Murder Most Immoral

By Anthony Hulse

After a series of murders of gynaecologists, CID suspects enigmatic triplets, Spencer, Bruce, and William Costello. DS Amy Hornby becomes romantically involved with Spencer, but inwardly suspects he may be a serial killer. Her estranged father, a notorious London crime lord complicates matters by becoming embroiled in a personal vendetta against the brothers.
This psychological thriller journeys to London, Gambia, Mauritius, Algarve, the Caribbean, and Mexico, before a thrilling finale in Scotland.
Frightening, absorbing, complex, and a guaranteed page-turner, this book will remain with you long after you have read it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781326783693

Book preview

Murder Most Immoral

Murder Most Immoral

Anthony Hulse

Copyright

Copyright@Anthony Hulse2016

ISBN: 978-1-326-78369-3

Cover design: Ivan Bliznetsov@ iStock

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the author, except for the quotations in a review.

Acknowledgements

I wish to dedicate this book to the late Geoffrey Fuller, a friend I had the pleasure to grow up with at Bertram Ramsey Secondary School. Although many years have passed since we last met, Geoff has remained in my thoughts. Our parting was due to him moving to the Isle of Wight, and I sadly found out he had passed away. Geoff was kind, generous, fun-loving, and a wonderful human being. I thank his family for allowing me to dedicate this book to his memory.

RIP, Geoff.

Chapter One

Mile 2 prison, Banjul, Gambia, Africa.

Spencer Costello sensed the curious eyes of the inmates follow him on his journey from the remand wing to the prison Governor’s office. The tall Englishman, during his two-week incarceration, had acquired celebrity status amongst the prisoners, who viewed the thirty-five-year-old white man as a rarity.

The floral décor of the high walls conflicted with the brutal and hostile complex. Disease such as malaria and beriberi plagued the mosquito and fly riddled compound. Those housed in the infirmary received inadequate treatment from the ineffectual medics.

The Harmattan trade-wind failed to refresh the inmates; carrying with it a mixture of urine, dust, human waste, and smoke from the nearby sanatorium. Although Costello had only recently been introduced to the meagre rations of cornmeal, bread, stew, fish, rice, and porridge, his health and weight loss concerned him. Thankfully, numerous mangoes grew around the complex, and the inmates helped themselves to the fruit.

Spencer reached the Governor’s office and the armed prison warden urged him inside. Costello welcomed the cool breeze from the fan, and his eyes settled on fresh orange juice on the desk of the Governor.

The official invited the Englishman to sit. His eyes studied the document. He poured the prisoner a glass of orange juice before speaking. Mr Costello. I have some good news for you. The British High Commissioner and the managing director of Fothergill Minerals insist they are making progress concerning your situation. However, you must remain here until bail can be arranged.

The handsome, blonde, blue-eyed man drank thirstily, savouring every drop of his beverage. He ran his hands through his short hair and focused on the obese Governor. This is absurd. These trumped up charges are a joke. I demand to be...

Demand, Mr Costello. These are very serious charges. Illegally mining uranium, iron ore, and titanium, we look upon as a most severe offence.

Titanium and iron oxide are components of mineral sand and cannot be economically distracted. We mine mineral sand and ship it to the Far East. It is ludicrous to suggest that my respected company is in any way involved in the theft.

Nevertheless, Mr Costello; as the manager of the project, you will stand trial. I hope your stay here is most comfortable.

Costello smirked, his eyes digesting the plush cane furniture, drinks cabinet, and tall refrigerator. The cells are infested with cockroaches, and I share my prison with nine others. The cell stinks of human waste; our pots emptied only in the morning. And the food... The cornmeal contains sand, and...

The Governor interrupted. Mr Costello; you are in prison, not some holiday hotel. You are fortunate that you are housed in the remand wing. He lit up a cigar. Listen, I understand your concern, but our facility is overcrowded. With so many waiting to be sent to trial, my hands are tied. I am doing everything possible to relieve the situation. In fact, several inmates are to leave the camp this morning... If that is all, I bid you good morning.

Costello left the office and the blinding June sunlight caused him to shield his eyes. Surprised at the absence of his guard, Costello paced slowly to the remand wing. He stopped and shaded beneath a tree, watching several prisoners herded from the maximum-security wing at gunpoint. The gunmen were not regular wardens and wore black tunics, gloves, and balaclavas. He recognised them as the President’s personal militia, known as the black blacks. Unlike his olive-green uniform, the appointed prisoners wore orange. Two large trucks rolled to a halt in front of the contingent, before their captors ushered them to board.  

Costello walked on, and a militiaman stepped from the shadows, a machete in his hand. He shouted something in Mandinka, a language unfamiliar to Costello.

Sorry, I don’t understand.

The soldier’s eyes appeared dilated, and he swigged from a bottle of rum. He motioned for Costello to join the boarding maximum-security prisoners.

Costello pointed to his uniform. N-no, I’m on remand. On remand, do you understand? 

Another soldier, armed with a rifle joined them. The two conversed heatedly.  

The Englishman looked around for a regular warden, but proved unsuccessful.

Both of the soldiers now shouted and motioned for Costello to board the truck.

The Governor. Speak to the...

The rifle butt connected with his head and he slumped to the dusty ground. Costello, unable to function, felt his body dragged towards the truck. The soldiers hurled him onto the vehicle and laughed loudly, before joining their comrades on the other truck. 

The prisoners groaned and cursed as Costello took up valuable space. The perspiring bodies of the inmates jostled for comfort.

Costello managed to sit up, before addressing the man sitting next to him. Where are they taking us?

The tall man smiled broadly, displaying an impeccable set of teeth. His gaunt and bloated face suggested maltreatment. Who knows... Why are you here?

Exactly. I’m an innocent man and am awaiting the date of my trial.

Another man spoke up. Many in Mile 2 prison have waited months, and even years for their trial date. It appears that the black blacks have mistaken you for one of the condemned. 

Costello’s body ached badly, his concrete bed the reason for his discomfort. Perhaps they are taking us to another camp. The Governor mentioned the overcrowding.

The man next to him responded. You are correct about the overcrowding, but another camp I fear is not our destination... President Jammeh is eager to dispose of the maximum-security prisoners; several whose only crime was to speak up against him. Yes, many on here are murderers, but we also have journalists and protestors.

Costello massaged his sore head and felt the lump. He watched as a fly marched across his neighbour’s bloated face. I don’t understand. If they’re not taking us to...

Another inmate interrupted. They no doubt plan to execute us, friend... When we stop, we must rush the militia. It’s our only chance.

Execute us? frowned Costello. No, they dare not. If this gets out, there will...

There will what? Nobody will miss us. Anyone who defies Jammeh will be disposed of too, including our families. This is not good old England, my friend.

Costello pondered; the loud choruses of songbirds and wildlife accompanying them on their journey. His eyes searched the forlorn faces of his companions; some already marked for death. Disease and signs of torture affected so many.

The British High Commissioner and the managing director of my company are arranging my bail as we speak. They would not dare to execute me.

Your death will be explained as an accident. Those soldiers who apprehended you; they are high on drugs and alcohol. They care not who dies here.

Costello feared for his life. The scorching sun and the incessant flies and insects assured the remainder of the journey would be uncomfortable. After passing swamps and mangroves, he realised they were now travelling close to the river; the potholed road adding to their discomfort.

Costello estimated they must have travelled for one hour before the trucks braked. The militia alighted from the following truck and gathered at the rear of the prisoners; shepherding them off the truck.

A pock-faced soldier wearing an eye patch addressed them. Sit and place your hands on your head.

The prisoners looked to each other for assurance, no doubt suspecting they were about to be shot. Costello sat in the rear rank and noticed the officer with the eye patch regard him curiously. Surely, he will now realise his mistake.

The officer abandoned his interest in the white prisoner. You may be wondering why we have brought you here. The prison contains hundreds of criminals; some trivial, and some like yourselves, vicious murderers, sex offenders, or enemy of our state. You, in essence, are the bad eggs...  His Excellency has ordered me to eliminate the bad eggs, and you are the first of many.

Costello considered speaking up in his defence, but felt this might infuriate the officer. He focused on the militia, their weapons trained on the one hundred or so inmates. Yes, the prisoners probably outnumbered the soldiers four to one, but they were feeble and undernourished.

The one-eyed officer wiped the perspiration from his face and swallowed a mouthful of water from his bottle. You are all under the sentence of death, and so I’m offering you the chance of freedom. He pointed towards the River Gambia. The river is probably two hundred metres wide at this point. When ordered, you will enter the river and attempt to reach the other side. I acknowledge you are weak and may find the task beyond you, but the alternative is not so pleasant. The river is rife with crocodiles, and if you do happen to evade the beasts, avoid drowning, and dodge the bullets of my men, then you are free. Anyone who refuses to enter the river will be cut down with machetes. My men will remove every limb from your body before decapitating you.

Costello felt his bowels loosen. He attempted to stand, before his companion in the truck restrained him. No, fool. He will view your plea as cowardice and decapitate you himself. Stay close to me and you have a chance.

But, the crocodiles...

You should worry more about the bullets. Follow me and keep to the reeds, swimming underwater constantly.

What is your name?

Kemo. And yours?

Spencer.

The two shook hands.   

The one-eyed officer grinned. Everyone make your way to the river. At the sound of my whistle, you will proceed to cross. May Allah be with you.

The blast of the whistle prompted the stamped towards the river. Costello remained close to Kemo when they waded into the green water. The prisoners’ eyes searched the cool river for predators, before they proceeded to swim. Within seconds, the explosion of gunfire commenced, and several victims screamed, the bullets finding their targets.

Kemo encouraged Costello to dive, and they swam diagonally to the right. The rounds of the soldiers were visible beneath the murky depths. Coming up for air, the two men tread water, their eyes taking in the carnage. They and a few others were detached from the main group, some who had advanced no more than twenty metres from the shore. Their blood merged with the murky green water.

Kemo again dived, and the Englishman followed. They swam until they felt certain their lungs would burst. After surfacing again, they estimated they were probably halfway across.

I can’t go on, gasped Costello. I’m not a strong swimmer.  

Kemo slapped his companion across the face. Hold onto me for a while. Then, we must swim on.

The gunfire continued, and the two men realised they were still in range. They witnessed the head of one of the prisoners explode like a watermelon. Costello vomited, as the blood and mucus from the victim enveloped him.

Are you ready? yelled Kemo.

Costello nodded and followed his companion, who once more submerged.

After swimming for a few more seconds, Costello’s aching limbs inhibited him. He felt himself sinking. In the throes of death, he hoped he would die before a crocodile ate him alive.

Kemo swam after Costello and helped him to the surface. Costello spluttered and coughed up water from his lungs.

You’re weak! Spencer, we’re almost across, but you must help me, do you understand?

Costello heard and then saw the terror ahead. There was much splashing as several crocodiles seized their prey and attempted to devour the bodies. Horrendous screams drowned out the sounds of the wildlife. The gunfire from the militia continued.

This way, ordered Kemo, who released his companion. He swam away from the carnage, parallel with the river bank. Costello struggled to keep up and eventually resorted to breaststroke. Kemo once again helped Costello to keep afloat, and they finally reached the riverbank. They lay on the sandbank, gasping and recovering after their exertions. They looked back to the river to see numerous bodies; the fortunate ones dying due to the gunfire. The crocodiles feasted on the corpses, some of their prey still alive. 

Movement in the reeds alerted the two exhausted men. The huge beast scampered towards them, intent on its breakfast. Kemo urged Costello to run, and the Englishman slipped, before regaining his footing. They ran blindly through the mangrove trees, their sandals sinking into the softened earth. They reached a narrow, rutted path and slowed to a walk, realising the crocodile had abandoned its chase.

The pair walked on for a few more minutes before resting in the shade of the trees. The sweltering rays of the sun filtered through the branches of the tall trees, and the survivors longed to quench their thirst. A movement in the jungle alarmed them, as they expected a crocodile or hippopotamus to appear. Two of their fellow inmates emerged, and Kemo spoke to them in a foreign tongue. He waved his arms and raised his voice, prompting the two men to move on.

What was that all about? asked Costello.

They wanted to team up, and I told them we would have a better chance alone.

A flock of redwood doves circled above, and every movement or sound of the wildlife tested their nerves. The high-pitched screams of the baboons particularly unsettled Kemo.

I want to thank you, Kemo. I wouldn’t have made it without you.

The African nodded, unsmiling. I’m glad you realise this. And now, my friend, I’ll be honest with you. I’m no angel or guardian. I told you the prison held protestors, journalists, and killers. I, my friend am the latter. I’m sorry to dampen your illusion that I am chivalrous, for nothing could be further from the truth. I would gladly slit your throat if need be.

Costello narrowed his eyes. I don’t understand.

You are a mining engineer, right? A manager in fact, so I guess you’re wealthy. I need your money to help us to safety.

What good is my money here? Sorry to dispel your fantasy, but the prison warders confiscated my money and credit cards.

Kemo grinned. You can pay later... Oh, and in case you have any ideas of betraying me, I will find and murder your family, believe me.

Okay, but how will my money help us?

Trust me, Mr Costello.

How do you know my surname?

News travels fast in Mile 2 prison. Only two white men are locked up there; you and a German. Now, we must move.

Do you think the soldiers will cross the river, Kemo?

No way... Listen, the President is aware some of us would escape. He is more bothered about clearing some space in his prison, and I’m sure more will follow... Ah, I know what you are thinking. The survivors will report the massacre. President Jammeh is a vain and arrogant man. Even if someone reports this, he will state the prisoners escaped and some died when resisting. He cares not about reprisals, but sanctions from other nations could hurt him. We must leave now.

A little further down the trail, Kemo beckoned Costello to halt. He turned and pointed a finger at his companion. You are thirsty, eh? Wait here. Even if you do flee, you will die in the jungle.

Kemo removed his sandals and approached a tree. He applied pressure on the trunk with the balls of his feet and progressed up the tree. Costello shielded his eyes against the blinding sun, his body riddled with perspiration. He continued to swat away the irritating insects.

Costello heard a thud and spotted the coconut. Three more fell before Kemo descended. He searched for a suitable rock and hammered holes in the coconuts. The two men drunk thirstily, before breaking the coconuts up for food.

Kemo feasted on the white flesh and looked across at Costello. Tell me about your family, Spencer.

The same family you threatened? Your research is not so good, eh?

Well?

My wife is Claire, and I have two daughters, Holly, who is six, and Nanci, four.

And you live in a castle?

Costello burped and grinned. Sorry. Nothing so grand, I’m afraid. I live in Knightsbridge, London, but I shouldn’t really tell you this.

Knightsbridge? A place for rich people to live, eh?

Actually, the income of my two brothers by far dwarf mine. William is a diamond merchant, and Bruce owns a chain of restaurants... Listen, Kemo; you help me to reach England and I’ll reward you well.

Mmm. My initial intention was to use your influence to leave Gambia, but you have just enhanced my interest... How well will you reward me?

Shall we say, twenty-thousand pounds?

Kemo tossed away the husk of his coconut. Shall we say fifty-thousand pounds?

Costello nodded and offered his hand. Then, my friend, we have a deal.

******

A tangerine sky welcomed the two fugitives when they arrived at Bakau, twelve kilometres west of Banjul. Kemo seemed to be familiar with the seaside resort on the Atlantic coast, and led his companion to the outskirts of a shanty town. The early evening air cooled them, but the mosquitoes were persistent. They sheltered behind a group of palm trees and viewed the silhouettes of the breezeblock bungalows, set behind rusting corrugated iron fences. A breeze carried with it the stench of the drainage ditches and the reek of rotten fish.  

Kemo regarded the Englishman suspiciously. Wait here. Do you understand? Don’t do anything foolish, Spencer.

Kemo strolled towards the marketplace; swatting away the flies that hovered over the makeshift stalls. The market traders cleared their tomatoes, chilli peppers, white rice, carrots, fresh fish, and an abundance of fruit. Cuts of beef and lamb lay discarded on the butcher’s chopping boards, inviting the flies to a feast.

Kemo discarded his prison tunic; his bare chest and orange trousers attracting the traders. He approached one middle-aged man, who wore a straw fedora and sported a goatee beard. Whilst the man at first appeared to disregard the stranger, he seemed more amicable after their conversation. Through the fading light, Costello watched the return of Kemo.

Well?

We must wait until darkness before approaching the man’s home. He says he may know someone who can help us, but understandably, he is suspicious.

******

The darkness came quickly, and the two men approached the bungalow. Kemo tapped quietly on the door and the market trader greeted them. He invited them inside and checked around to see they were not followed.

Kemo and Costello drank baobab juice from beakers, before their host placed bowls of mixed fish, white rice, and vegetables in front of them. Kemo proceeded to eat hungrily with his hand. The market trader noticed the white man’s discomfort and offered him a spoon. No words were exchanged during the feast. The host then offered his guests a cigarette, which they accepted.

The corrugated bungalow seemed even smaller from the inside. A rickety bed covered by a mosquito net lay just beyond the dining table, and small stove served to heat his food.

Two younger men joined them, the bulge beneath their tee shirts suggesting they were armed. The host, Bassirou introduced them as Jibrin and Malamin.

Costello suspected the names were false.

I take it you are Kemo? asked the one in the baseball cap known as Jibirin.

Will you help us?

You’ve escaped from Mile 2 prison, eh? What were your crimes?

Kemo thumbed towards Costello. His company allegedly stole minerals. Me, I protested against President Jammeh.

Costello frowned, uncertain which crime Kemo was actually serving time for.

Malamin spoke up. We usually smuggle people in large quantities and are paid handsomely for it. What do you two have to offer?

Kemo again spoke up. Whatever we decide, the deal will have to be based on trust.

Fucking trust? barked Malamin. You expect us to trust two criminals.

Kemo swatted away a mosquito. My friend here is a wealthy man. He values his family, and so is not prepared to risk their lives.

And you, pointed Jibrin. What value do you have? Why should we take you?

The perspiration streamed down the face of Kemo. We have an arrangement. He would not be here if it wasn’t for me.

Is this right? asked Jibrin.

We go together, demanded Costello.

Jibrin stroked his chin. "If we agree to this; how will we