My Night To Remember: An Alex Warren Murder Mysteries Prequel

By Zach Abrams

On a seemingly ordinary Saturday morning, Fraser McCourt awakens to a nightmare.

He finds himself in the grounds of Glasgow’s Kelvingrove Park, close to the University - and he’s naked. A short distance away is the lifeless body of fellow student Reggie Bartholomew, with strangle marks on her throat.

Detective Inspector Alex Warren leads the investigation to find out what happened to Reggie, and who is responsible. Through witness statements and forensic evidence, shady events surrounding the school and some of its students begin to come to light.

But who wanted Reggie dead, and can Alex and his team find the murderer?

This book contains graphic sex and is not suitable for readers under the age of 18.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Jan 2, 2022

Book preview

ONE

Saturday, 18 October 2008

My head feels fuzzy; it’s hard to think. It must be morning. I feel uncomfortable and there’s brightness, even though I have my eyes screwed tightly shut. Although I don’t want to wake up, I’m cold and I feel a shiver run down my arm. The quilt must have slipped off through the night. And it’s breezy. Damn, I must have left the window open.

I suppose I’ll need to force myself awake so I can close the window and wrap myself in a cover; then maybe I can snatch a bit more sleep before I need to get up.

With reluctant determination, I force the corner of my right eye to open a crack. The assault of brilliance is painful, and I immediately shutter it closed and clasp my hands over my face for further protection.

Something isn’t right. Where’s this light coming from?

I feel confused. My drowsiness is abating, but I’m finding it difficult to think straight.

I ease apart my fingers with one hand cupped over each eye, while venturing again to open them. Just a flicker at first, then I blink a few times and voila, they’re open. Everything looks a pinkish red colour as intense brightness penetrates round and through my fingers.

Ever so slowly, I’m able to withdraw my hands while positioning my head to avoid the worst of the glare.

I can’t make sense of it, but realise for starters that I’m not in bed, I’m not home. But where am I and how did I get here?

Gradually, as my vision comes into focus, I recognise that I’m in a clearing, surrounded by bushes and trees with a blazing sun shining through the branches. I’m lying on the ground, my ‘bed’ comprising dry earth with a sparse covering of grass, weeds and leaves, and I’m naked.

Completely bollock naked! Oh my god!

My confusion intensifies. Where am I? What am I doing here? Why am I undressed and where are my clothes?

Despite the warm rays from the sun, I’m chilled. There’s a cool breeze, and goosebumps cover my skin. I wrap my arms tight around me, but it provides little comfort.

Sitting up, I try to think, to remember what happened and how I got here, but my mind’s a blank. My brain is numb and my head hurts; maybe it’s the cold.

Step one: I must find my clothes.

I get to my feet, sharpen my ears, and quickly glance around me. Fortunately, there’s no-one in sight and I can’t hear any voices, only the sound of traffic, a distance away.

I try to concentrate, and I scan the ground, hoping to find something to wear.

At first, I see nothing. All the ground surface seems to be shades of earth and shrub, but then my eye catches what appears to be a change of colour. Only a few metres away, immediately behind a rise in the ground level.

I rush towards it and stop, frozen; my mouth gaped in shock. I can’t believe my eyes.

Lying flat on the ground, a girl, also naked. She seems to be asleep, arms resting on the ground extended to the side, long, raven coloured hair fanned behind her head. She looks vaguely familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen her before, but where? And who is she?

As I look more carefully, I see no movement in her chest and her eyes seem to be open a fraction. Is she alive?

I shake off my lethargy and rush forward, kneeling at her side. Trying to recollect my limited first aid training, I check for vital signs. Her skin temperature feels cold, and she doesn’t appear to have a pulse.

I tilt her head back and lower my lips to hers, blowing air into her lungs. Only then does it occur to me to check her heart. Oh shit! I don’t detect any pulse.

Vying with my rising panic, bits from the training are coming back to me now. I place the heel of my hand at the centre of her chest, then place my other hand on top and press down at a steady rate of what was it? A hundred or so times per minute, breaking off every few seconds to apply a couple more rescue breaths.

I look at my wrist to time what I’m doing. My watch isn’t there. I shake my head in despair. Working on impulse, I move my leg across to straddle her, so I am better able to better control what I’m doing as I continue administering CPR.

I’m frantic. I haven’t ever seen anyone die before.

My arms are tiring, and I don’t know how long it is I’ve kept going as I’ve no way to tell. It doesn’t seem to have made any difference. Her body is limp and lifeless. She’s not breathing and there’s no pulse. Reluctantly, I come to accept that there’s nothing more I can do. The girl is dead.

My eyes fill up, and my vision is blurry. A tear rolls down my cheek and drops onto her torso. I collapse onto the ground beside her and roll onto my back. My breathing is laboured from the exertion, my skin damp with perspiration, and I shiver.

The sun remains bright and there’s warmth in the air. I shouldn’t be cold, so why am I shivering. I must be in shock or maybe it’s fear.

Sitting up, I turn my head, looking again at the girl, trying to think how I might know her. I stare at her face and then scan over her body from head to toe.

Long, straight, dark hair crowns her pretty, oval-shaped face. Her eyes are hazel, and she has long lashes, emphasised by mascara. She has a soft petite nose, narrow ears and chin and a crescent mouth. She has tanned skin; her complexion appears Mediterranean.

She’s slim and elegant with well-toned muscles, unblemished skin, small, firm, well-formed breasts, and ample hips.

She looks about my age. Lying flat on her back as she is, I can’t truly judge height. I’d estimate about 1.70 metres.

Re-examining her face, I shiver at the sight of her smudged lipstick, and I avert my eyes. I can still see her. Her image feels burned into my retinas.

There’s something familiar about her, but where do I know her from? My concentration’s interrupted when I call to mind the old joke punchline - ‘Sorry, I didn’t recognise you with your clothes on,’ only in this case it’s in reverse. I chide myself for being insensitive. There’s clearly nothing to laugh about.

Yes, I’m sure I must have seen her before. Whilst I wouldn’t say she was stunningly beautiful, there’s no doubting she’s very pretty. I can’t know her well, but it’s unlikely for me to forget meeting a girl so attractive. I can’t remember ever speaking to her, not properly. My brain feels befuddled. I think it must have been in lectures. She must be a fellow student in one of my classes. I’ve heard her name, too. I should be able to remember. What was it, Rachel, Ruby? No, a bit more uncommon: Reggie. I think her name’s Regina, but her friends call her Reggie. Yes, I remember thinking it was unusual when I heard it first.

Here I am, clinically noting the description of the girl before it registers with me that what’s happening is real. This isn’t a film or a computer game. It’s here and now. I’m sitting on the ground with no clothes on and I’ve been staring at the naked corpse of an attractive young woman.

Perhaps I could proffer an excuse for looking because other than TV, computer or magazines, I haven’t ever seen a completely naked woman before, not in the flesh. I doubt many would find it a credible justification. I steal one last look and then turn my head away.

What now? What should I do? Should I call for help? Of course, I should, but I need to find myself something to wear first, ideally my clothes, but I’ll settle for just about anything to cover my embarrassment. I look around me at the trees and bushes. I could make do with anything; some giant vine leaves would be perfect, but I won’t find them growing in Scotland. No, nothing I see would be suitable for the purpose.

I don’t know where I am, so it may help if I can get my bearings.

Looking atop the bushes, I notice there’s a large grassy area beyond the trees. I can now hear voices in the distance, the sound of children playing, I think. I can also see dogs running, chasing after sticks or balls, so there must be people about.

As I don’t want to be seen, I scamper along close to the ground, behind bushes, while looking around me to see if I can find my clothes. I see odd pieces of litter, but nothing which would help.

I scan the terrain in all directions, but there’s nothing to be seen. Using trees and bushes for cover, and praying that nobody’s spotted me, I venture to the edge of the woodlands to look over the open grassland.

To my relief, I recognise where I am. This wooded area is near the edge of Kelvingrove Park. I’m familiar with the area as I’ve visited it often. It’s next to Glasgow University, my place of study, and it extends to Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum and runs behind Sauchiehall Street.

To my consternation, I’m far from home and I can still see no trace of my clothing. It’s over ten kilometres for me to walk. True, it would only take forty minutes by bus, but that isn’t an option when I’m naked and even if I wasn’t, I’ve no money for the fare. Besides, I can’t abandon a dead body without doing something. I need to tell someone so they can arrange for help. But I can’t approach a stranger while I’m naked and I don’t have a phone. I have nothing.

What can I do? I’m not a bad boy by nature. I’ve always been so careful. I’ve never been in any kind of trouble before, let alone a mess like this. My head is pounding, and I’m having difficulty thinking rationally.

I spot a large litter bin on the edge of a path. It’s only about thirty metres away. Maybe I can salvage something to help. I scan the area carefully to make sure that no-one’s about and then half run, half crawl over to the bin and rummage. At first, I find only discarded cardboard coffee cups and some stinky fast-food containers. But I’m in luck. Underneath, there’s a discarded newspaper and, better still, it’s a Herald, a broadsheet, giving so much more opportunity than a tabloid.

I’ve never been particularly skilled at art and crafts, but needs must. Using a double thickness of paper, I tear holes for my legs and fashion a makeshift pair of underpants. A couple more sheets I use to wrap around my waist as a sort of skirt and fashion the remainder into a similarly styled covering for my shoulders and torso.

Immodest perhaps, but I’m proud of my achievement. I know I must look ridiculous, but I’m no longer nude. While I’ll certainly stand out from any crowd, there are often eccentrics to be found walking around the West End of Glasgow, so maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to carry it off.

I remember there are student flats not far away. Finnieston would probably be the best place to try, as it’s not normally too busy. If I can make my way there, then perhaps I’ll be lucky again and find an unlocked door into a back court. If someone’s left washing hanging out, I might find something suitable to ‘borrow’ so I can look less obtrusive. Then I can try to get help.

With this prospect in mind, I’m feeling marginally less panicked. My heart’s no longer pounding, and my aching head is clearer as I make my way along the path.

My comparative relief is short-lived. I catch my breath as I hear the heavy beat of footsteps running towards me. Trying to appear normal, as if I could in my attire, I casually look over my shoulder, only to see two police constables advancing at speed.

True, I’d wanted to get help, but this wasn’t how I’d intended to go about it.

Neither fight nor flight are options. Even if I had been dressed in proper running gear, my scrawny frame could never have outrun them. But dressed as I am, I wouldn’t get off the starting blocks. As for fighting, I could make a fair attempt in a competitive debate, but my only chance of winning a physical battle would be if my adversary fell over laughing.

Right, Don Juan! Don’t take another step, I hear the assertive voice behind me.

I stop and turn to face him. I can see both the officers are struggling not to laugh.

I’m so glad you’re here, I start, I need your help.

A bit late for that, he says. It’s the same officer who shouted before. My first impression is that neither of them are too much older than me. He’s medium height and build, with a shock of off blonde curls protruding from under his cap. Standing slightly behind him, the woman police officer has a severe expression and is sizing me up.

We’re taking you down the station to charge you, but first Laura, you’d better caution him.

The WPC tells me my rights.

Wait, you can’t do this, I say.

Listen, son, you’d be best to keep your mouth shut for the time being. We’ve had two separate complaints phoned in. One young mother taking her kid to the play park reported a man of your description streaking across the grass. And before that, a dog walker told us about a young couple having sex in a clearing near the edge of the woods. That’s two criminal charges, one of indecent exposure and the other of an act of indecency in a public place. He smiles at me and then adds, You’ve been a very naughty boy.

You don’t understand, I reply. You have to listen to me.

Don’t worry. You’ll get plenty of chance to tell your story down the station. Who knows, it might even get you into the papers—again. He bursts out laughing at his own joke and there’s a smirk on the WPC’s face, too.

No, wait, this is important. There’s a body over in the woods. It’s Reggie, you must check. I’m frantic, trying to get them to listen to me.

The policeman stops for a second, considering what I’ve said, then he howls in laughter. This guy’s a real comedian.

Laura, the WPC, reaches forward and pulls at his arm. Wait a second, Bob, I think he’s serious. She steps in front of me and asks, Tell me what you’re talking about. Where is this body and how did it get there?

I’m flustered, trying to think how to explain. You have to help. She… she was dead when I found her… I think she was. I tried to revive her, but it didn’t work. I’m spluttering, making barely coherent sentences. My voice shrill.

Slow down. You need to calm yourself. Come over here and sit down. She leads me along the path and settles me on a park bench. Bob follows behind. He says nothing, but he’s shaking his head and rolling his eyes. It’s abundantly clear what he thinks.

Laura sits down too and takes out her notepad. Take a couple of deep breaths and relax so you can think clearly. I need to take your personal details, then I want you to start at the beginning and tell me what happened. Take your time because I want all the facts. I don’t want you to miss anything out.

Following her instructions, I tell her my name is Fraser McCall, give my address and date of birth, then continue to explain how I woke up lying between the bushes with no clothes on. Laura appears to be taking copious notes, but I can see Bob standing behind, grinning from ear to ear. It’s distracting. I look down and focus on the ground between my feet so that he’s out of my field of vision, then continue telling her everything I did in order of it happening. I explain I don’t know the girl, but I think I’ve seen her before in classes and I think her name might be Reggie or Regina, although I do not know her surname.

So, was it an origami class you met this Regina at? Bob guffaws loudly and only stops after Laura kicks him sharply on the shin.

Several of the park’s patrons have gathered, chatting in small groups a distance away while staring in my direction, some pointing. They’re looking for some juicy gossip to take home with them, and my attire will probably add some spice to their storytelling.

Ignore them, Laura instructs me. Now I want you to show us where you say you found the body. Laura grasps my elbow and helps me to my feet.

It isn’t far from here. It’s in a wooded area quite near to the park entrance at Royal Terrace, I say, pointing back in the direction I’d come from.

Move along. There’s nothing for you to see here. Bob disperses the onlookers before I lead the way back to where I found Regina.

The closer we get, the more apprehensive I become. I come to a halt on the path, a short distance from the woods.

Bob has a quick glance in the direction I point, then says, There’s nothing to see. I knew this would be a waste of time.

You need to go in there, pass the rise in the ground, just beyond that oak tree, I say.

I’ll check it out, but you make sure this joker doesn’t make a run for it. Bob seems unconvinced, but steps in the direction I showed.

He takes a few steps forward, then stops abruptly. Jesus Christ! There is a body here, a nude girl. We’re going to need some support to get this area marked out for the techies to check over. Better get CID onto it too. You call it in while I look after Mr McCourt.

Within minutes, a batch of police vehicles arrive.

We’re approached by a powerful-looking man, smartly dressed, and walking at speed. Three other officers are following, trying to keep step with his long gait. He has an air of confidence, very tall and broad with short, straight, black hair. He comes to a halt a short distance away, flashes his warrant card, and introduces himself.

DI Alex Warren. You must be PCs Laura Scott and Bob Shaw. I take it. You called this one in?

Yes, Sir. They reply in unison.

I shrink under the appraisal of his piercing stare. He’s looking me up and down with such an intensity that I feel he’s either analysing me or reading the small print.

I’ll take over from here. What have we got here?

Only what I said in my report, Laura replies. We came here to check things out after two different callers phoned in: one about a streaker in the park and an earlier report about a couple suspecting of dogging in the woods.

We found Mr McCourt, here, she says, nodding in my direction, dressed as he is, using newspapers out of the bin. We took down his details. Shaw sniggers, imagining humour in the double entendre. His face quickly straightens after Warren casts him a withering glance.