Insanity Never Sleeps II (The Resurrection)

By Anthony Hulse

Three years after the supposed death of prolific serial killer Billy Woods, a spate of identical murders occur in Cleveland. A couple, after island hopping in Greece, claim they saw Billy on Anafi. Is there a copycat killer or could Billy possibly be still alive? Ruth Vickers, now a uniformed police officer after her demotion, becomes involved once more with tracking down the monster. She is unaware that due to her unnatural fixation with Woods, she is slowly losing her mind. A terrifying sequel, even more frightening than the original. A fast moving psychological thriller that will mesmerise you! Not for the squeamish!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291737882

Book preview

Insanity Never Sleeps II (The Resurrection)

Insanity Never Sleeps II

The Resurrection

Second edition

Anthony Hulse

Copyright @ Anthony Hulse 2015

ISBN: 978-1-291-73788-2

Second edition.

Cover art by Lukiyanova Natalia. Frentusha @ 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 a special person, who left us at such a young age. Samantha was a kind, loving, and generous girl, who never failed to charm and endow her wit and affection on those who had the pleasure of knowing her.

Samantha leaves a young daughter, Nanci, who she doted on, and will no doubt make her proud. May the angels watch over you, Sam. 

Prologue

Anafi, The Cylades Islands, Greece.

Alistair Keenan and his girlfriend, Stephanie held hands aboard the ramshackle ferry as they approached the island of Anafi. The south east island of the Cyclades was the sixth Greek island they had visited on their one-month break. Anafi, to look at was not too impressive. Towering, rocky cliffs jutted out to sea, and a monastery stood proudly on the cliff top of the small, barren island..

The ferry docked and the couple viewed the whitewashed houses, spread along the quite bay of the small port. They experienced a sensation of stepping back in time; such was the ambience of the seemingly ageless island.

Alistair and Stephanie secured their backpacks before they left the ferry, and sensed the countless inquisitive eyes inspecting them. They set off up the steep incline; above them the foreboding, towering cliffs, and ahead, a narrow track, unworthy of the title, road. The island lacked any fertility of such, and the sun-baked rocks were a common feature of the terrain.  

The couple meandered their way past the unsmiling Greeks. The hot, midday May sun scorched their faces, and the taverna up ahead was a most welcome sight. An old woman, dressed in black, sat outside the establishment, and at least offered a semblance of a smile. She uttered strange words when they passed.

The interior of the taverna proved a welcome relief from the heat. In one corner was a group of elderly men, who played cards; and only offered occasional glances, before they returned to their game.

The couple approached the bar, and one of the men left the game and strolled towards them.

German? he asked.

No, in fact, we’re English, stated Alistair proudly.

English? You are most welcome, my friends… I am Andreus, and that rabble over there are my friends. Forgive them, for we do not have many visitors on Anafi.   

May I have a glass of water, please, asked Stephanie, lowering her backpack to the ground.

Water? scowled the proprietor. You want water? Surely not. You must taste our wine.

Water will be fine, thanks.

Andreus frowned, obviously disappointed. He turned towards the Englishman. And you, my friend; do you want water too?       

I’ll have a cold beer, thank you.

The bearded proprietor smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Stephanie watched open-mouthed, as the Greek wiped a glass with a soiled tea towel, before he held it beneath a rusty tap. The pipes gurgled and the brown liquid oozed into the glass.

Andreus, began Stephanie. Perhaps I will have the wine after all.

Andreus poured the foul water into the sink. Good. The wine is good… Why are you here? he quizzed, as he uncorked a bottle of wine.

We’re exploring the Greek Islands, responded Alistair, licking his lips when the host poured his beer.

Are there any cheap hotels on the island?

Andreus leant over the bar and placed his face close to the blonde girl. "Hotels, bah! You’re welcome to stay with Andreus… Asda price, eh?"

Stephanie offered a false smile and shrugged her shoulders.

Alistair swallowed a mouthful of the foaming beer before he responded. We’ll consider your kind offer, thanks, Andreus.

Andreus nodded. You are hungry, yes?

The question was directed at Stephanie.

Well, actually, yes we are.

No problem. Sit and I will bring you food.

The couple bypassed the ignorant card school and sat close to the doorway. The old woman shuffled her stool, caressed Stephanie’s hand, and offered a few Greek utterances.

Alistair left the women and studied the ancient photographs that adorned the white walls of the interior of the taverna. He heard loud voices from outside, but chose to ignore them. He had learnt that when the Greeks have a friendly conversation, they invariably sound as though they are in conflict.  

Alistair drained his glass and observed Andreus returning from the kitchen. He placed the tray on a table and the two guests made their way towards the feast. The fare set before them was most welcome, with fresh bread, feta cheese, olives, grapes, and a carafe of wine.

Andreus spread his arms. Enjoy, my friends.

The feast was basic, but the English couple missed breakfast and ate the offering with gusto.

Alistair waited until Andreus rejoined his friends before he spoke. What do you reckon, Steph? Should we take up his offer?

She stared past her boyfriend and remained silent, as though she never heard him.

Steph… Steph, are you okay? It will only be for a few days. What do you say?

Either she did not hear him, or she chose to ignore him. The blood visibly drained from her face and her hands trembled; something that was noticed by the advancing old woman.

What is it? quizzed Alistair. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. 

The old woman held Stephanie’s hand and mumbled comforting, unintelligible words.

Stephanie’s eyes watered and her lips quivered, which prompted her boyfriend to follow her line of sight.

Sat on a step opposite the taverna was a stocky, bushy-bearded man with unkempt hair. He mended fishing nets, oblivious to the attention he attracted from the foreigners.

Is that man bothering you? asked Alistair.

It… It’s him, she said coarsely. Don’t you see him? 

It’s who?

B-B-Billy. Billy Woods!

Alistair felt a lump in his throat and offered a half-hearted smile. Don’t be insane. Billy Woods is dead.

Stephanie pointed. Look at him, Alistair. Fucking look at him. That man is Billy Woods.

The young Englishman turned his head uneasily, and was thankful that the fisherman concentrated on his work. Steph, that man is not Billy Woods. Perhaps, you’ve had too much sun.

The girl was adamant. Look at him, god damn it! It’s him I tell you.

Alistair smiled uneasily at Andreus and his friends, who noticed the unrest. The old woman continued to mutter in Greek and attempted to comfort Stephanie. She pointed at the fisherman and said excitedly, John… John.

Alistair smiled. There, you see. He’s probably a Greek fisherman… Besides, you’ve never set eyes on Woods before.

I’ve seen his photos in the newspapers and read that book by Ron Giles.

Alistair clasped his girlfriend’s hands. Yes, but don’t you think you’re being a tad ridiculous? A friend of Billy’s claimed in a newspaper article that Woods would terrorise women no more. He refused to give details of course, but it makes sense. He would have implicated himself in the murder of Woods had he given details.

Stephanie was unconvinced. And what about the gunning down of the Briggs brothers, three years ago?

Many people wanted them dead. Even Giles refused to believe Woods was responsible.

Talk to him, Alistair.

What?

If you don’t believe that is Billy Woods… go and ask him.

Don’t be so bloody absurd. Alistair motioned over to the card school. Andreus, one moment of your time, if you please. 

The bearded proprietor put down his cards, amid the complaints from his friends. He reluctantly joined the bickering English couple. What can I do for you, my friends? The food is good, yes?

Stephanie who spoke up. Yes, the food is fine… Andreus, that man outside… mending the fishing nets; who is he?

Andreus turned to view the man. John. That is John. 

Stop staring at him, Steph, insisted the red-faced Alistair.

She continued. John? That’s not a Greek name, is it?

Andreus stroked his beard. "No, it’s English.

Stephanie nudged her boyfriend. There, I told you. He’s English.

Again, the proprietor shrugged his shoulders and plucked a grape from the bunch. Who knows where John is from? He does not talk much, does that one.

Stephanie probed further. When did he arrive here?

John has been here since he was a child.

Alistair laughed, more out of relief, than because he was proved correct.  There, you see. You want to leave those murder and mystery books alone.

But, you said he could be English, uttered Stephanie.  

Andreus glanced over to his impatient friends. John has lived with Otis and George since he was a child.

The English girl was resolute. So…why? Where are his parents?

Anger displayed on the face of the host. Enough for one day. John is a good man, and let us leave it at that.

But…

Alistair restrained his girlfriend, as Andreus said something to the old woman in Greek.

About that room, enquired Alistair.

Andreus scowled. I made a mistake. There are no spare rooms here. It is two kilometres to Hora. They have some nice rooms there.

The proprietor left them, and before Alistair could protest, Stephanie stepped outside and approached the fisherman. John sat in the shade, ignorant of the girl before him.

Billy.

He lifted his head and smiled. John. My name is John.

Stephanie shuddered at the leering, sadistic grin that adorned his tanned face. She now had misgivings about approaching this man, who may be responsible for such savagery in England and Crete. Seventeen victims were attributed to him. What if he was Woods?

She narrowed her eyes. That’s a north east accent you have there, isn’t it?

His stare was unwavering, and his grin unrelenting. The door of the house opened and an elderly, bronzed, white-haired man appeared. His muscular frame belied his years, and his craggy face was unsmiling. He spoke a few words of Greek and John went inside. The old man then pointed towards the port and ranted to Stephanie in his native tongue.

The hands on Stephanie’s shoulders startled her.

Come on, Steph, insisted Alistair. Forget it. You were mistaken.

The couple backed off and the disturbed girl looked towards the dusty window. The bearded man known as John taunted her with his eyes.

Chapter One

Cleveland, England.

The policewoman screwed up her face and watched her obese colleague bite into a coronary’s delight…a double cheeseburger with a mountain of onions and relish, covered with an abundance of mustard and tomato ketchup. She wound down the car window to let in some much-needed fresh air.

Ruth Vickers, once a prospective Detective Sergeant with CID, now served her punishment for her assumed, tactless escapades in Crete, where she had upset a number of high-ranking officials in her obsessive quest to bring the notorious serial killer, Billy Woods to justice. Because she was partly responsible for the deaths of Constable Stepan Papadimitriou and WPC Carol Smith, contributed to her excessive stint in uniform. That she carried an illegal firearm in Crete did not help her cause.

She looked across at her partner. How do you eat that shit, Wes?

It’s easy, Ruth. I just move my mouth like so.

Piss off, Daniels. I’m not in the mood for sarcasm.

Wrong time of the month, eh?

Ruth’s eyes focused on the jewellers across the street. Two women had a screaming match, and attracted a sizeable audience. Let’s check that out, Wes.

Damn. That’s what I call bad timing, moaned the policeman, wrapping up his burger and placing it on the dashboard.

The two uniformed cops marched purposefully towards the jewellers and parted the curious crowd.

What’s going on here? quizzed Ruth.

This woman here is trying to con me, officer, moaned the irate jeweller, her spectacles dangling from a chain.

The accused woman turned to face Ruth, and sighed when she realised who she was dealing with.

Jody Bakewell! When did you get out, Jody? asked Ruth.

The bitch is lying, Ruth. She’s trying to stitch me up.

Hold on now, interrupted PC Daniels, attempting to separate the bickering women. Why don’t you tell us what’s going on here.

Ruth ushered the women inside and closed the door to the spectators.

Daniels stood with his hands on his hips. He pointed towards the jeweller. Okay, you first.

She came in here and asked to see a one-hundred pound chain. I let her see it and she agreed to buy it. She paid me with five twenty-pound notes. She was on her way out, when she turned back. She then decided to purchase a two-hundred pound chain instead. I had no problem with that, and so she passed me back the chain. I then told her she owed me another one-hundred pounds. It was then she accused me of robbing her, by insisting she had already paid me one-hundred pounds and had given the original chain back, which was also worth one-hundred pounds... Anyway, I had to think about it before I realised I was being conned.

Ruth glared at Jody. Tut, tut, Jody; losing your street credibility, aren’t you? Haven’t you any more material? You were using that scam years ago.    

Good stings are hard to come by nowadays, Ruth. You know how it is.

Ruth took the jeweller to one side. Listen, you don’t want to press charges, do you?

Of course I do. That bitch tried to rob me.

Ruth pondered. What if I was to tell you she’s just lost her husband and two kids in a traffic accident, and that she was kicked onto the streets by the bank?

The jeweller showed no signs of sympathy. I’m sorry, but that’s not my concern.

Okay, shrugged Ruth. It’s such a pity she’ll spend her last dying days in prison.

Ruth walked away and the jeweller scurried after her. Officer, wait a minute. What did you mean; she’ll spend her last dying days in prison?

Ruth ensured they were out of earshot. Didn’t I mention that Jody’s HIV positive?

Oh, my dear God. That poor woman.

Okay, Mrs…

Yale, said the ruffled jeweller.

Mrs Yale, I’ll now take down your statement.

Wait. Maybe I was a little rash. I now understand her reasons for doing what she does, but tell her never to step foot in my shop again.

Ruth smiled. You’re an angel, Mrs Yale.

Once outside, Ruth whispered to PC Daniels, who retreated to the police car. Ruth confronted the con woman. Incidentally, Jody, where did you get the one-hundred notes from? Your old man is doing a stretch in Durham, and I’m hoping you’re not on the game.

Give me some credit, Ruth. I used the monkey scam to set me up… Anyway, thanks for what you did just now.

Yeah, well, get your thieving arse back to Stockton. You owe me one, okay?

You’re the man, Ruth… if you get my jive.

As Jody walked away, Ruth shouted after her. Jody? What the fuck is the monkey scam?

You don’t want to know, girl. You don’t want to know.

******

Yvonne Sankey scowled at the younger, prettier girl, who leant on the car and bartered with a punter. The peroxide blonde was fast approaching forty, and her class of punters had certainly deteriorated since her younger days. The new, fresh blood now claimed the cream of the customers, and the dregs were left to Yvonne and the other aging prostitutes, but that was a fact of life in this tough, seedy world.

Yvonne was thankful that her trade provided her with just enough money to pay the bills, and to place food on the table for Sarah, her teenage daughter; not forgetting the clothes and endless CDS she demanded.

The working girls had now regained their confidence after the reign of terror, which Billy Woods induced on the town, some three years ago. Even though Margaret Richards had been the only prostitute Billy had slain, the lady’s of the night were understandably cautious. It mattered not to the deranged killer the occupation of his prey, just as long as they had the appropriate coloured eyes.

Yvonne leant against the wall and lit up a cigarette. The young prostitute clambered into the car of a punter and sneered at her. Yvonne folded her arms beneath her huge sagging breasts and looked towards the dark lane, where Margaret Richards had been viciously butchered. She shielded her eyes against the glaring headlights of the approaching car and tossed her cigarette to the ground. She cautiously checked around her to see she was alone, and with was no competition to worry about, she approached the vehicle. She stooped over, offered her sexiest smile, licked her lips, and thrust out her breasts.

The driver wound down his window. How much, darling?

That’s what I like…straight to the point. It depends what you’re after, luv.

What do you suggest? asked the punter, his face shrouded by the blackness of the night.

Yvonne grinned. Are you serious, luv? You’re asking for my recommendation? This isn’t a bloody Chinese takeaway, you know.

Okay… How about straight intercourse?

Intercourse? smiled the prostitute. I do believe I have myself a real gentleman… Okay, for you, darling…fifty pounds."

Fifty pounds?

Yvonne checked around her and suspected this may be a police set up. Even though this could be construed as entrapment, she had to be careful. Listen, luv, fifty pounds is my price, take it or leave it.

Okay… Where?

Anywhere you want, luvvie. Just move over and drive somewhere quiet.

The punter shook his head. Out of the question. Not in my car.

Well, I don’t see any hotels around here, moaned Yvonne, sarcastically. What do you suggest, honey?

The nervous man looked towards the dark lane. What about down there?

Yvonne shuddered. No way, darling. That area is out of bounds for me.

Oh, and why’s that?

Yvonne sighed. You’re obviously not from around here.

The man glanced at his wristwatch, Listen, I don’t have much time. Do you want my custom, or not?

The aging prostitute nodded reluctantly.

Good. I’ll park the car and return in a couple of minutes. Do we have a deal?

Again, she nodded. Business was quiet and this was her first punter of the night.

She left the car and watched as it rolled away slowly. Yvonne returned to her usual pitch and checked her wristwatch to see it was approaching midnight. She folded her arms and shivered. The cold night penetrated her flimsy, low-cut top and her stocking-covered legs.

As she waited, she applied more lipstick and hoped this punter was not a kisser. Granted, he seemed polite, and did not smell, like many of her other customers. She yawned, and decided that after satisfying her punter, she would return home and catch up with some much-needed sleep. Fifty pounds for one night, she deemed was more than she could earn at a factory. The clatter of footsteps alerted her, and she straightened up, before she applied a squirt of mouth freshener.

He approached from the viaduct, the absence of any lighting disguising his appearance.

Yvonne smiled and looked him over. Okay, honey…let’s do it.

She linked the punter and they walked towards the dark lane, the lack of illumination due to the vandalised streetlights.

Yvonne seemed uncomfortable and on edge when the man led her towards the spot where Margaret Richards had been murdered. This was consecrated ground as far as Yvonne was concerned. Through the gloom, she made out the bouquets of wilting flowers the prostitutes placed every year, as a tribute to Margaret’s memory.

Yvonne looked towards her customer. Listen, luv, do you mind if we move on a little further?

No. It has to be here.

The prostitute trembled, her mouth dry. Was this a coincidence, or was this punter kinky?

The man reached out, held Yvonne’s head in his hands, and gazed into her eyes. He walked forward slowly and pushed Yvonne against the fence, before he kissed her, his tongue delving deeply into her mouth. She reached down for his zip and groped for his member.

Wait, growled the punter. 

W-what is it, luv?

I’ve changed my mind… I want you to…you know… take me in your mouth.

You want a blow job?

If that’s what you want to call it, then yes.

Yvonne seemed disenchanted. Listen, mister, we agreed a price.

No problem. I’ll still pay you the full amount.

Yvonne shrugged. Okay, honey, it’s your money. 

Yvonne knelt down on the cold concrete and fondled his penis. It was lifeless and flaccid, and Yvonne expertly worked away at it with her hands, before she ran her tongue along its length. The response was not immediate, and so she took the entire member in her mouth. Her head rocked back and forth. She felt his ice cold hands cradle her head, and heard his moaning, as she tickled his testicles in a bid to quicken the process.

The cold steel that plunged into the nape of her neck did not register at first, but the yank of her hair confirmed her fears.

The killer stooped down, gazed into the eyes of the dying girl and crooned, Knock knock knocking on heaven’s door.

Chapter Two

Detective Chief Inspector Bruce Shelley watched the forensics team at work. The constant clicks of the distant cameras unsettled him. Shelley was a no-nonsense detective. His appearance and manner earned him the nickname of the Sergeant Major. Standing at six feet four inches with a military haircut and square jaw, his nickname befitted his demeanour. Shelley, in fact did have a military background. He had served with the Royal Signals before he applied to the MET, and rapidly ascended the ranks to his present post.

With the retirement on medical grounds of his predecessor, DCI Mick Finley, Shelley transferred to Cleveland CID, after he had upset a number of his superior officers. At the age of thirty-eight, Shelley quickly earned the respect of his new force, but was not a man to cross. His battered face was testament to his boxing days in the army, even though he was unbeaten.

The local and national media turned out in force; the location and the historic significance of this murder naturally interesting them. A large section of uniformed officers held back the pack, and screens, erected to conceal the murder scene, failed to dissuade several reporters from climbing the trees in an attempt to capture a prize snapshot.

Detective Sergeant John Conway stared at the mutilated body. The scenario played repeatedly in his mind, and a feeling of deja vouz overwhelmed him. DS Conway, had he believed atoned himself of his involvement with Colin Briggs and Ron Giles, by passing on privileged information that contributed to the death of Billy Woods.

What are you thinking, John? asked DCI Shelley.

I’m thinking we have a copycat killer, guv.

The senior man seemed unsure. Really? So you don’t believe Billy Woods was responsible for this?

Impossible. Billy Woods is dead.

DCI Shelley ushered Conway to one side, out of earshot from their colleagues. Excuse me, Sergeant, but the body of Woods was never found, was it?

DS Conway was resolute. The Briggs brothers tricked the Greek police in Crete, and then executed Woods.

Executed? You do mean murdered of course. Anyway, John, if this is true, who then murdered the Briggs brothers?

DS Conway stroked his moustache. Who knows? What I do know though, is Woods is history. Fish food, no doubt… Marty Cox is the only living person who knows what happened, and even though he won’t tell, he has hinted that Woods is definitely dead.

Helen, the pretty pathologist, removed her plastic gloves and joined the two detectives. Unbelievable, sir. Whoever murdered this woman has studied Billy Woods.

Meaning?

She faced the tall, stocky detective. Stab wound to the back of the neck, numerous wounds to the abdomen and vagina, and he removed her eyes.

DS Conway interrupted. Like I said, a copycat killer. It has to be.

DCI Shelley ignored him. What time was this woman murdered, Helen?

Between ten and two, I estimate… Approximately the same time as Maggie Richards was murdered, three years ago.

DS Tony Chandler, a young, blonde, baby faced detective joined his colleagues. Sir, the woman may be a local prostitute. Yvonne Sankey, according to her daughter never returned home last night.

A prostitute, grunted DS Conway. That figures.

Again, DCI Shelley ignored him, and addressed the pathologist. Any fingerprints, DNA.

Several fingerprints, but we’ll know more once we’ve checked them in the lab.

Shelley lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. The murder was more or less in the spot where Maggie Richards was killed.

Yes, guv, joined in DS Conway. The locations of the murders and the methods of how they were killed is public knowledge, thanks to Ron Giles and his bloody book."

DCI Shelley deliberated. "Correct me if I’m wrong,