Nurtured Evil

By Anthony Hulse

A series of gruesome murders provoke CID to form a Major Enquiry Team, led by DCI Fancourt. The killer teases the police by leaving clues inserted in the throat and etched on the foreheads of the victims. During the manhunt, a host of suspects are pursued, including a vagrant, a homosexual playboy, and an ex-teacher.
DS Matt Webber’s unsavoury gambling habits prompt him to conspire with the father of one of the victims. New recruit, DC Paula Tompkins joins the team and is introduced to the horrors of the investigation.
This haunting story uncovers a paedophile ring; but are they somehow involved with the macabre murders? What is the harrowing connection between ex-teachers, David Lawrence and Edward Gorman. What past secret does eccentric suspect, Marcus Cummings conceal from his homosexual partner?
Nurtured Evil takes you on a frightening and mind boggling journey through the streets of London. Not until the final pages will you discover the identity of the killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781326020675

Book preview

Nurtured Evil

Nurtured Evil

Anthony Hulse

Copyright

Copyright@Anthony Hulse 2015

ISBN: 978-1-326-02067-5

Cover design: FelixRenaud@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

Thanks to my former publisher, Graham Smith for permitting me to rewrite and republish this book. This was my first published novel and I thank him for allowing me to pursue my dream.

To my late wife, Carol, who tolerated me as I initially wrote this. I also dedicate this book to my sons, Anthony and Adrian. Also, a special mention for the late Norman Bennett, (RIP) Allison, Trussy, and Billy for giving up many hours to beta read the book. Their input was invaluable.

Prologue

John Paladdin stared at his abductor and felt the warm blood gush down his face. Paralysed by fear, he watched the deranged man unscrew the top from the petrol can. Tied to a chair, the pain from his carved forehead negated his fear of what lay ahead. He felt his captor’s breath against his face as he smiled, a lop-sided smile.

Please, what do you want? Tell me what you want.

Oranges and lemons say the bells of St Clements. You owe me five farthings say the bells of St Martin’s, sang the crazed man, in a childish voice.

Paladdin closed his eyes and his tormentor poured petrol onto his trembling body. Oh god no, I beg you.

When will you pay me? Say the bells of Old Bailey?

P-please, I’ll do anything. If it’s money you want, no problem...just name your price.

When I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch.

The demented stranger lit the match and held it over his terrified captive.

No, no, please, noooo!

The killer stepped back, covered his ears to drown out the horrendous screams, and watched as the dancing flames enveloped his helpless victim. The acrid stench of burning flesh stimulated him, and he continued his crooning. The fire spread rapidly and the intruder casually exited the room, leaving his prey to endure a painful death.  

Chapter One

The Hop and Grapes is one of the seedier pubs in Soho, but one which David Lawrence frequented almost every evening. The sad looking man clutched a glass of whisky and narrated his story to a not so young and not so pretty prostitute. With his long, straggly hair and beard, Lawrence could easily be mistaken for a college professor. The patches on the elbows of his jacket offered credence to this, but he was not a college professor.

Buy me another drink, will you, luv?

Lawrence swallowed the dregs of his whisky and smiled at the girl. The loud rock music playing in the background, Lawrence would not usually listen to. He adored classical music, but Soho is his sanctuary, his escape from his tedious lifestyle.

The middle-aged man had not always been an alcoholic bar-bum. He once was a well-regarded teacher at St Bartholomew’s Secondary school, about to secure a post at Eton. The reason for his fall from academic greatness would turn any man to drink. Now, he scraped a living writing short stories for sleazy magazines, in between penning his fifth novel. What did the publishers know? Rejection after rejection followed, but Lawrence himself was a reject…a piss stain on society.   

Well, luv, are you buying me a drink, or what?

Lawrence peered through blurry eyes at the blonde lady of the night. What had caused this once pretty woman to turn to the oldest profession in the world? She seemed no different to him, he thought. Every prostitute in every city in every country had a woeful tale to tell.

She lit a cigarette and he looked at her through the cloud of smoke, the crow’s feet around her eyes and the excessive make-up unable to hide her missing years. She appeared as old as he was. His gaze turned to her cleavage, and then to her long legs. For a moment, he thought he was back with Cheryl. No, after the incident at St Bartholomew’s ten years ago, his wife had abandoned him, and who could blame her?

Well, luv, I’m waiting, she said, blowing out a plume of smoke.

Come on, Rita, let’s go back to my place, he slurred.

Rosie. The frigging names Rosie.

He just smiled, before he purchased a bottle of whisky from behind the bar. Rosie, Rita, they were all the same to him. He had lost count of the number of prostitutes he had bedded in the last ten years. Every day, he promised himself the drinking would cease, but it never did. It served as his anaesthetic against his cruel past.

Rosie linked him when they walked into the cool fresh air. They hailed a taxi and drove the short distance to his squalid bed-sit. Maybe tomorrow, he would give up the booze. Maybe tomorrow.

******

Detective Chief Inspector Fancourt squatted over the charred body, his mouth covered by a handkerchief. He had been a detective now for twenty years, but his stomach still churned at each viewing of a dead body. He had seen some horrific sights in his time, such as mutilated babies and decapitated victims, so this blackened body should have been routine to him.

Matt, over here.

Detective Sergeant Matthew Webber held no such fears and appeared immune to the carnage. One body is just like another, according to the tall, thickset detective. He crouched down alongside his superior. What do you reckon, guv? An execution?

Perhaps. What a way to go. Have we anything to go on, Harry?

The thin, balding pathologist joined them. He was tied to a chair and dowsed with petrol. What is interesting are the cuts on his forehead.

The cuts?

Yes, there is something etched. Here, take a look.

What does it say? asked DCI Fancourt.

It’s hard to say, but we’ll know more when we get him to the lab.

Do we know who he is? quizzed DS Webber.

No. Male, probably in his fifties. Nothing much to go on at the moment I’m afraid.

DS Webber’s eyes were attracted to an upturned paraffin lamp laid besides the body. What’s the story with the lamp? Is this how the fire started, Harry?

We don’t think so. The fire department found a match near the body.

The detectives left the blackened room. DCI Fancourt cleaned his spectacles and eyed the elderly woman being questioned by a constable. Okay, Constable, we’ll take over now.

The elderly woman appeared clearly distressed.

Hello, Mrs...

Hillier, Dorian Hillier.

Mrs Hillier, do you run this guest house?

I did, what’s left of it. What am I supposed to do now? Half the bloody house is ruined.

Yes, I’m sorry about that, Mrs Hillier. Do you know who the man was?

Of course I do. John Paladdin is his name, or so he told me.

Have you any reason to believe he was lying?

Not really. He was quiet; kept himself to himself, if you know what I mean.

Did he have a job?

Yes, he worked on the underground. A ticket clerk, he told me. Hey, you don’t suppose he was a spy or something, do you?

I don’t think so, grinned DCI Fancourt, stroking his thick, black moustache.

How long has he been lodging here, Mrs Hillier, broke in DS Webber.

Oh, about a year now. He’s Irish you know, or he was… Hey, you don’t think he was IRA, do you?

Did he have any friends?

No, like I said, he was a bit of a loner. He didn’t seem to have any enemies either.

DS Webber grinned. He obviously had one… So, you never saw him speaking to anyone recently?

She shook her head.

DCI Fancourt resumed his questioning. Is the front door always open, Mrs Hillier?

No, of course not. John had his own key.

And did he go out last night?

John never went out. He liked to stay in and read.

Then, how do you explain someone entering his room last night?

Beats me. He must have invited them in.

Okay, Mrs Hillier, that’s all for now. The constable will take your statement.

The two detectives walked into the morning air. The sun attempted to radiate some warmth into this chilly spring morning.

What do you think, Matt?

I think we can rule out a gangland killing. A ticket clerk, for Christ’s sake. What possible reason can anyone have for wanting to kill him?

Perhaps he owed someone money.

You don’t really think that, do you, guv?

No. I think perhaps we have a psycho on the loose. We’ll know better after the lab report.

DS Webber continued to probe. What about the engraving on the forehead?

I don’t know. It appears the Major Enquiry Team is about to become operational again.

I’ll run a check on Paladdin, guv, He must have some history.

You do that. I’ll get onto the uniforms to question the rest of the guests staying here. The Chief Inspector lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply before coughing.

You ought to give those up, guv.

You’re beginning to sound like my wife… I want him caught, and caught quickly, Matt. Also, check out the landlady. See if she’s having any financial difficulties. It’s not every day that someone is murdered in Sussex Gardens.

You can’t surely suspect the old woman?

Suspect everyone, Matt. Suspect everyone.  

******

The incident room at Paddington police station was set up for the Serious Crime Group. Commander Peter Burton took a seat close to DCI Fancourt and listened in to his briefing.

Good afternoon. As you’re already probably aware, you’ve been summoned here for a reason. We’re to form a Major Enquiry Team, after the body of a fifty-two year old man was found burnt to death in a guest house in Sussex Gardens, Paddington.. Most of you I know from previous investigations. For those of you who don’t know me, I am DCI Alan Fancourt and I am to head the investigation. Sitting next to me is Commander Burton, who will be in charge overall, but will take a back seat on this one. I’m sure you’ll get to know each other in time, but right now, I want to find out as much as we can on the victim, John Paladdin. He doesn’t appear to have any enemies, or friends for that matter. No criminal record, not even a parking ticket. What was the motive behind this brutal murder? If it was robbery, then why mutilate his forehead?

A short, dark girl entered the room and an uncomfortable silence followed.

Yes, what can I do for you?

DC Paula Tompkins, sir. I’ve been assigned to the investigation from Vice Squad.

Really? So, you’ve had no experience in murder investigations?

No, sir.

Okay, DC Tompkins, take a seat, and let this be the only time you’re late for one of my briefings; do I make myself clear?

Yes, sir.

Good. Now I’ll continue, without I hope any more interruptions… Paladdin was tied to his chair, dowsed with petrol, and set alight. Paladdin, until a year ago lived in Dublin. Our contacts in Ireland tell us he was single and a bit of a loner. He evidently came over here for a holiday and decided to stay. Now, Tom, if you please.

The projector clicked and a photograph of the corpse appeared on the screen.

As you see, he was thoroughly cooked. One interesting thing about the murder is the etching on his forehead. Forensics suggests meow was written with a sharp implement, probably a knife.

Meow?

Yes, Matt, meow. Any suggestions?

A blonde-haired, young looking detective butted in. Perhaps the killer is a cat lover, guv, he said in a strong Welsh accent.

Okay, Jonesy, if you’ve nothing useful to say, keep it to yourself… What I want is for you to question his colleagues at work. Find out what made him tick. What type of person was he? Was he gay?

Sir, interrupted DC Tompkins. What if he left Ireland for a reason? Perhaps he owed money.   

A good point, young lady. Check it out.

The telephone rang and Commander Burton answered. His face registered concern. He replaced the receiver and faced the team. Good God.

What is it, sir? asked DCI Fancourt.

That was forensics. They found something in his throat. Evidently, it is a sheep’s eyeball.

DCI Fancourt appeared unfazed by the discovery. It appears we have a psycho on the loose in London. Okay, I want you to do house to house enquiries. I want this bastard found.

The door opened and a constable appeared.

Chief Inspector, a Mr Gregory from the boarding house claims he heard voices coming from Paladdin’s room that night.

Voices?

"Well, singing. He heard someone sing Oranges and Lemons. He thought at the time it was a child."

Okay, we’ll look into it. Let’s get to it. 

******

David Lawrence turned away from his computer and faced the television, a glass of whisky in his shaking hand. He dismissed the prostitute early that morning and decided to concentrate on writing a couple of short stories, as he had fallen behind schedule. His fraudulently claimed employment benefit would not substantiate his love for whisky and prostitutes. The mention of the name Edward Gorman lured him away from his work.

The unmistakable face of the thin, bald man with yellow teeth appeared on the screen; a face from the past. Two constables led him away from the school. The narrator went on to report that the music teacher had been arrested for child abuse.

The memories flooded back to Lawrence. He believed Gorman had retired. He poured himself another glass of whisky and the guilt infiltrated his mind. Ten years ago, ten long years, and Gorman is still at it. Lawrence closed his eyes and cried. The memories would not go away. They stayed with him like a noose around his neck.   

******

DC Mark Jones had been paired with the new girl, Paula Tompkins, and he seemed none too happy about their union. He rung yet another doorbell and waited, discretely looking over his new companion. The petite girl had short, jet-black hair. He noticed her eyelashes, which were so long, fluttering above her saucer shaped, blue eyes. With her denim jacket and jeans, she looked a bit of a tomboy.

An old man in a tatty, green cardigan faced them.

Good afternoon. I’m DC Jones and this is DC Tompkins. We’re doing door to door enquiries in this area.

She’s a policewoman?

Yes, I am, answered Paula, in an East End accent.

Good God. What’s the world coming to?

DC Jones smirked at his red-faced colleague. Well, Mr...

Bromsgrove, Charlie Bromsgrove.

Mr Bromsgrove, you know about the fire last night I take it?

Of course. And I saw who started it.

Excuse me.

I saw who started the fire.

Why didn’t you contact us earlier?

Do you want me to do your bloody job for you, young man? I knew you’d turn up sooner or later.

You say you saw him? probed Paula.

Aye, he was a right scruffy bugger. A tramp.

He was a tramp?

Aye, young lady. He had long, manky hair, and a straggly beard.

What was he wearing? asked DC Jones.

A long, white… Well, it wasn’t exactly white. A long trench coat with a piece of string tied around his waist. And some scruffy old boots.

Are you sure? You saw him leave the guesthouse?

Look, lady, I may be old, but there’s nothing wrong with my old peepers.

Did you see where he headed

Aye, towards the main street.

DC Jones stroked his chin. Mr Bromsgrove, do you think you’ll be able to identify this man again?

Of course.

Thank you, Mr Bromsgrove. We’ll be in touch. 

Chapter Two

The desk sergeant at Paddington police station eyed up the latest suspect brought in by two repulsed constables, who tried not to inhale.

Frigging hell, he stinks, complained the Sergeant. Who is he…Ben Gunn?

You didn’t have to sit in a car with him.

He’s going to have to share a cell. The inn is full tonight. We must have pulled in every tramp and bum in London tonight. The rats will be having a party in Cardboard City tonight.

We picked him up in Baker Street Tube Station, Sarge. Looks like he was getting ready to bed down for the night. He ran when he saw us. The bastard even threw his cider bottle at us.

Name? Come on, what’s your name? asked the impatient Sergeant.

The tramp remained silent.

Listen, don’t you want a nice, warm, cosy cell and a mug of soup? The sooner we get this over the better… Name?

Peter Raddigan.

Address? Come on, address?

London.

The Sergeant put down his pen. Okay. I’ll put you up with Percy. That’s if he can stand the smell. You’ll be questioned in the morning.

******

Fucking hell! cursed DCI Fancourt when he entered the interview room. Has someone died in here?

Peter Raddigan sat blearily eyed and rolled a cigarette, ignorant of the two detectives. 

Couldn’t you have cleaned him up first? Okay, he said, switching the recorder on. This is DCI Fancourt and DS Webber interviewing Peter Raddigan at Paddington, Monday 27th April at nine-fifteen. Mr Raddigan has declined legal representation… Mr Raddigan, can you tell me where you were on Saturday night?

Raddigan continued to roll his cigarette. He looked older than his twenty-seven years as suggested on his record sheet. His unkempt, filthy hair and beard did not do his photograph justice. His physique was not of a man who had to beg for food.    

Mr Raddigan, will you kindly answer my question?

Fuck off!

You’re not making this any easier for us, are you?  Okay, let me put it another way. You’re a suspect in a murder enquiry. Someone matching your description was seen leaving the premises of a guesthouse in Sussex Gardens, where a man was found murdered. Does that ring any bells?

Fuck off! He continued to roll his cigarette.

DS Webber browsed at his file. Mr Raddigan, it appears you’ve done a two-year stretch for GBH in 1997. So, violence is in your blood, is it?

The vagrant looked up and snarled at the two detectives.

This silent treatment won’t do you any good you know. Why did you run from the two policemen last night?

Raddigan passed wind loudly and laughed.

This is your last chance, Mr Raddigan. Where were you on Saturday night? asked DCI Fancourt.

At the theatre.

At the theatre. Why do I not believe you? Which theatre?

He shrugged his shoulders and motioned for a light for his cigarette. DCI Fancourt obliged and continued. You went to the theatre. What was playing?

I don’t recall.

You don’t recall. The Chief Inspector switched off the recorder. Listen, you low-life piece of shit. We’ve another fifteen bums to question yet. It’s highly unlikely that you went to the theatre, now isn’t it? So, where the fuck where you on Saturday night?

I don’t recall.

DCI Fancourt slammed his hands on the table as the tramp blew a cloud of smoke into his face. The two detectives left the room and left the smiling man to smoke contently. 

The peeved detectives strode towards the incident room. What do you think, guv?

What do I think? I think he’s twopence short of a shilling. He has a record for violence, but I don’t think Paladdin would have let a tramp into his room, do you?

But, what about the old man?

Exactly, he’s an old man. We’ll interview the others and release the ones with alibis. I suppose we’d better arrange an identity parade.

They entered the incident room and approached a young detective with a goatee beard and horn-rimmed spectacles, who sat at his computer.

Well, Doug, anything?

Not yet.

Oh, I’m sorry; you two haven’t met, have you? DS Matt Webber. Matt, this is DS Doug Perry. If you want your computer to dance, then Doug’s your man.

The detectives shook hands.

DS Perry looked up to his colleague. No, as I’ve said, nothing as yet. I haven’t a great deal to go on. I’ve entered meow in the computer, but came up with nothing that appears significant. There is a sex site on the Internet called meow, but we’ve checked their list of clients, inputted them into our computer files, and drew a blank. Several clients are from London, which we’re checking out, but no names we recognise. There‘s another ninety-six thousand listings for meow on the Internet, from cat stores to jazz clubs. It‘ll be a long process, guv.

DCI Fancourt pondered. Meow and a sheep’s eyeball. What’s the link?

Perhaps there isn’t one, guv.

I think you’ll find there is, Matt. There’s always a reason for what these wackos do, even if it isn’t obvious.

A cat and a sheep, mouthed Webber.