Stag

By Robert Stanley Hall

This is about an Ex police Inspector, L Stag, who with his Jamacon partner Mo, runs a private detective agency, they investigate Black Magic Mysteries, and child abduction cases, which become very personal at times, this book is for adult readers only.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524634889

Robert Stanley Hall

Robert Stanley Hall is a seventy-four years old author. He worked as a milkman for nine years. He is a qualified HGV/bus mechanic. He was also in the air force for ten years, a teaching assistant for six years where this book "Honeypot Wood" was born.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

THE RUNES

D arkness still held the house in its grip, as Stag pushed open the large iron gates in the wall, that surrounded it and walked up to the front door. Stag had watched the house for about an hour, looking for any sign of life, before deciding it was safe to enter.

It is easy to kill some one, Stag mused, the hard bit is disposing of the body.

Still pondering he rang the doorbell.

You can dig a hole and pop them in, but then, the animals usually dig them up.

You can also cut the corpses up, but then your problem is what to do with the bits?

The best thing to do is to leave them where they are; he decided, and let the authorities to get rid of them.

After waiting for a short while he bent down and pushed open the letterbox, to see if there was any sign of life inside and as he did so the front door silently swung open.

Carefully, he closed the door behind him and made his way down the hall towards the kitchen area, where he eased the door open and glanced inside.

He knew they would be there somewhere in the house, he could smell death everywhere, it was something he had always wished he couldn’t do, but he was stuck with it.

Normally the small kitchen would have been a hive of activity, but now it was icy cold, and in the light of his pencil torch he could see that it had not been used for quite some time, as a layer of dust now covered the once spotless kitchen worktops.

After a thorough search Stag left the kitchen area and moved through the archway that connected it to the front room.

With the craving for cigarette crawling over him he continued to search the room for George and Marion, but this room was empty too, so still fighting off the temptation to smoke he moved back into the hall and silently eased open the dinning room door at the bottom of the stairs and played his torch light around the room till its beam alighted on George’s body, which was draped over a chair like a discarded child’s doll, with his sightless eyes staring at the floor, and his hands still tied behind his back.

He had looked bloody ugly in life thought Stag, but in the torchlight he now looked grotesque. The plastic bag over his head didn’t do him any favours, nor did the fact that he was as naked as the day he was born, also his killer or killers, had tortured him with cigarettes, as the burns on his back, face, arms and legs testified.

Why did they do that?

What were they looking for?

And did he tell them what they wanted to know?

All these questions raced through Stag’s head as he quickly digested the scene.

Having searched the rest of the down stairs rooms he silently ascended the stairs, being extra careful not to make any noise by testing each stair before he put his weight on it, as he was still not sure if he was alone in the house.

He was inwardly glad he’d called the police before he had decided to go in on his own, as his courage was now beginning to ebb away at the thought meeting the perpetrators of the heinous act downstairs.

With the sweat of anticipation running down his neck he reached the first floor landing and eased open the bedroom door, recoiling at the strong smell of death that assailed his nostrils as he entered.

Glancing around the room he recognized the pink décor he had often seen in the past and with a handkerchief held tightly over his mouth and nose, he moved around the bedroom expecting to find another corpse, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight that greeted him as he flashed his torch beam around the room.

He murmured a silent curse to himself, as he took in the awful scene; as if killing her had not been enough, the bastards had carved the word bitch across her forehead.

Through the mist of flies he could just make out her naked body sitting in a corner of the room, with her hands tied above her head to her dressing table.

She had been dead for quite a while, possible days, maybe a week, where as her husband George downstairs was a recent killing.

Stag, realising the assassins had long left and having seen enough turned and crashed out of the room to be violently sick over the banisters.

He was still there gasping for breath when the front door burst open and the police arrived.

Later, after several hours of being grilled by inspector Gordon, [Gordo to his friends, of which there weren’t many] Stag emerged into the cold night air, lit a fag and then decided to take a walk as he had a lot to ponder on.

He hadn’t told Gordo any thing, because he really didn’t know anything, he had told him about the phone call from a foreign sounding man, who had told him to go around to Marion’s house as soon as possible, and that it would also be advisable to take an undertaker with him.

Gordo wouldn’t have believed his theory even if he’d told him, the Police didn’t like black magic at the best of times and it was possible that was what this was all about.

Why had Marion sent him a letter asking to see him, when she had his mobile number?

He hadn’t told Gordo about her letter that he had received late yesterday, nor had he told him about the visitor to his office last night, who had put every piece of paper in his office in the middle of the room and torched the lot.

Who had destroyed all his files?

Was the letter the intruder’s target?

Was there something in the letter that he’d missed? He reached inside his jacket pocket to make sure the letter was safe.

Was the key to this horrendous pair of murders contained in the letter?

Another thing he hadn’t told Gordo was that Marion dabbled in the dark arts.

By this time he’d walked as far as the river and as it was starting to rain he decided to drop in on his partner Mo, (commonly known as The Nose) to fill him in on what had happened.

Perhaps he could shed some light on the problem.

Stag had known Mo for about fourteen years; he used to be his snout when he was in the Met, of course Mo wasn’t his real name; it was just a nickname that stag had given him when they had first started to work together, he was his under cover operator, often in the role of a mole, and had often helped him solve many gangland crimes.

Thus Mo was short for mole.

Although Mo had Jamaican roots, he was fiercely proud of being British and Standing over six foot tall and weighing fifteen stone he was an awesome sight to behold, and with a pair hands like two shovels this bald black giant was very rarely argued with.

Turning left, Stag climbed up the hill to Mo’s block of flats and lent on his bell for a couple of minutes, till a sleepy voice enquired the name of the swivel eyed moron who had dragged him out of bed at this bleeding hour.

Naughty, naughty, said Stag, you shouldn’t say things like that.

Bloody Stag, came the reply, do you know what the bleeding time is?

Stag had forgotten all about the time, as he was so wrapped up with his thoughts.

Must be about twelve, he said.

More like bloody two, came the reply; well, as you’re here and I’m up, what do you want?

I want to come in out of the rain for a start; I’m getting bloody soaked down here.

Mo pressed the buzzer to let him in, and stag climbed the stairs as the lift was out of action as usual.

On reaching Mo’s floor Stag had to pause to get his breath back, must pack in smoking he thought and pushed open the door and entered the cosy flat and made his way to the front room where he, ex-detective sergeant Leonard Stag of the met police, collapsed in his favourite arm chair.

On hearing Mo making a cup of coffee in the kitchen he called out.

Two sugars and don’t forget the ginger nuts. Stag, having put in his order sat back and admired the flat.

Peggy was Mo’s girl friend and kept the flat looking like a new pin, not a speck of dust was evident anywhere, turning in his chair Stag admired the large old English table with the matching chairs.

Peg must use a lot of polish he thought, as the smell of furniture polish and coffee blended in the air, to caress his nostrils in unison.

Where’s Peg Mo? Stag called out on noticing her absence.

Looking after her sick sister, she’ll be back tomorrow. Mo replied from the kitchen.

Mo silently shuffled back into the room elegantly dressed in his dressing gown and slippers and carefully placed a steaming hot cup of coffee in front of Stag on a coaster, then he sat down opposite Stag and looked him straight in the eyes and smiled.

He liked Stag and his bulldog tenacity, he also liked the big ex cop’s knack of making money and the way Stag handled himself when trouble threatened.

In his book, that was reasons enough for him to become a partner in Stag Enterprises Inc, a private detective agency.

The two friends sat in silence drinking their coffees for a while, before Mo said.

What gives man?

Stag took a long drag on the cigarette he was trying hard to ignore and told Mo about everything that had occurred, Mo sat impassive and silent, till Stag got to the part about the mutilation of Marion, when his eyes narrowed and he nodded in silent agreement.

After Stag had finished, Mo got up and refilled their coffees, then sat down in his chair and rolled his mug of coffee around and around