The Culling

By Anthony Hulse

A series of child abductions are linked to Jules Devlin’s touring circus. A team of CID detectives are deployed and attempt to unravel the mystery. The performers, including a clown, a lion-tamer, a fire-eater, a dwarf, and conjoined twins harbour a terrifying secret. Jimmy Crawford, an ex-CID detective turned private investigator is hired by the parents of a teenage girl, who believe her disappearance is linked to the circus. Crawford is aided in his task by a child psychologist and a priest. Through a handicapped boy, they discover that the circus is not what it seems. DS Jenny Stiles, believing Devlin is the head of a paedophile ring, soon discovers something more sinister. Could the evil carnival be responsible for the burning of churches and their priests? The Culling is a supernatural thriller set in Whitby and Dartmoor. From Edinburgh, Cleveland and Lourdes in France, strange and unexplainable episodes occur, which leads Jenny to believe that Devlin is indeed evil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291707137

Book preview

The Culling

The Culling

Anthony Hulse

Copyright @ Anthony Hulse 2015

ISBN: 978-1-291-70713-7

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.

Prologue

The silent intruder gained access to the clinic, allowing the cool breeze to waft in through the open window. All decent folk were asleep at this late hour, but this was not a decent person. He shuffled along the shadowy corridor, his breathing stifled when he neared the ward. The babies stirred when the stranger peered into their cribs, carefully selecting his prey. Louise Jameson, at three days old was to be the chosen one.

The intruder picked her up in his arms and gently rocked her. There, there, little one. We’ll soon have you home.

The abductor carried the new arrival into this world from the clinic, crooning to her. Hush little baby don’t say a word, daddy’s gonna buy you a mocking bird.

He left the clinic the same way as he came in, through a ground floor window. The unsuspecting, slumbering nurse, who naively opened the window to allow the night air to cool the clinic, would regret her action for the rest of her life.

The abductor carried the baby away into the darkness, still mouthing the lullaby.  

Chapter One

Jimmy Crawford held his hand against his side, certain that one of these days he would suffer cardiac arrest. He continued jogging through the crowded park on the way to his office, his breathing laboured, and his legs aching badly. He would be thirty-five years of age on his next birthday, and his strenuous exercise proved no easier. His long legs pounded the footpath, his face reddened by his exertions. Crawford had jogged to his office every morning for the last two years, come rain or shine. He prided himself on his fitness, urging himself on in his vanity.

It was three years since Crawford left Cleveland CID; his voluntary retirement more out of pride than his loathing of the job. He acknowledged it was only a matter of time before they ousted him from the force, chiefly because of his indiscipline. His premature resignation would salvage his pride; aware now he could not be fired.

For almost one year, Crawford sat around the house, moping and feeling sorry for himself; an action that contributed to his wife, Julie divorcing him. It was then that he decided to do something about his life; hence, his introduction into the private investigation business. He was his own boss, and that suited him just fine. There was to be no more taking orders from snotty-nosed, sanctimonious inspectors.     

He entered the tall, shabby-looking building and sauntered up the staircase to the third floor. His vanity prevented him from taking the lift. Outside his office, he paused and wiped his sweat-drenched face with his handkerchief. He stared proudly at the nameplate on the door. J. Crawford. Private Investigator. Viewing that rented sign on his rented door, never failed to stimulate him.

Crawford loved his work, even though the cases hardly inspired him. Spying on unfaithful spouses was not what he had in mind when he applied for a license, but he supposed it paid the office rent. He barely scraped a living; but needed little income, due to Julie moving her lover into his home. Crawford lived in rented accommodation, sharing a house with two male students, who ensured his sleep was minimal. He lived in the hope that his next case would be the one;  the one that would authenticate his standing as a real detective.

His rugged looks and tall, athletic figure ensured his popularity with the fairer sex. With his piercing eyes, the colour of the deepest ocean, and his clear complexion, he could certainly pass for someone ten years younger. The slightly crooked nose, attributed to his rugby playing days, bore testament to his true aggressive nature.

He frowned, noticing his door was ajar. He combed his thick, black hair in anticipation of encountering an angry husband, complaining that the private eye had serviced the wife he had been paid to survey.

He entered his office and faced a middle-aged couple, and judging by their attire and demeanour, they were opulent in nature. Crawford imagined the pound signs before his eyes, and considered increasing his fee, as they could no doubt afford it.

Hello. I’m Jimmy Crawford. How did you manage to gain entry into my office? The words suggested a hint of an Irish accent.

The silver haired man spoke up. The door was open, Mr Crawford, so we entered. He answered with an educated accent.

Crawford pondered. He recalled he had drunk a half bottle of whiskey in his office the evening before, and must have forgotten to lock up. Not that there was anything worth stealing. A rickety desk, a filing cabinet, and three not so expensive chairs he still owed for were his possessions. The Stone Age computer was his prize asset, even though he had not completed payment for it. In reality, he still had not mastered the workings of the computer, his typing down to one finger at approximately ten words per minute. He did consider employing a secretary, but deemed he could not afford one.

What can I do for you, Mr?…

Radcliffe is the name, old boy, said the dapper man, seemingly unimpressed with the squalid surroundings, and even less impressed by the track-suited private detective. We saw your advertisement in the local newspaper, and so, here we are.

Yes, well, my regular office is being refurbished and this is just temporary, lied Crawford. He perused the abundance of jewellery on the attractive woman and invited them to sit. How can I help you, Mr Radcliffe?

It’s our daughter, Susan. She usually phones us every Sunday, regular as clockwork, but we haven’t heard from her in over a fortnight. Understandably, we’re very worried.

Crawford approached the dusty window and let out the stale whisky fumes. How old is your daughter?

Eighteen, interrupted Radcliffe’s worried looking wife. There’s something frightfully wrong; I just know there is.

Crawford relaxed in his chair. If you don’t mind me saying, two weeks is not a long time, and she is a young lady at eighteen. I wouldn’t worry too much. Crawford already regretted his statement, as he desperately needed the fee.

The regimental voice of Radcliffe broke in. You don’t understand. Susan’s mixed up with the wrong crowd. Bloody gypsies.

Gypsies?

Yes, that bloody lot from the circus.

Circus? Crawford regretted the repetitive response. 

Susan is attending university, but is infatuated by those damn circuses. When she heard there was one in the area, she just took off with them.

Crawford frowned. How long has Susan been with the circus?

Three weeks, uttered Radcliffe, lighting a huge cigar.

Is the circus still in the area?

Radcliffe groaned. No, damn it. Those gypsies travel all over the country.

Crawford proceeded to jot down the details. What is the name of this circus?

Devlins. Devlin’s Circus.

Mrs Radcliffe interrupted. I realise you must think us foolish, Mr Crawford, but Susan is our only child and it’s not like her not to have called home.

What she wants with those bloody gypsies, I don’t know, grunted Mr Radcliffe. They ought to be conscripted into the army, the whole bunch of them.

You were an army man yourself, Mr Radcliffe? quizzed Crawford.

I was. I served with the Royal Signals before I was forced to retire through ill health."

What rank were you?"

Radcliffe reddened before coughing. Enough of my private life. Are you taking the case on, or not?

Crawford pretended to check his agenda. I’m going through an extremely busy period, but yes, I should be able to fit you in… My fee is one hundred pounds per day, plus expenses of course. He gripped the arm of his chair tightly and awaited the response.

Radcliffe remained emotionless. How would you like the money? Will a cheque suffice?

The couple did not even blink, and Crawford now wished he had inflated his fee. A cheque will be fine.

Radcliffe proceeded to write out a cheque. I’ll write you out a cheque for five hundred pounds. It should not take you more than a day or two, so we’ll call the surplus a bonus, shall we? If however it does take longer than anticipated, you can contact me at Abingdon Hall in Stokesley. Here is my contact number… I’ll expect a call every day concerning your progress.

Do you have a recent photograph of Susan?

Of course. Mrs Radcliffe foraged through her handbag, and for the first time, Crawford noticed she had been crying. He focused on the photograph, acknowledging just how much Susan resembled her mother, with long blonde hair and blue eyes. He would not forget that face in a hurry.

One more thing, Mr and Mrs Radcliffe. There is a chance your daughter will not wish to return home. I do not have the power or the authority to persuade her otherwise, apart from a few encouraging words.

Find her, man, demanded Radcliffe. That’s all we ask. Find our daughter.

Crawford pondered. Why me? I mean, why didn’t you just contact the police?

Because, I could not trust them to commit themselves to the case one hundred percent. They must deal with dozens of missing person enquiries per week… To be quite frank, Mr Crawford, there were not too many options available when it come to hiring the services of a private investigator. All I ask is that you focus entirely on finding my daughter.

Crawford smiled. Don’t worry; I’m sure Susan will turn up safe and sound. He ushered the worried couple towards the exit. I’ll be in touch. Goodbye.

Crawford sat at his desk and held the cheque up to the light. This was his biggest payday for a long time. Why didn’t I ask for more? he muttered. Another missing person’s case, only this time he intended to stretch it out. They could no doubt afford it.   

Chapter Two

Detective Sergeant Jenny Stiles bit into her salad sandwich; the teasing from her colleagues prompting her latest diet. Not that she was overweight; on the contrary. Her hourglass figure would certainly be acceptable to fashion models worldwide, but the slanderous remarks cut her deeply. Jenny was twenty-eight years old and single. The petite, doe-eyed girl with short, auburn hair, and dark, smouldering looks, won numerous admirers, but her career came first. Jenny shunned romance in her quest to climb the promotional ladder. Unflattering denims were her usual attire; the masculine rags purposely selected to deter her male admirers.

Detective Sergeant Carl Fuller was one such admirer; a no-nonsense type of detective with twelve years experience in CID behind him. The domineering figure stood at six feet two, and considered himself as Jenny’s mentor. Several times, she had spurned his advances. Not that he was unattractive, but the fact he was disrespectful, racist, and sexist, ensured the majority of his colleagues loathed him. That he was also married did not augment his sexual advances. Fuller, an aggressive, hard-hitting detective, usually achieved positive results, but not always in a conventional manner. At least he was consistent, for he respected nobody.

One victim of his disrespect and loathing was Detective Constable Henry Willard, and that he was black did not help his cause. Willard inwardly detested Fuller, but usually laughed off the taunts and racist innuendos directed towards him.  

Fuller, for all of his imperfections, proved a man to have at your side when the going got tough. One sunny afternoon, he passed a bank and heard a commotion. A gunman held a shotgun against the head of the bank manager, threatening to blow his brains out if he did not cooperate. Fuller, without any regard for himself or the bank manager, calmly walked up to the startled gunman and disarmed him, but not before administering a powerful punch to the kidneys.

Detective Chief Inspector Patrick Malone, a redheaded Irishman entered the room and passed a folder to Jenny. Get onto this immediately, will you. It’s top priority.

Jenny abandoned her sandwich. What about the insurance fraud, sir?

Drop it. A baby was abducted from Lonsdale Clinic last night. Her parents are distraught, as you can imagine. You’ll find the address in the folder. Take Henry with you… The father is a good friend of the Superintendent. Probably from the same bloody masonic lodge. We’re run off our feet at the moment with the disappearance of young Ian Darcy and the possible murder of that priest.

I thought the priest’s death was an accident, guv, interrupted DS Fuller.

"That’s what you’re being paid for, Carl, to investigate. He died in his burnt down church, and I doubt he did it for the insurance. Chase up forensics and see what they’ve come up with. 

******

Jenny wound down the car window, scowled at her partner, and wafted away the irritating cigarette smoke. Do you have to smoke, Henry.

Putting it out right away, boss, mocked the black detective, flicking the offending cigarette out of the window. 

Jenny resented his racist intones. Henry, why do you take all this shit off Fuller? Why not report him, the racist bastard.

While he’s picking on me, he’s leaving some other poor mite alone.

Do you want me to have a quiet word with Malone? asked Jenny.

Leave it out. Let him have his fun. I’ve had this all of my life, Jenny. When he comes in wearing white robes and carrying a burning torch, that’s when I’ll start to worry.

Why did you join the police? You don’t seem a natural choice for this job.

It beats picking cotton, missy, mimicked DC Willard in a high-pitched voice.

Jenny ignored the remark. She acknowledged that Willard constantly joked about his race, and wondered if it was just a way to relieve the anxiety he must feel.

They advanced down a country lane on the outskirts of Middlesbrough, the warm sunlight filtering through the branches of the tall trees. The large houses with the long driveways obviously belonged to people of opulence.

Jenny ordered Willard to slow down, and peered at the house numbers displayed on the gates. She pointed, and the vehicle manoeuvred into the driveway. They left the car and ambled along the drive, the magnificent landscaped gardens confirming the grandeur of the residence.

Willard rung the doorbell, and a grey-haired man wearing a black waistcoat greeted them. His tired eyes looked Willard up and down.

I’m Detective Sergeant Stiles and this is…

Yes, yes, I know who you are. I suppose you’d better come in.

They entered into the extravagantly furnished lounge, where they encountered a red-eyed woman, nervously smoking a cigarette. 

The host turned towards the detectives. I’m Dr Jameson, a psychiatrist, and this is my wife, Sarah. Superintendent Jones promised me he would send two of his finest detectives to investigate our daughter’s abduction, so I trust his judgement.

Jenny opened up. First of all, we understand what you must be going through, and we’ll do everything possible to find your baby. I understand she was taken from Lonsdale Clinic last night?

Dr Jameson nodded. Yes, she was only three days old. We were advised to leave Louise in the clinic for observation. There were complications, you see. She had a slight heart murmur.

Do you have a photograph of Louise? It may help.

Yes, of course, said the doctor. What are the chances of finding our baby, Sergeant? It was our first.

There’s more than a good chance Louise will be returned safe and sound, lied Jenny. Quite often, the abductor is a childless woman who would not harm the child under any circumstances. If the purpose of the abduction is blackmail, then the chances are you would have heard from them by now… We’ll arrange for a television appeal tonight. Hopefully, after realising what pain the parents are experiencing, the abductor may feel remorse and return the baby.

The psychiatrist placed his arm around his moping wife and spoke. Louise will be difficult to trace after a couple of weeks. Isn’t that so? Her face will have changed by then and recognition will be difficult.

Jenny attempted to pacify the couple. Hopefully, Doctor, we will be able to locate Louise before then. We’ll obviously check out women who have recently lost an infant, and anyone recently released from mental institutions. Someone somewhere will hopefully see Louise with the abductor, and realise the woman was never pregnant.

Sarah interrupted. You assume a woman is responsible for the abduction.

DC Willard responded. In ninety percent of these cases the adductor is a brooding woman… Could you tell us what Louise was wearing?

A pink romper suit, sobbed Sarah, stubbing out her cigarette.

Willard jotted down the details. When you visited the clinic, did anyone speak to you? Another mother, perhaps?

No. We spoke only to doctors and nurses.

Did Louise have any distinguishing marks?

No.

Jenny smiled. Thank you. That will be all for now. If you give us your telephone number, we will ring you just as soon as there are any developments. A colleague will call round sometime this afternoon to prepare you for the television appeal… Don’t worry. We’ll find your daughter.

As they left the house, Dr Jameson called after them. Thank you, and give my regards to Superintendent Jones, will you.

They ambled along the driveway and Willard lit up a cigarette. You do realise the chances of finding the baby are slim, Jenny. Why give them false hope?

She wafted away the smoke. Because, Henry; hope is all they have.

******

Little Louise Jameson was not safe and sound. The abductor laid the crying and hungry baby on the bed and reached for a pillow.

Don’t weep, little one. You’re going to a far better place than this.

The baby ceased crying, as the man made childish, infantile noises. He crooned softly. Hush little baby don’t say a word, daddy’s gonna buy you a mocking bird.

The pillow smothered the face of Louise Jameson, and then there was darkness. 

Chapter Three

Jimmy Crawford drove along the scenic, coastal road towards Whitby, the latest location for Devlin’s Circus. He ignored the beautiful surroundings of the North Yorkshire Moor, his mind contemplating the car he would purchase with his fee from this investigation, which he intended to prolong. His old, battered Ford Capri was in dire need of a trip to the scrap yard.

He arrived at the picturesque fishing resort of Whitby and wound down his window, viewing the scantily clad girls, strolling along the harbour side. Unusual for early spring, the hot sun scorched the cobbled streets; not a breath of wind evident. Crawford wolf-whistled at the girls, who giggled and blew him kisses. He drove on, acknowledging there would be ample time for romance later.

Crawford searched the road signs, looking for the location of Devlin’s Circus. He glanced across the other side of the harbour to the old town; the magnificent structures of Whitby Abbey and St Mary’s Church standing proud, overlooking the resort. With its Gothic charm, Crawford understood why Bram Stoker had chosen the haunting setting for his Count Dracula novel. Whitby is the supposed port where Dracula was shipwrecked, and many visitors experience the chilling atmosphere when venturing through the ancient St Mary’s cemetery.

Crawford licked his dry lips, envious of the sun dwellers seated outside the pubs, sipping their afternoon tipple. He spotted the sign for the circus and steered towards the West Cliff. He drove past the infamous statue of Captain Cook, conscious of the larger than average crowds who had ventured to sun-baked Whitby.

The private detective parked outside the Imperial Hotel, put on his sunglasses, and gazed across the large, green expanse, towards the mass of tents. Several caravans occupied the area, along with an abundance of stalls and sideshows. Because of the early hour, the circus and its supporting attractions were inactive.

Crawford strode towards the circus and gazed at the huge poster, proclaiming the attraction as the greatest show on earth. He entered the large marquee and approached a green-haired clown with a red nose. Excuse me.

The clown faced the stranger. And what can Pepe do for you, sir? The accent was Scottish.

I’d like to speak to the owner of the circus, please.

Mr Devlin? If you wait here, I’ll check to see if he’s available.

Crawford strolled around the marquee, taking in the rehearsals, especially the trapeze artistes and the fire-eater. He continued his amble around the Big Top, the unpleasant stench of the elephants and camels repulsing him.

He noticed someone watching him from the shadow of the marquee. The mysterious shape revealed itself and shuffled towards the visitor. Crawford immediately perceived his inquisitors were male conjoined twins, or Siamese twins as they are more commonly known, and were joined at the hip. What misfortune nature had bestowed on them was enhanced by their ghastly appearance. Their faces were the colour of honey, their noses broad, and their long hair tied in ponytails. Their wide lips appeared as though a swarm of angry bees had beset them. One of the twins licked an ice cream cone and looked over the stranger with inquisitive eyes.

And what have we here? they asked in unison.

Crawford smiled. How did you do that?

Do what? they said together in an Italian accent. The way you stare at us, it’s as if you had not seen twins before.

I haven’t… Well, not Siamese twins.

This time, only the one with the cone spoke. "We’re not Siamese. We resent that insinuation. We’re Italian, and to answer your earlier question, we each know what the other is thinking. We have a sort of telepathic understanding… My brother likes to show off, hence him speaking in sequence with me.

He offered his hand. I am Paulo Santini and this is my brother, Franco.

Jimmy Crawford… Tell me; how long have you two been with the circus?

Forever. We have been with Mr Devlin from the beginning. Again, their words were synchronised.

So, what do you do? quizzed Crawford, looking up at the trapeze artistes going through their routine.

Franco spoke up. We just help around the place. We used to be the star attractions with the freak show, but public opinion ruled such a show was cruel, and so it was abolished. Mr Devlin kindly kept us on as helpers.

Crawford did not hear the approach of the host.

Hello. I’m Jules Devlin. What business do you want with me?

Crawford offered his hand, but Devlin ignored the greeting. I’m Jimmy Crawford, a private investigator. I was hired by some worried parents, who’re looking for their daughter.

Paulo, Franco; go and assist Peter with the training of the lions, ordered Devlin.

The twins obeyed and shuffled away.

Devlin seemed European, possibly French, but had no trace of an accent. His slick black hair was combed back and he sported a neatly groomed Van Dyke beard. He had piercing sky blue eyes and wore a black smoking jacket.

What is the name of this girl? asked Devlin, lighting a cheroot.

Susan Radcliffe. She’s eighteen years old and worked at the circus recently. Here’s a photograph of her.

Devlin studied the snapshot. Ah, yes, I remember her now. She assisted with the feeding of the animals. Such a charming girl, but why she wanted to leave, I do not know.

She left? Do you know where she went?

Devlin shrugged. We were performing in Stokesley when she left us… She left with a young man.

Who was this man, Mr Devlin?

He blew out a plume of smoke and narrowed his eyes. Sorry, I’d never set eyes on him before. They just left.

Crawford seemed unsatisfied. Would it be okay if I questioned some of your staff? Perhaps they might know who this man was.

Of course. Feel free to mingle, but I can assure you, this man was not in my employment.

Crawford glanced at his wristwatch. What time does your show start, Mr Devlin?

Seven ‘o’clock prompt… Are you an admirer of the greatest show on earth, Mr Crawford?

Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. I used to love circuses as a kid, but don’t tell anyone, will you? I have my reputation to uphold.

Devlin grinned. Your secret is safe with me… Here, have a complimentary ticket. Enjoy the show.

The circus owner turned his back and walked away before Crawford could thank him. The private investigator felt a tug on the rear of his jacket and turned to face the culprit.

Hello Mister. Are you looking for Susan? asked a dwarf in a high-pitched voice.

Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. How did you know that?

News travels fast here. We are one big happy family.

But, I’ve only just told Mr Devlin. You couldn’t possibly have known.

I heard you. I was standing behind you all of the time.

Crawford was certain the dwarf lied. The strange looking fellow had all the mannerisms of a dwarf, but there was something strange about him. His bowler hat, thick sideburns, and his style of dress were not from this era, and more suited to someone from the days of Queen Victoria.  

That accent, queried Crawford. Where are you from?

The dwarf removed his bowler hat and bowed. I’m German. Frederick Kohler, at your service.

There appears to be a fair mixture of nationalities within this circus, Frederick.

Yes, we’re an international circus and travel far beyond these shores.

Crawford changed the subject. Did you notice who Susan left with?

No. She was here one minute and gone the next.

Excuse me, please. Crawford sidestepped the dwarf and approached the fire-eater, who would not have looked out of place in the RAF with his thick handlebar moustache. Hello, I wonder if you could help me. I’m looking for Susan Radcliffe. Do you remember her?

No. I was not acquainted with the girl.

Frederick now stood beside Crawford.

Crawford was relieved he had at last encountered an Englishman. He had never before met such a strange bunch of characters, but after all, it is a circus. He looked up to see a young girl in a gold leotard, swinging gracefully on her trapeze. She blew Crawford a kiss.

Ignore her, insisted Frederick. That one is loco.

Her and the rest of you, thought Crawford, as he headed outside for some fresh air. He filled his lungs with the air, a welcome change from the pungent fumes of the elephant and camel dung. His eyes focused on a dark, shaven headed man, who along with the twins, fed the ferocious-looking lions in their cage.

Crawford addressed the dark man. I don’t suppose you were acquainted with Susan Radcliffe, were you?

As a matter of fact, I was, he replied in a South African accent. Susan was my assistant. She used to feed my cats.

Crawford probed further. Did you have any inkling that Susan was not happy here?

No. She loved my cats, responded the South African, pointing towards the three huge beasts, devouring their meat… Fredrick, on the other hand is afraid of my cats. He thinks they want to eat him.

The dwarf cowered behind the lion-tamer.

Did you ever see Susan with anyone not connected to the circus? asked Crawford.

No, I did not.

Thank you for your time, Mr…

De Villes. Peter De Villes."

Are you coming to the show tonight? cackled the twins in unison.

I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Crawford headed towards the exit, feeling numerous eyes scrutinise him. There was something so strange about these people. Yes, they worked in a circus, but there was something else. Something he could not put his finger on. Susan, he figured had probably ran off with a boyfriend, but Crawford aimed to make the most of his undertaking, starting with the circus tonight. He decided to book into a hotel close to the circus, and have a well-earned drink. Yes, it had been a profitable day indeed. 

Chapter Four

Jenny’s initial search for potential suspects, proved unsuccessful; all known baby snatchers from