Death Pledge: Five Must Die

By E. Bamford

Death Pledge - A Tale of Murder Book One

A grieving brother stumbles across the identities of the five women he believes responsible for his sister's death. Spurred to revenge her, he begins his rampage of murder. How could the five women have known that, in helping a young girl stand up for herself, they had signed their own death warrants? Woul

• Language: English
• Publisher: E. Bamford
• Release date: Jul 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781908135971

E. Bamford

E. Bamford writes about women who are faced with frightening dilemmas. Why are friends dying one by one? Who will be next? Was she pushed or did she jump? Will she be rescued or will she be killed? Can the police be trusted? Will the boy use the gun or the knife to kill her? Is the movie set jinxed? Is she guilty? The answers to all these questions and more can be found in Tales of Murder Series: Death Pledge; Death Pact and Death in Rio! Death Stings, Book One of the Chasing the Dead trilogy is a complete standalone story... but watch out... there is an underlying plot that will carry on for two more books, all featuring Sir James Marchant.

Book preview

Death Pledge: Five Must Die

(A Tale of Murder Book 1)

Twelve years after his sister’s death a killer stumbles across the identities of the five women he believes were responsible. Determined that this horrendous crime be punished, he begins a rampage of death.

How could Verity Casper have known that twelve years earlier, when she tried to help a young girl stand up for herself against bullies, that she had not only signed her own death warrant but also that of her closest friends.

The murderer begins his rampage of death in Hong Kong. He murders again in Athens. A young mother with a new-born baby is reported missing in Hampshire. Confident that the plan is fool proof, different countries, different counties and different methods he then has two more murders to commit to fulfil his revenge.

Cassie Metcalf, a media promoter, living in Surrey, England is on the killer’s list. She befriends a DCI Bill Maitland who tries to assure her that the deaths are not connected but Cassie is not convinced and being determined to survive she begins her own investigation unaware that someone is watching her every move.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the author. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental

© 2012, 2015 by E. Bamford (Jo Rahe)

E. Bamford asserts her moral rights.

4th Edition 2015

ISBN 978-1908135933 Print

ISBN 978-1908135971 e-Book

Printed in the UK,

www.ebamford.com

Death Pledge

Five Must Die

(A Tale of Murder Book 1)

By

E. Bamford

Dedicated to the memory of Ann Barclay,

my inspiration.

From one dreamer to another

Chapter One – Hong Kong

He sat and stared at the crumpled picture he’d torn out of Country Life. It showed the woman he had come to Hong Kong to kill.

He hated Hong Kong’s humidity and the swirling stench of sewage carried on the wind from the harbour and he hated the seeping, crumbling tenement buildings veiled in laundry and the ugly myriad of TV aerials that crowned them.

He also abhorred the ceaseless roar of traffic and the unrelenting hum of machinery transmitting from the bleak sweatshops. But, most of all, he could not bear the endless swarm of people that wove through the streets, chatting, gossiping and not listening to one another.

His eyes grew dark and his brow creased, as he refocused on the face in the photograph. He wondered why, with all her wealth, she’d chosen to stay in Kowloon and not on Hong Kong Island.

Maybe it was because she’d be unlikely to meet anyone she knew and could have one last fling before marriage.

The door to the lobby opened. She was smiling as she entered and he winced when he realised she was not alone; an elegantly dressed, middle-aged Chinese man accompanied her.

He had not anticipated her having company.

Only when she kissed the man on the cheek and turned away, did his fears subside, as her companion appeared to be disappointed. He wondered if the man was hoping for more of her company but she was having none of it, and for that he was thankful.

He gave her five minutes to reach her room, then he casually strolled towards the lifts and, moments later, he was knocking on her door.

It was apparent from her expression that she didn’t recognise him, but, after so many years and so much plastic surgery, he was confident that she wouldn’t. It had also taken hours of vigorous exercise to achieve the body he now had. How else could he have spent his time? On leaving prison the warden had said he should be proud of what he’d accomplished. Your own mother wouldn’t recognise you!

‘What do you want?’

Her superior tone grated.

‘Police,’ he said, flashing a badge and pushing his way into the room.

Without taking his eyes off her, he closed the door behind him; pressing against it with his back, until the lock clicked quietly into place. He then moved towards her and she stepped back, glancing at the window.

Her room was on the 27 floor, there’s no balcony and he was blocking the door. He saw fear in her eyes and her fingers began to twitch. He had waited so very long for this day.

An uncontrollable sensation of electrifying power swept over him as his blood pounded through his body. It was exactly what he’d been told to expect.

‘How can I help you?’

‘You can help me a great deal,’ he said.

She looked confused but tried to take control of the situation.

‘I’ll help… if I can,’ she said.

He took a deep breath and let it out, softly. ‘The 5th of July, 1987. Do you remember that date, Verity?’

She had no time to respond as, in an instant, his hands were clamped around her neck. She made an effort to scream, but found that his grip was too tight.

Her arms flailed in the air and her bare feet lashed at his shins as he pulled her towards the bed. Once there, he straddled her; like a wrestler pinning his opponent to the canvas. She arched her back and tried to throw him off, but his sheer weight made her struggle ineffective.

He had rehearsed this scene in his mind countless times, but in reality it was not as easy as he’d imagined. He remembered reading about the art of manual strangulation. He read that it could sometimes take more than five minutes of continuous, increasing pressure, straining the fingers, thumbs and wrists, and causing incredible pain.

She grappled in vain beneath him and her red fingernails clawed the air as he dodged her every move. The muscles in his hands ached but he couldn’t stop now although the gurgling sound she made revolted him; he was unprepared for that. He was also shocked by the cloying odour that invaded his nostrils as she soiled herself.

Her face began to swell; her envied English Rose complexion turned purple and her reddened eyes bulged. Sweat ran down his face and dripped on to her body with every jerk of his head as he increased the pressure.

Saliva trickled from her open mouth and her tongue slipped through the broadening gap.

He took a long, deep breath and, with as much of his waning strength as he could muster, he delivered one last thrust of pressure - just to be sure. But there was no need; the fight was already over.

Her arms had dropped lifelessly on to the bed - he had squeezed the last breath out of her beautiful, young body.

He rolled off her, pulled himself up and sat on the edge of the bed, then panted as he massaged his fingers; pleading for the pain to stop. He noticed her lifeless body slide off the bed and land on the floor with a dull thud. There to remain, until discovered, by an unsuspecting chambermaid.

He strode to the door and opened it a fraction and, when he was certain that no-one was about, he slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him without so much as a cursory glance at the body of the young woman he had just killed. He ripped off his protective gloves and stuffed them in his trouser pocket, then, using the emergency exit, he made his way down; stopping occasionally to catch his breath; evaluating his feelings.

But, it was not until he stepped into the oppressive night air that he felt a stimulating sense of power.

Euphoria intertwined with revulsion as he finally grasped the full meaning of what he had done. She was the first, and he wondered if he were capable of doing it again. A sly smile crossed his lips.

Yes, he could. And he was certain he would.

Joining the ever-increasing human mass swarming along Nathan Road he passed barred and locked jewellery shops. Gone were the men with the automatic rifles who’d sat outside earlier. He wondered if they’d been there to protect customers while they bought, or shoot them if they didn’t.

The touts had multiplied and were more aggressive.

Fliers were thrust upon him.

He wanted to yell that no, he didn’t want a fake Rolex watch or perfume and he certainly didn’t want a made-to-measure suit, but he had to be careful not to draw attention to himself.

The familiar pain in his groin strengthened; he was desperate for release. He hurried on. Young girls tempted him as they posed, their tiny bodies wriggling, their doll-like faces thick with paint and their full red lips glistening. Old women haggled over the price with prospective punters.

Cars cruised by, their drivers peering through the windows as they scanned the scene, comparing the human merchandise on offer. His own physical need intensified. He continued to force his way through walls of people.

Lights flashed from huge billboards strung across the road and stretched for mile upon mile. Red. So much red. It reminded him of splattered blood.

He took a right; then second left, and then sharp left again into a grim alley. A single naked bulb lit an archway. He passed through it and climbed up six stone steps to the reception desk of his nondescript hotel. As usual, the owner, along with his two sons, stood behind the desk grinning.

‘Enjoyed your meal?’ They chirped in unison, as they handed him his room key.

He mumbled an acknowledgement then climbed the stained, chipped marble staircase to the fifth floor; having no intention of risking the ancient lift.

Drenched in sweat, he entered his room. Without switching on the light, he tore off his clothes and used them to soak up the stinking moisture, which ran down his body. Then he threw the damp clothes at an old wicker chair, causing the cockroaches to scurry in all directions.

Climbing between used sheets he felt for naked flesh. She had come – but then he knew she would. After all, he paid her more than he gave her father for the rent of the room.

Chapter Two – Guildford, Surrey

Cassie Metcalf replaced the receiver and returned the coiled gold earring to the lobe of her left ear. It had been one of those days. She’d been in conference with a client until four and then taken endless telephone calls and now she was determined to leave.

Chas Cross, who created the stage-wear for the boy band, Xavier 7, had been her last caller and he had gone on about nothing of any real importance. She’d wanted to cut him off, but the band was one of her biggest clients and the hottest property in England; his unique talent and wacky designs had become the band’s hallmark.

Her rented offices were situated above two shops in one of the oldest buildings in Guildford High Street. The rooms were hot in summer and cold in winter, and, by mid-afternoon, the atmosphere had become too oppressive.

Cassie closed down her computer and glanced around at the organised chaos she was leaving behind. Then, she slipped her arms into the navy silk jacket of her lightweight trouser suit, pulled the collar of her lemon blouse over its lapels, ruffled her blonde, shoulder-length hair with her fingers to revive her curls and grabbed her bag as she headed for the door; the rest of her team having left hours ago.

After setting the alarm, Cassie turned the key in the lock and, as usual, when she was sure she couldn’t be seen, quickly polished the brass plaque on the door with the sleeve of her jacket. Cassie Metcalf, Precision Promotions.

Smiling with pride she jauntily walked up the High Street towards her parked car.

A man was selling the evening paper on the corner leading into Milkhouse Gate. Alongside him was a free standing board on which a headline was written in thick black letters.

M.P’s Fiancée murdered in Hong Kong.

The words took her breath away. She rummaged frantically in her bag for her purse. She opened it and almost threw the coins at the vendor as she snatched up a copy of the paper and began to read the front page.

‘Verity Casper, fiancée of George Stansfield, M.P. for S.W. Surrey, was found dead in a Hong Kong hotel room early this morning.’

Her legs began to shake. Her knees went weak and she fell against a shop wall. Then she found her mobile and misdialled the Casper’s number.

She tried again. It was engaged.

She repeated and repeated the procedure.

When the phone was eventually answered, she stated who she was and a voice she did not recognise replied.

‘Ms Metcalf, the Casper’s are unable to take any calls at present, Can you please call back tomorrow?’

‘Err… yes… but whom…?’

‘Surrey Constabulary.’

Then the line went dead.

Cassie decided she would try again later. The police wouldn’t be there all night.

‘Trevor! Where’s the bottle of wine I left in the fridge?’ Moira Luxton yelled from the kitchen.

‘I had it with my lunch,’ the small, unshaven man muttered as he stepped back and studied the canvas that he was working on.

‘You did what!’

‘You gone deaf or something? I said I had it for lunch.’

‘Bastard,’ she muttered beneath her breath. ‘Listen, enough is enough, Trevor. You could have asked!’

‘For you to tell me to buy my own!’

‘You’re a pain in the arse.’

‘So you keep reminding me,’ he replied, seemingly unconcerned.

‘I mean it Trevor, the time’s come. I really do want you out of here.’

He knew he’d outstayed his welcome but he was hoping she would put up with him for a while longer.

‘For God’s sake, Moira, it’s only a bottle of wine. What’s your problem?’ He put the handle of his paintbrush into his mouth, held his head to one side, picked up a smaller brush, and, using a lighter shade of pink, began to highlight the breasts of the nude he was painting.

‘What’s my problem? What’s my problem?’ she shrieked. ‘I paid for the damned thing and now I’ll have to get another one, and I’m already running late! I’m surprised you didn’t drink the red as well.’

‘Red? Would have, if I’d found it.’

‘Give me strength. And another thing… that painting is disgusting – boobs and dogs entrails; it makes me feel sick just looking at it.’

The brush he was holding snapped in two.

Now she has gone too far. How dare she criticise my work. Who the hell does she think she is? A bloody fantasy illustrator, so what if she’s famous and gets to hob knob with the literati! What gives her the right to fault the work of a real painter?

He slowly breathed through clenched teeth until his pulse returned to normal. He needed her, he mustn’t upset her further. Maybe she had a point. Maybe he should have told her about the wine.

He watched as Moira charged around her large basement flat in Kensington, which doubled as her studio, complaining about everything as she went.

‘When I get back we have to talk.’

He chose not to reply.

Clothes flew in all directions. She looked in her handbag, behind her canvasses that leant against the walls, under her bed, in drawers, and then finally stormed back into the kitchen. Canisters skidded across the work surfaces. Her breathing was rapid as she continued to yell at him,

‘When I said that you could use my place I expected it to be for a few weeks, not four months. I can’t cope with you being here any longer.’

‘I wish you’d stop bitching and go.’ He glanced at her. ‘And why the hell you’ve got all dressed up beats me – anyone would think you have a date.’ She was annoying him; she was interrupting his concentration when he was having one of his very rare productive work days; a day when his genius was flowing.

‘Mind your own business. I can wear what I like. And will you turn that bloody television off. You’ll have the neighbours complaining about the noise.’

‘It helps me concentrate.’

Moira was wearing a white tiered long skirt and white open necked, sleeveless blouse with a long silk scarf wound around her neck. Her long streaked hair was tied back and her make-up was perfect. He had to admit she did look good – better than she usually did in her New Age garb.

‘At last,’ she sighed, as she retrieved her car keys from the back of the sofa.

‘Ah, I could have told you where they were - if you'd only said what you were looking for.’

‘I’m off now. And, Trevor, if you have anyone in here tonight and any of my work is disturbed…’ She took a deep breath as she glared at him. Her eyes said it all, but she spoke the words anyway. ‘Just one millimetre and I’ll have your balls for breakfast. Do you hear me?’

‘Charming….’ The heels of her shoes clipped the steps of the old wrought iron staircase as she ran up to street level but, as she levelled with the pavement, she heard the sound of a neighbour’s television:

‘The fiancée of George Stansfield, M.P. for South-West Surrey, was found dead in a hotel room in Hong Kong earlier this morning…’ Trevor heard the thump and rushed up the stairs, only to find Moira slumped on the top step.

Patricia Braithwaite bubbled with love and admiration as she gazed at her daughter.

Jean stood before her, swathed in raw white silk, studded with cultured pearls. A translucent veil billowed around her, framing her taut, young figure as she swirled around the room.

‘Gorgeous, isn’t it, Mum?’

‘It’s just perfect. You look like an angel. I can’t wait to see the expression on Stergios’ face as you walk up the aisle.’

‘He will love it, won’t he?’

‘Of course he will, but he’s marrying you, not the dress.’ Jean turned her back on her mother and wriggled, implying she needed un-zipping.

‘Please Mum, I’m running late.’

‘I wish you didn’t have to go back to Greece, there’s still so much to do for the wedding.’

She pulled her usual ‘woe is me’ face, which Jean ignored. She was not going to succumb to any emotional blackmail.

‘Plenty of time, Mum. No need to panic.’

‘Greece is just so far away! I wish you could live here in England.’

Jean slipped into a pale blue cotton dress and watched her mother carefully put the precious wedding dress back on the coat hanger.

‘Four hours by plane, it is close enough for you to visit every weekend, Mum.’ Jean knew her mother was unhappy about her living abroad.

If she were to be honest she was nervous about it too. She’d already spent a lot of time working for the British Counsel abroad, but a stint away from home was one thing – being abroad for the rest of her life was daunting. She’d been brought up in Bagshot and her family had lived there for generations; it would be quite a wrench.

‘Very funny. We’re not millionaires, Jean.’

‘Oh, stop worrying, Mum. Just think, in a few weeks Stergios will have made an honest woman of me.’

‘Jean! Honest woman, indeed,’ her mother playfully gasped.

Irene, Jean’s old nanny and now part-time housekeeper came into the room.

‘Taxi’s here, Jean.’

‘Thanks, Irene.’ Jean hurried towards the door then turned and hugged her mother and Irene.

‘Just remembered, I've ordered a new pair of walking boots from Timberland. They said they'd be in at the end of next week. Can someone pick them up for me?’

‘No problem, I’ll get them.’ Irene offered. ‘I can pack them, along with your golf clubs and skis.’

‘Have you spoken to your father?’ her mother asked as Jean reached the front door.

‘Yes, he was in the garden. Bye…’

‘Would you like to take the evening paper, it won’t take me a minute to get it?’ Irene called after her.

‘No thanks. I’ll get one at the airport. I’d like a magazine, anyway.’ Jean climbed into the waiting taxi and was gone.

Dr. Roger Kitson smiled at his wife as she dashed about the room gathering baby necessities and placing them into a large blue sports bag.

‘So what if you’re late,’ he said.

‘You know how much she worries – she’ll think I’ve had an accident. Anyway, I’m excited, that’s all. Little Abby is going to meet all of her relatives tomorrow for the first time.’

Roger laughed and picked up his baby, kissing the top of her head, he then gently lowered her into the crib.

‘I think you should have told them when we first found out.’

‘I know but… Aunty May would have had a fit, and she wouldn’t have given us a moment’s peace throughout the whole of my pregnancy.’

‘True.’

‘They’d have been furious with me for taking such a risk, and it would have been you who got the blame, if anything had gone wrong. I think I bluffed my way through the nine months rather well. Maybe I should take up acting? To be or not to be, that is the question,’ she said gravely, then giggled and rechecked the contents of her bag again.

‘Nappies, creams, wipes, change of clothing and three bottles of formula – I think that’s the lot.’

‘You have more than enough. We’re only staying overnight!’

Frances glanced around the sitting-room as if she was leaving it for the last time.

‘Remember me to everyone. I’ll get there just as soon as I can; should be around nine. You never know, maybe I won’t have any patients tonight,’ Roger said with a smile.

‘Huh! That’ll be a first.’ Frances said as she walked towards the waiting taxi, blew her husband a kiss and left.

Dr. Kitson returned to his living room to listen to the news on the radio but stopped in his tracks as the newsreader announced the lead story: the Hong Kong death of a British woman.

Chapter Three

He had taken two planes and used different passports before reaching his destination and, once ensconced in his hotel room, he ran his fingers through his tousled hair and sighed.

He was tired.

He hung his jacket in the wardrobe, rifled through the pockets and pulled out the crumpled picture of Verity Casper.

In the bathroom he laid it on the vanity unit’s flat surface and began to press out the creases using the palm of his hand then he carefully examined her face. In the magazine photograph she was pictured smiling into the eyes of her proud fiancé – George Stansfield, the young Member of Parliament.

His thoughts returned to Hong Kong.

They should have found her body by now.

An Englishwoman travelling alone had been strangled, and the last person to be seen with her was a well-dressed Chinese man. Other people must have witnessed her rejection of him.

The police would think that a loss of face had forced the man to follow her to her room and murder her there.

So what? Anything to confuse the police could only be to his advantage. Never in a million years would they be able to work out why she had really been murdered. His plan was flawless.

He opened his wallet and gazed at another picture; the only photograph he had of his beautiful sister, Susie. He smiled with affection at her innocent face peeping through the branches of an ancient willow tree. Then he compared the pictures of the two women.

No comparison.

Pouring himself a whisky from the hotel mini-bar He pondered his complex relationship with women. He had grown to regard them as architects of evil. He had only ever loved two women; his mother, who was murdered by a woman – and Susie, his twin sister who had also been murdered. Not just by one woman – but by five.

Five must die. The debt must be paid.

His thoughts returned to Susie. He remembered how they would meet beneath the willow tree by the lake in the school grounds. Beneath that willow tree she taught him