The Unicorn Man: The Beemer Enigma, #0

By Myles Bevis

A man who's rebuilt his life. A psycho plotting death for a lady. If these never meet, the lady will die.

On the run for a blood-soaked murder he didn't commit, David Blades knows someone's set him up. After seventeen years of success, the forty-year-old is devastated as his life collapses around him.

Wishing his missing father was still around to offer advice, he rushes into the unknown hell-bent on saving the lady. But with the psycho who's aware of his every move out to destroy him, she and he are racing out of time.

The stakes are high as disaster creeps rapidly towards him. Can David save his special friend from annihilation? Can he even save himself…?

The Unicorn Man is a gripping mystery novel set in England's north country in year 1985; it is a standalone book in the Beemer Enigma series. If you like unusual mysteries, betrayals, deep re-kindled friendships and courage in the face of formidable danger, you'll love Myles Bevis' absorbing adventure.

Spend some time in the uplifting days when things were still real.

Buy The Unicorn Man today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Myles Bevis
• Release date: Jul 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201368173

Myles Bevis

Myles Bevis has always wondered what if… So, after a near lifetime of self-employment, he now indulges himself in the joy of mystery construction by writing mystery thrillers. His home is in beautiful Shropshire in the UK where he lives with his wife and a cat that hates all others of its kind. After writing, his hobbies include café’s that serve excellent coffee, rugged sea cliffs, all wild lonely places and annoying the cat by talking to neighbouring ones.

Book preview

Prologue

I’ve been wanting to explain the facts about this for years, and actually wrote it all down soon after it was all over. Regretfully, I found that I’ve no idea how to put these things so people will actually read them, so it’s been gathering dust in a drawer for over 30 years.

I’ve got some good friends these days; one of them, an ex colleague, does a bit of writing in his retirement. He’s going to edit and rewrite, cut out the rambling, and try to get it somewhere near where it should be without buggering about with the facts. I wish him the best of luck, as it’s all over the place. I told him to put things in the right order and keep it as close as possible to how I’ve phrased it, then claim authorship in his own name, I'm too old for publicity now so my wife tells me—and wives are always right—especially this one!

If you’re too young to have seen the press reports all those years ago, you can either believe it or think it’s a load of rubbish; it’s up to you; but it’s all there—exactly as it happened.

All the best.

Chapter 1

The moment it began was when the snapping of the letterbox at 6am jolted me awake. So what? you’ll say; but way out here in the sticks, the post usually arrives around mid-afternoon.

From there on, everything snowballed!

Dragging on yesterday’s boxer shorts dumped on the floor overnight, I padded barefoot down the cold linoleum of the hallway.

Something small and rectangular nestled at an angle on the doormat. A woman standing beside an ancient Land Rover smiled up at me. She was a photograph. I picked her up.

I made a point of avoiding shocks first thing in the morning, but when my unbelieving eyes read, then reread, and reread again the crude black scrawl over the image, my stomach knotted. There was just one word—‘Death.’

Torrential rain blasted in as the door shot inwards against it. Oblivious to the elements and my almost complete nakedness, I rushed down the gravel drive. Grasping the top of the low wooden gate, I gazed to my left up the hill.

Nothing human visible.

Nothing to my right either, where the track snaked down the valley before climbing to moorland—nothing but birdsong and distant thunder.

Bare feet now hurting, ten yards of coarse gravel seemed like half a mile as I carefully picked my way back.

Shivering with cold, I phoned Eric Beemer.

He picked up immediately, thank heavens. Okay, on your bike then, stick to the plan; I’ll ring when you get back.

How would he know when I got back? He lived thirty-five miles away, for goodness sake. Never mind; concentrate on essentials, Dave.

Right. So, ten a.m. today—my Monday activity; take the bike high country scrambling.

Chapter 2

My name is David Blades, and the following events started in early June 1985.

I’d had a rough start in life; both parents gone, one dead, and the other presumed dead. I’d been through multiple foster parents, a children’s home and two acrimonious divorces. My first business failed in unfortunate circumstances and it took me a long time to recover from that. Everything seemed to fall apart around me. Now all was good again. My new business manufacturing, supplying and fitting luxury kitchens was thriving, and I was working on acquiring a gorgeous new girlfriend who liked me for myself and not what she could con me out of.

Until now, everything looked rosy: life was good again—apart from the poison pen letters…

And then; tough luck returned—with interest!

Scramble biking was a break from the routine, depending on the route and how one handled the machine. It was fun, and usually not too painful.

Today’s specially planned session was to open up down the dip and then go flat out for the summit, practice being the great Knievel and leap high over the brow; fly 20 feet, right it and carry on—but that damned dip was exactly where the tree had landed…

Slam…

Ejection,…

Flight…

Splash…

I hit a marsh pond hard, body surfed along for fifteen feet and slamming straight into something soft and decomposing and swallowed, immediately retching.

Exit pond.

The bike wouldn’t be going anywhere else for a long time; entangled in a bush, it was stuck halfway up a rock face with a crumpled front wheel. I had a long walk ahead of me.

Everything hurt, and my guts rebelled like I imagined a lager lout enjoying on a night out; but at least I was still alive. I suppose I should have been expecting the unexpected. I had done the same route multiple times and that tree always looked perfectly okay. It could have been terminal though, and in a spit of temper, I ditched my helmet. It stank of dead stuff, so did my head!

If you’ve ever spent time in the high Pennines, you’ll know about hail storms; they’ve got attitude. My spirits dropped even lower as I noticed the massive grey duvet creeping low and menacingly over the moors. Watching it rapidly bearing down, I could almost hear the music from ‘Jaws’ building through the storm. Then, instantly, it was blasting full into my face; it stung like blazes.

Eyes slit against the elements, I made my way, trudging through two feet high, tough, scratchy vegetation with roots you could easily trip over, whilst working my way through every obscene swear word that came to mind. Was that the track over there? It was hard to see anything through the deluge, but I thought it was—on the high moor, right over the other side of the valley. Definitely a long trek, especially in biker boots and gravel injured feet, but at least it was visible. Yes, thank heavens; it was the single-track road.

Right, start trekking. I did my best to avoid the torrents of tiny green frogs arcing down the hillside like an avalanche of athletes long jumping in slow motion; the strange little creatures always appeared to seize the opportunity to emigrate when the weather was at its foulest.

One pleasant thing I always noticed about walking in challenging weather, which made it almost worthwhile, was the lovely fresh aroma, the scent of soaking earth and foliage. This day it was serving well to mute the rancidness of the marsh pond, and I wished I had someone to share it with. Inhaling deeply, I felt slightly better.

Too late, it came to mind that probably rinsing my helmet would have been a good idea instead of chucking it away like something you throw for a dog. Driving hail is extremely painful on the ears. You can point your face down as far into the foliage as you like, but you still can’t escape those agonising ice balls, they even bounce up at you off the abundant rocks. Definitely not the most enjoyable experience of my life, and also, I’d be hours late for Beemer’s phone call.

Ever felt a premonition? That weird sensation someone’s watching you? Paranoia?

Peering back through the sheeting hail and just by the now distant fallen tree, something like the glint of light off glass caught my eye: could be a lens, could be just a piece of dead bike.

Quick now, hurry man, no time for pain: and for heaven’s sake, what kind of moron would be out watching a soaked idiot on the foulest day of Spring for years?

That was when I found fleece-lined biker boots are useless for walking cross country. Mine were full of water which wouldn’t drain, my feet were slipping inside them and ankles rubbed painfully as the things gradually became heavier and heavier; better, I suppose, than removing them altogether. I had no choice but to carry on.

Everywhere gushing crystal rivulets had sprung up, causing the tiny green froglets to leap and arc over them. A strange sight and definitely an experience difficult to forget; a sight you could bring to mind on sleepless nights instead of counting sheep; millions of the things flowing, almost weightless through the air, in thin rainbows of flashing light greenness. I cupped my hands, took an icy drink from a rivulet; oh, what a relief. Now move Dave, I said out loud; get cracking.

My feet were sore and leaden, but finally, I’d made it to the road and, as lightning flashed and a clap of thunder almost fused my hearing the murderous hail gave way to monsoon rain: and I was still being watched, I knew it but couldn’t see anyone, that creeping sensation up the back of my neck made it clear, I was absolutely certain for no explainable reason.

And then, an hour later, just as I squelched painfully over the potholed car park of a prominent ridge top pub, the deluge shut down and the sun came out.

Bugger me, a drowned canary!

An old geezer with a froglike voice and huge gut scowled scornfully at my dripping black and yellow leathers. The old guy was almost permanently here, lounging under the external awning. The landlord banished him outside years ago. He’s got an internal problem, he’d said, one that gets external and upsets the ladies.

Morning to you too, Clamp. A weird name, I know, but it’s what they called him. I went inside, rather than entering the pub proper, and stopped at the serving hatch at the end of the entrance passage.

Pilling was a superb landlord; not even a raised eyebrow at my now steaming and stinking state.

Pint Dave, yeh?

Please; need to get home though; bit of trouble with the bike.

I downed it in less than a minute, never have I had a better pint of Thwaites, ever, in all my days.

This was the point when things started to really get strange.

A walker left this for you. Pilling produced a small brown envelope from under the bar. Said you’d be here about now, and Glenda’s going past your place for the pies in a minute if you need a lift.

Glenda was Spyder’s Inn’s barmaid, did a bit of cooking too when required; divorced, same age as me; early forties, intelligent, curvy, auburn hair; I liked her a lot. Perhaps there could just possibly be a chance with her. She was the lady I’d been hoping to see more of; she was also the subject of this morning’s photo on the mat.

I paid for a pint for Clamp, as was the custom, passed over a soggy banknote and followed Glenda. She really was gorgeous to watch. Yes, splendid; but she needed to know about the photo, and the threat!

Chapter 3

The series 1 blue and rust Land Rover creaked dangerously as I settled heavily onto the passenger seat.

You’re wet.

I am, yes.

Dave? You reek of dead sheep.

So that’s what I landed in?

And you’re steaming up the windscreen.

Sorry.

She giggled wickedly and spoke no more.

Eight minutes later, Glenda dropped me at my cottage gate with a parting giggle. I watched all the way as she drove off loudly up the hill, rapidly vanishing behind a cloud of evil smelling black diesel smoke. I stood dripping, and miserable; staring blankly as the fumes dissipated.

Couldn’t tell her you weak bugger, could you? How could I have explained, though? How do you do that? How do you break the news to a lady you really like that her life was going to end tomorrow? Murdered for something she knew nothing about and had nothing to do with her?

I unlocked the door and entered the cottage, half expecting to find more ominous photos or threats on the doormat. There was nothing. The phone rang; jarring me from the mope.

Quickly dropping the envelope on the table, I grabbed the receiver. It was Beemer. I explained the events I had just been through.

Okay, the device said, leave it with me. Do nothing, say nothing, use a public phone in one hour and I’ll brief you.

The receiver clicked. Dialling tone whirred.

I filled the kettle, instant coffee in the mug; add single malt; top up with boiling water; gargle, swallow, repeat. Ah, that’s good. Slowly, the taste of rotting sheep dissipated.

Right then, Blades, stop feeling sorry for yourself, easy on the hooch; keep that mind clear.

I turned the taps on, stripped off, threw the leathers outside the back door and climbed in. Steaming water up to my nose made me feel a morsel more human; I was glad I’d had the king-size bath installed.

Shutting my eyes, I found myself back with that dead thing in the mire. Yugh! Quickly, I opened them and concentrated on subduing the urge to retch. I forced my brain to work on the envelope. Yes, brown envelope, think brown envelope.

Right; my name was on it, so how could the courier know I’d go to that pub? I never went to Spyder’s at lunchtimes. I’d become used to the routine of permitting myself alcohol only after working hours. Today was an exception, but no one could have known that. And there were other places where I could have aimed for if I’d chosen another place to go flying; none would have had a Glenda, though.

I may have been suffering from delayed shock, as my eyes closed again, and the dreams took over. There was Glenda lying on her kitchen floor, obviously dead, with blood streaming from her staring eyes, puddling darkly on the tiles. And who was that standing over her? Oh no! It was myself, standing over her with a dazed look, gripping a knife that dripped with gore.

I forced myself awake; needed to get my head together; told myself my luck was still in; if that pond hadn’t broken my fall, I’d have been as dead as that ex sheep. Positive thinking man, keep thinking positive!

I dressed, made another coffee and took a couple of paracetamol with it; no whisky this time. Hopefully, I’d be feeling more human before long.

What to do about Glenda was the leading question. The situation needed to be dissected logically. I was a salesman, not a psychologist or detective; being out of my depth was not a situation I was used to; vaguely I wondered why it was taking so long for an hour to pass.

And how could anyone know I had feelings for her? I was reticent by nature, but needing help I’d taken a massive step and confided with two people, only two people, and I knew both of them could keep a confidence forever. One was Eric Beemer, the other Screw McCroon, both one hundred per cent professionals in their own way.

Could it be one of those?

No, absolutely not, not a chance; I’d trust both of them with my life anytime; and probably was right now.

Stop procrastinating, I’d told myself, and think about the envelope.

I hated envelopes. Phobias were illogical, but steeling myself to open a small sealed bit of thin brown paper made me imagine myself lying face upwards on a block, holding my breath, eyes wide and staring—at the guillotine blade rocketing towards my neck!

I was well aware of the reason. Previous events caused me to become stony broke, virtually overnight. Threats arrived by the sack-full, every type of bill and demand under the sun; and more. The bank drained my accounts to cover personal guarantees and expenses; final demands piled up, court judgements, bailiffs and every other nasty horrendous thing one could imagine fell over themselves to reach me; usually in a variety of sizes of brown envelope.

Seven years ago, all that just after my best mate stole every penny we’d ever made. First, he’d raised multiple loans and overdrafts to assure that things looked normal. Then, he’d cleared the bank account, taken the money in cash, and vanished without a trace. The final blow was my second divorce, the moment the money flow ceased.

It was painful. After all those years of planning, building and hard graft, losing my business was the worst experience of my life. The hurt was unbearable. Events such as that leave scars; in my case, I completely cut myself off from feelings, became a cold, emotionless single-minded selling machine and started empire-building. Nothing was going to stop me; no matter what. And this time I hired a decent accounts director; not a so-called best friend.

It takes a lot of time, thought and nerve to start another business from scratch. But I’d done it. The company was doing incredible business, and I’d got money in the bank; and a few other places; even had a private detective searching for my father again; and I reckoned if I played my cards right, I could even get a woman who actually liked me for myself into the bargain. But for all that, I couldn’t banish a subconscious loathing of brown envelopes, and the fear of the unknown which forced me sometimes to sleep with the light on.

For heaven’s sake, man, I thought, open the damned thing; how on earth can you fear an envelope?

My heart raced. I took the plunge. Breath held, I grabbed a corner; and ripped the top clear off.

Surprise. Four small,