novel in the Independent Press Awards. He has also had short stories published in the CWA anthology 'Perfectly Criminal' and 'City of Crime' alongside such luminaries as Ian Rankin, Val McDermid and Alan Sillitoe. He has featured in the main panel in the World Mystery Convention, and been a contributor to their brochures. Keith has previously been a Detective Sergeant on the CID for 25 years covering an inner-city area – the murder capital of the UK at the time. He was Head of Corporate Investigations for a global corporation upon retirement. He has four children and lives with his partner, Jackie.

Book preview

Addressed To Kill by

Keith Wright

Christmas is Murder!

It is 1987. A perverted criminal sociopath is on the loose. An innocent young woman is murdered in horrific circumstances.

DI Stark announces, ‘Christmas is cancelled,’ and his team investigate; aware that every second the maniac is on the loose, moves him closer to his next victim. 

A second woman is raped and brutalised.

How is the killer discovering intimate secrets about his victims? Why does he insist on terrifying them during the lead up to the attacks? What is driving this depravity? Who will the next victim be?

In his attempts to protect the public, DI Stark makes a huge error of judgement, which will have appalling consequences.

Critically acclaimed author, Keith Wright is a former CID Detective. His professional knowledge of police investigations, coupled with a formidable talent for storytelling, combine to make his third novel a must for all crime fiction enthusiasts and thriller readers alike.

Reviews for ‘Addressed To Kill’

'Wright's forte is police station atmosphere, personality clashes, sententiousness...a highly competent performance.'

Financial Times.

‘A grimly realistic vocabulary. Altogether a great read.’

London Evening Telegraph

'It’s background is grittily realistic. The plot is first-class, it's villains only too real and the action fast.'

Western Morning News.

‘Chilling authenticity and suspense.’

Mystery and Thriller Guild.

Also by Keith Wright:

One Oblique One

Trace and Eliminate

1

‘The best of all gifts around any Christmas tree:

The presence of a happy family all wrapped up in each other.’

Burton Hills

––––––––

23rd December - Christmas 1987.

Every one of us have felt it. Every man and every woman; since the origins of mankind, have feared the ultimate evil; the unforgiving demon, uninhibited and unceasing in their malevolence, and who, for whatever reason, turn their attention towards us. We lie alone at night in the darkness, and hear a scratch, or a tapping, or a curtain flapping, and feel the terror of impending doom. He is here. He is here to violate and kill without mercy. The epitome of this demon is the criminal psychopath; and many live among us.

We know that such people exist in movies, and documentaries, but they are removed from us, almost celebrity like, in their isolation. We are protected from them by the screen of our television sets, much like those psychopaths who are incarcerated and separated by a screen, from their visitors.  They don’t live near us, though, do they? We don’t rub shoulders with them on public transport, or in the bar, or in the shops or coffee houses, do we? They are never going to encroach upon our cosy world, are they?

The snag is that there are thousands of these lost souls knocking around our streets, 350,000* psychopaths in the UK alone, and it depends on multiple factors as to how this condition manifests itself. Not all psychopaths become criminal, of course. The true criminal psychopath cannot be confidently cured; only caged. These tortured souls are ill, of course, but they’re not as ill as you will be if you get caught in their mesh of nonsense and fantasy. For Christ’s sake don’t try to hug it out of them, or try to ‘understand’ them, unless you are a top-level psychiatrist, or they will destroy you, and, if they can, destroy your loved ones for good measure.

The man standing across the road watching the flat was a criminal psychopath; his hands were down the front of his grey track suit bottoms and weren’t there merely for warmth. It hadn’t snowed yet, but it was threatening to, on this winter’s night; the eve of Christmas Eve.

He wore two pairs of tracksuit bottoms and a thick ex-army camouflage coat, snood, and baseball cap. His gloves were in his coat pocket whilst his hands were busy. He was in the shadow of the houses opposite, out of sight. Regardless, from a distance he looked like any other person; he would nod and smile, and exchange pleasantries if forced. There was nothing about his outward appearance that indicated he was a perverted, narcissistic, psychopathic, sadist; with a twist of misogyny, for good measure.

The next phase for the savage, was all part of the build-up for him. All part of savouring his little project. Mandy was his project now. He had identified her. Followed her. Followed her boyfriend. Sat next to them in the pub; observed her from afar; 

*Horizon 2017 it had been going on for some days. It was getting into the end game now. His plans and fantasies were all heading in one direction; to the vagina of Mandy Towlson. The vagina being the symbol of everything he hated - women. Hers would be clean and well looked after. Some of the older women and pensioners he had previously attacked were less fussy about theirs, and they stunk to fucking high heaven; but hers wouldn’t be. Hers was still alive. Still her beacon of shining light, for all the pathetic foolish young men, that would do anything to get at it whilst locking horns with their rivals in the herd. Vying to mate with her, like baboons on heat. The caveman-like drive for a young man to implant his seed in any female he possibly can, is a similar impulse to the one that drove the killer. It is just slightly, easier for a young man to control a DNA and hormonal imbalance that is designed by nature to create procreation and continuation of the species.

He didn’t need to do any song and dance routine, to win her favour. He would take her, because he could. He felt that the urge to kill was quite strong with this one. He had humiliated and caused pain on his other victims and done everything but the final control; the decision to give or take life. He was growing; in his warped mind, he was about to graduate. Whether it was Mandy, or the next one, who knew? He was aware that while ever he did not kill, the odds of him being caught were lessened. The police had set resource for certain circumstances. The problem was, that he was not fully satiated. Most of the old women he had abused never even bothered reporting it. Too proud. Too ashamed. 

The man was a highly dangerous psychopath, and Mandy was in mortal danger, if she did but know it.

He watched the flat. There was movement; silhouetted figures.  He saw the door open. Mandy and Barbara left the flat together. They were laughing, light-hearted, excited about going shopping for their eagerly anticipated Christmas party later that night.

Mandy was a warm, kind, individual who loved Christmas, loved people, and had a huge energy for life and the years ahead; for which she had many hopes and aspirations.

He watched them get into Mandy’s car. It was the same car that had enabled him to get a copy of her door key cut. When he was on his nightly surveillance of her, a couple of nights ago, he noticed that she had left the driver’s door unlocked; so, in he went, and there were the door keys, jackpot. Barbara always left the door on the latch and Mandy had left her flat door keys in the pocket of the car door. It had cost him ten quid to get two keys cut at the Motorway services. He had to do two as he wasn’t certain which of the bunch was the door key. He was back within fifty minutes and replaced them. He needn’t have rushed. The keys remained in there all night.

As soon as Mandy’s car pulled away, he strolled purposefully across the road, putting his gloves on as he approached. 

The first key fitted perfectly, and he was inside. The warmth of the flat enveloped him. He stopped and drew in a large breath to smell the flat, to smell her essence. Her life. He wiped his feet on the ‘Welcome’ mat. He took his time, moving slowly from room to room, casually observing the lay-out and seeing what might be of interest, occasionally picking items up to scrutinise. The living room was adorned with decorations and a sad looking Christmas tree was brought to life by twinkling lights.

He found her bedroom and paid attention to her knickers, which upon discovery, prompted him to take his penis out and start to masturbate with the knickers in his hand, periodically switching them. Within a couple of minutes, in his heightened state, he ejaculated into a frilly pair, and wrapped them in another larger pair, before putting them in his pocket for later. 

He moved a few things in her room, just slightly, to mess with her head, he picked up a jewellery box from her drawers and placed it on the bedside table, removing a razor blade and gluing it to the base so that the tiniest lip of the blade was protruding. He returned the small tube of super glue to his pocket. He grinned. This is going to freak her out completely, and hopefully draw a bit of blood.

He tilted the mirror slightly, that sort of thing. Wouldn’t it be great if she sensed someone had been in her flat? That would be excellent.

He couldn’t wait to have her. Couldn’t wait to hear her scream and beg for his clemency.  

*

The police bar at Hucknall was full of customers, despite it being only midday. Why? Because today was the, much-anticipated, CID ‘Christmas Do.’ 

Detective Inspector David Stark stood at the corner of the bar and heaved a sigh, which was inaudible, due to the excited chattering from the detectives.  In his forties, he was handsome, but a little worn, greying at the temples, with laughter lines that seemed to promote the twinkle in his eye. It was going to be a long one. A 12midday start with a potential 2am finish. Fourteen hours of drinking and frivolity. It was completely bonkers, and to some extent, dangerous. At various stages of proceedings at the annual event, there was usually the odd scuffle, some tears, some damage, some sex and much laughter. Stark was not a big drinker, he’d had his moments when he was younger, and shared the sense of excitement, of course, but now it was something of a trial; particularly being the most senior officer attending. He needed eyes in the back of his head to nip in the bud anything that went beyond the bounds of high spiritedness. It would be unheard of, for him to miss this occasion, however. It was the one day of the year that the detectives and others, by special invitation, really let their hair down. They arranged cover for their patch by other detectives, so that their subsequent incapacitation would not impact on public safety. The event tended to form a similar pattern: Start at the police station bar for drinky-poos and potential hi-jinks, on to a well-known restaurant for Christmas dinner around 2pm and games or a quiz. Into town around 6pm for a tour of the more popular bars, ‘Yates’, ‘The Fountain’, ‘The Bell’ and onto the ‘Queen Elizabeth’; known as the ‘QE’, for a sweaty, raucous sing song. Thereafter, the agenda would look towards night clubs. There were many to choose from: Anabels, Isabellas, Madison,

Zhivago’s, Astoria, and the infamous Ritzy’s notable for its ‘Grab-a-Granny’ night on a Wednesday. A decision on the venue had been deferred for the nightlife aficionado- DC Ashley Stevens to sense-check his barometer to ascertain where the in-crowd was going to be. It needed to be on the night, he had insisted.

The secret to enjoying yourself at this heady and hedonistic event was to try to pace yourself. One year a young guy started by doing the optics run at 12 midday and was tucked in bed, with a bowl at the side of him, by 1.30pm. It was comparable to a stag night, without a groom. It was a one-off. The guys and gals had to put up with all sorts of shit and hassle all year, and so they felt entitled to an opportunity to blow off steam.

All of Stark’s team were there of course, as well as some police admin girls from far and wide; who had been badgering various detectives for an invite, for the weeks and months preceding it. 

Ashley Stevens, complete with expensive suit and jewellery took a prominent place at the bar. He was a poseur, true, but in fairness, Ash did not have to work as a detective; knee deep in the filth of society. His father was a multi-millionaire, who had become so, by investing his redundancy money in a video shop; within a few months he had half a dozen shops, and now he had scores of shops all over the country. Ash enjoyed the private income that this gave him, but he had refused the offer to work for the family business. His heart lay in his detective work.

Ash was talking to the younger detectives in his little circle. Steve Aston, new to the game, a vegetarian and a self-conscious, shy young man, who got good results, but struggled to adapt to the social scene that seemed to go together with CID.

Cynthia Walker was a beautiful young woman of mixed-race; the aide to CID, trying to earn her stripes and get a permanent place as a detective; she was tall and elegant with long fingernails and a worldly-wise smile which belied her tender years.

‘I think Ritzy’s tonight. It’s not a final decision, don’t hold me to it yet.’ Ash said. He’d been having this conversation for weeks, now, anticipating the big day, and now on the day itself, he was still weighing up the pros and cons. ‘Madison’s, can be better,’ he continued, ‘but not with thirty pissed up blokes, it’s better when there is just a handful of you.’

‘What are you basing your assessment on then, Ash?’ Cynthia asked with a knowing smile.

‘All sorts of things, why, what do you mean?’

‘Not just on the type of women, and the prospects of taking them home, then?’

Steve smiled and Ash coughed. ‘Well, I suppose if you put it like that, yes, that seems to be the general Key Performance Indicator informing my professional opinion.’

Cynthia went through the list for Ashley’s considered opinion: ‘Come on then, Oh Wise One, what’s your opinion on the clubs on offer tonight? Start with Annabel’s on Fletcher Gate.’

Steve Aston piped up. ‘What’s the point, we’ll end up at Ritzy’s anyway.’

‘Let him give us his wisdom, Steve, he is our mentor, we must learn from him.’ She had a twinkle in her eye.

Steve shrugged. It was all beyond him.

‘Annabel’s is too dark, too small, too few customers and too many fights.’ Ashley decided.

‘Isabella’s?’

‘Again, too small, not enough to go around and too many SNAF’S.’

SNAF was a term used by police officers at the time, which was a shortening of the acronym SNAFU which stood for the rather unkind: Sub Normal And Fucking Useless – SNAFU.

‘Zhivago’s?’

‘Too young.’

‘Astoria?’

‘Too far and too big, and we have to pay to get in.’

‘Madison’s, oh you’ve already told us about that, erm Rock City?’

‘Too niche.’

‘Too niche?’ Steve queried.

‘Yes, too many rock chic types for my liking.’

‘He’s more of a twin set and pearls type, aren’t you Ash?’ Cynthia mocked.

‘No, now come on Cynth, don’t be like that. I just like a lady that has a bit of class.’

She smiled. ‘A bit of class who will drop her knickers on the first night.’

‘Of course. That’s a given, isn’t it?’

On the periphery of the group, DC’s Charlie Carter and miserable Jim McIntyre were chatting to Detective Sergeant Nobby Clarke. The lovely DC Steph Dawson stood close to the circle but not in it, as she was more of a people watcher, and the conversation was hardly inspirational.

‘How’s the piles coming along, Charlie?’ Jim asked, his Scottish accent scarcely visible. He spoke with an English accent  most of the time but had a strange habit of speaking in a heavy Scottish accent when talking to fellow Scots. He wasn’t on his own. A lot of ex-pat Scots did it. Spoke perfect English until they met a fellow countryman and suddenly it was a feast of ‘och’ and ‘aye’ and ‘hen’ and the like. Jim dropping the Scottish dialect was helpful, as everyone could, at least, understand what the hell he was saying.

‘Not too bad today.’ Charlie grimaced.

‘What piles?’ Nobby asked.

Jim explained. ‘Charlies got piles...’

‘Shush, keep your bloody voice, down.’ Charlie said sharply, ‘I don’t want half the bloody world knowing about my rectal imperfections.’

Jim continued. ‘You must have noticed, Nobby, half the time, when we are on an enquiry and he is invited to sit down, he lets out an Ouch, you bugger! and then rubs his knee, to infer that his knee hurts, and that he is a brave policeman with some sort of war wound, rather than someone whose arse is on fire.’

Nobby and Steph laughed. ‘So that’s what that is.’ Steph said.

‘No, I did actually hurt my knee battling with an armed robber, back in 76.’ Charlie insisted.  Nobby grunted. ‘Yeah, of course you did Charlie.’

‘I did!’

Nobby was a rugged guy, not a young man; late forties, and a face hewn from stone. He was an ex-soldier, in the parachute regiment, who did not suffer fools gladly. He had recently started a secret relationship with the blonde-haired beauty that was Detective Policewoman Stephanie Dawson. If discovered, as her sergeant, he would be forced to move to another team.  It wasn’t the done thing.

*

Mandy Towlson sat on her bedroom floor with a hairdryer in one hand and hairbrush in the other. Forensically examining her every move in the mirror as if a sculptor creating a masterpiece. Her intention was to make a showpiece out of her straggly wet hair, at times, switching from brush to brush, and from brush to hairspray; quicker than a Texan gunslinger told to draw.

The mirror kept slipping forward. ‘What’s up with the bloody thing? It was fine yesterday.’ She said to no-one.

She could hear Barbara in the next room busying herself in similar fashion. They had decided to let Barbara have the music on loud, as they had both tried to have music on in their individual rooms, but it didn’t synchronise, and one seemed half a second behind the other.

It didn’t fully register at first, but she turned for a second look. Her knicker drawer was slightly ajar, and a pair of white frillies were protruding out by a couple of inches.

‘Barbara.’ She shouted.

No reply, just the music, and the faint vibration of Barbara humming.

‘Barbara!’ Louder this time.

‘What?’

‘Have you been in my room?’

‘What?’

‘Have you been...oh, come here will you?’

Barbara appeared in the doorway in bra and knickers. Mandy was a little surprised by her boobs, which seemed much plumper than she had imagined.

‘Have you been in my room? It doesn’t matter if you have, but...’

‘No. I bloody haven’t. What would I want to come in your room for?’

‘I’m not accusing you. It’s just that I feel sure I didn’t leave my knickers sticking out like that, in the drawer, look. I’m funny about things like that.’

‘No. Honestly, Mandy, I haven’t been in. I would have told you if I had.’

‘Hang on. My jewellery box has been moved as well. It’s on my bedside table. I always keep it on the drawers. What the hell’s going on?’

‘Are you sure, Mandy?’

‘Of course, I’m sure. I’m not daft.’ She stood and opened her knicker drawer. ‘I’m sure there’s some missing.’

‘How can you tell out of all that bloody lot. There must be a thousand in there.’  ‘Okay. This is freaking me out, Barbara. It’s not funny.’

‘It is a bit.’

‘It’s not. Unless you are playing a prank on me.’

‘Of course, I’m not. I wouldn’t do that to you.’

‘I’m telling you that someone has been in my room and moved my stuff, then.’

‘They can’t have, Mandy. No-one else has a key for a start. You’ve got your keys and I’ve got mine. No-one has broken in. It’s hardly likely we’ve left a window open, in the middle of winter, they’ve not been open for weeks, or even months.’

‘Something is going on. I’m telling you. I know we all do daft things, but I know I haven’t moved my jewellery box.’  She stood and opened the onyx box.

‘Anything missing?’ Barbara asked.

‘No, but...’

‘There you are then. Do you think a burglar would break in and not take anything, but just move your jewellery box?’

‘No, of course not. But-’

‘But what? Don’t let it freak you out and spoil the party, for God’s sake.’

‘I won’t, but I’m bloody sure I haven’t moved anything, Barbara.’

‘Maybe the place is haunted.’

‘I want a rebate on the rent if it is.’  Mandy laughed.

‘Show me the ghost and I will give you one. Anyway, with your kind permission I would like to return to making myself beautiful.’

‘Good luck with that.’

She closed the lid of the box and a razor blade stuck to the base slashed through her fingertip as she adjusted her grip. She dropped the box to the floor, the contents spilling out.

‘Ouch. You bastard. Shit!’

‘What’s happened?’

Blood started pumping from her finger and down her arm. 

‘Here, watch the carpet!’ Barbara said.

Mandy ran into the bathroom and put her finger under the tap.  ‘Christ it’s sore.’

‘What caused it?’ Barbara asked.

‘There’s a fucking razor blade on the base. Are you telling me that’s me imagining things as well?’

‘What? A bloody razor blade. That’s odd.’

‘Odd? It’s more than odd, Barbara, it nearly took my pissing finger off.  What is going on? I’m scared.’

Barbara rubbed her back. Tears had welled in Mandy’s eyes, from the pain and the increasing fear. ‘Could it be your ex, Patrick? He was pissed off when you split.’

‘No. Not Patrick. He hasn’t got a key anyway.’

‘Have you been to his house since you’ve been here? Could he have nicked one or got a spare cut?’

‘No. I don’t think so. Maybe once, thinking about it, just to get some bits. You know, clothes and stuff.’

‘You’re always leaving your keys lying around, Mandy.’

‘I did nip next door for an hour to see Shirl. No, this is ridiculous, surely he wouldn’t.’

‘They say you never know a person until you split from them.’

‘Surely, he wouldn’t do something as nasty as this.  Would he?’

‘Who knows?’

‘Will you get me a plaster, please?’

‘Sure. They’re in the kitchen, hang on a sec.’

Barbara returned within the minute, and placed the plaster on Mandy’s finger. 

‘That’s nice for the party.’

‘Could that be why he did it?’ Barbara asked.

‘We don’t know it’s him. Do we need to call the police?’

‘Can we just have the party first?’

Mandy wiped a rogue tear away from her cheek. ‘Yes, but I’m worried, now. I daren’t touch anything. What if there are more hidden around? What if there is more to come? What else has he done?’

Barbara hugged her.  ‘I can’t kiss you ‘cos of my lippy. It will be fine. Don’t let that idiot spoil things. I’ll knock his block off myself if I find out it’s him!’

*

Hucknall Police Bar was ratcheting up a notch as the drinks flowed. Shouts of welcome came from near the door, where the admin girls chatted, and plotted, and generally stared at the detectives they were going to target later. The cause of the jolly greetings was Jack; the station vicar. Each station had a local chaplain who was there if officers needed to chat about anything. Usually they were noticeable by their absence. Not Jack. Jack was like no vicar you have ever met. He too was ex-army, a trooper, and swore like one. He was a game guy and drunk like a fish. He always had his dog collar on, even when staggering home drunk of an evening, swearing at passers-by who took the mickey out of him, much to their amazement. This did not mean he was not a caring, understanding soul, but let’s just say he was very down to earth. He used the station bar like a lot of the officers did as a place where he could be himself, without having to stand on ceremony. A place to let the façade down and relax.

Stark was grinning, as Jack took possession of his pint which was already waiting for him at the bar. Jack was not really his ‘cup-of-tea’, but he knew there was usually some fun to be had when he was in the room.

‘Afternoon all.’ Jack said, raising his glass.

‘Cheers, Jack.’ Came the various responses.

‘Merry Christmas all.’

‘Merry Christmas, Rev.’  Came cries of response.

‘I’m ready for this. I’ve just put another in the ground, that’s five this week.’

‘Five. Bloody hell.’ Ashley said. 

‘Well, it’s winter isn’t it. They’re dropping like flies.’

‘True.’ Ash sipped at his pint, and winked at Steve, ‘Are you ready for the Christmas battle yet, Jack?’ He asked.

‘Let me get in the door first, will you, Ash? You’re not still going on about that, are you?’  ‘Five pounds to the winner, it has all been agreed, you can’t back down now, your reverence.’

‘Fuck off!’ His reverence said.

‘He’s backing down.’ Ash announced.

Nobby joined in. ‘No, you’re not, Jack. Get that pint down you.  You can get on my shoulders, and Steve can get on Ash’s.’

‘Oh shit.’ Steve muttered to himself.

Steve and Jack were the two smallest in the place, and this svelteness was what caused the original argument; one boozy night way back in October. It escalated, from who could take who in a fight, between Jack and Steve, and took a bizarre twist as the discussion evolved into a proposed gladiatorial style contest, each on top of another’s shoulders. It seemed like a good idea at the time and the championship bout was set to take place at the CID Christmas do. It had created a stir and a purse of five pounds had been agreed, with some side bets taking place. It wasn’t often you had the chance to see a vicar in full dog-collar, jousting with a detective, whilst balancing precariously on the shoulders of another.

Nobby got behind reverend Jack and went down on one knee, sticking his head between Jacks legs, and with one thrust of his powerful thighs, had him on his shoulders and began parading around the bar to cheers and whoops from those assembled. Jack had his hands clasped together and was waving them to