Atonement: Mike Madagan, #1

By G. M. Scott

'Atonement' is a contemporary, poignant crime thriller set in Belfast. Mia, a strong female antagonist, embarks on a series of high-profile and brutal retribution killings. The target: kerb crawlers, pimps, and men whom she believes to be responsible for exploitation and abuse within the sex industry.

The 75,000-word novel is the first in a series featuring detective Mike Madagan.

 

   Mia Stravick is targeting men: cruisers, pimps, and traffickers responsible for an immoral, wicked, and depraved sex industry. Obsessed by the story of a murdered prostitute, she commits the first in a series of brutal retribution killings.

   Revenge for the sexploitation of women has begun.

   Long-haired, guitar-playing, D. I. Mike Madagan is tasked with finding the killer. As the body count mounts, Mia makes a nightly call to Madagan, goading him with her plans for the next victim.

   Is Mia obsessed or possessed? Is an ethereal force, a power from beyond the grave directing the killer's actions?

   A gripping, current, and poignant supernatural thriller, 'Atonement' is a compulsive roller-coaster of emotions from beginning to end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G. M. Scott
• Release date: Dec 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215363874

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

––––––––

Wednesday evening.

Low-cut top, short skirt, sheer stockings, and killer heels; tools of the trade serving to complement my slim and curvaceous figure. I’m strolling along Joy Street as a car pulls up. The front window powers down and a middle-aged male visually dissects my bold, brazen, barefaced potential.

‘How much?’ he snaps.

Two hundred,’ I say. ‘Special requests negotiable.’

He glances around, nervous. ‘You’re expensive.’

‘Believe me,’ I say, capturing his gaze, ‘I’m worth it.’

My explicit, unequivocal tone seals the deal.

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Get in.’

I jump onto the seat beside him, pull the car door shut, and he speeds off. We follow the one-way traffic on Howard Street.

‘Where?’ he asks.

‘Straight on towards Grosvenor Road. I know a secluded spot.’

‘My name is Trevor,’ he says, as though it bears some relevance to our tainted transaction.

‘Mia,’ I say. ‘Your first time?’

Suddenly tense, he grips the steering wheel hard. ‘You can tell?’

‘Scared cat, hot tin roof. Lighten up, Trevor, I’ll make this a night to remember.’

We travel in silence, and I take stock of the man buying my body. Average height, average build, average looks. I’ve bagged Mr. Average.

‘Next left,’ I say.

On the dark, deserted waste ground, he cuts the engine and stares at me.

‘A problem?’ I ask.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he says

‘Too beautiful for a prostitute?’

‘I’m not complaining. Just puzzled on why you’re a hooker.’

He’s right of course; I am beautiful. High cheekbones on a perfectly symmetrical face, sultry brown eyes, smooth, unblemished skin, and luscious, extremely kissable lips. Use your imagination and form an image. Then consider poor Trevor and how he doesn’t stand a chance.

‘Some women are not granted a choice, Trevor. My profession is enabled by men, and your desire to buy sex facilitates an industry laden with pimps, prostitutes, slavery, and abuse.’

He gapes at me cow-eyed, like a chastised child.

‘Come on,’ I say, clasping his hand. ‘We’ll be more comfortable on the backseats.’

Moving to the rear passenger compartment, he grasps my shoulders and pulls me into a clumsy embrace.

‘Ease up there,’ I say, breaking his hold. ‘Leave everything to me.’

I cradle his face in my palms and kiss him gently. He unfastens loose-fitting chinos as I unbutton his shirt and massage his chest. His eyelids close and he exhales a long sigh. Using my right hand, I silently remove the knife from a sheath on my thigh.

‘Tell me, Trevor,’ I ask, ‘are you married?’

I register surprise, coloured by irritation.

‘Not your business,’ he says.

Does picking up a whore sit well with your marriage vows?’

‘Look,’ he says, frustration in his voice, ‘I’m not here for marriage guidance. All I want is to get laid.’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I know exactly what you want.’

I use my tongue to caress his nipples and he releases a blissful groan. Locating a spot on his rib cage, left of sternum, I manoeuvre the knife into position.

‘Do it now,’ a voice inside my head screams.

Vice-like, my fist tightens on the knife handle.

Trevor’s eyes reflect rampant lust. This man has bought me; we’ve settled terms and he craves to complete the contract. My anger surges. What right has any man to purchase a woman’s flesh?

‘Do it now,’ he says, desperate.

‘Okay, Trevor,’ I say. ‘First, will you do something for me?’

‘Anything,’ he whimpers, a submissive dog.

‘For one last time, think about your wife.’

He gawks at me, incredulous.

I thrust the knife forward and the six-inch blade scythes a short journey, piercing Trevor’s heart. Instantly, his back arches. He gasps, a confused, bewildered expression on his face. The dying man’s glare bores through me; searching, questioning, begging. Then he slumps, and Trevor’s quintessence is gone.

Silence saturates the air, my taut muscles unwind, and peace pervades my body. Rehearsed in my mind, this scene had played out as brutal, bloody, and traumatic. The reality has been so different, the business of killing so easy. I’ve rid the world of a sex predator and it feels good.

Gazing into the blackness, I see a pitiful vision, the vision driving me down this pathway to perdition. Amelia: pale skin, hazel eyes, and chestnut hair. She lies lifeless on the cold cobblestones. I sense her presence. Soon, when I tell Amelia’s heart-rending story, you will understand.

‘This is the beginning, Amelia,’ I say.

Image fading, I busy myself with the job at hand. Wearing surgical gloves, I use the blade’s tip to carve the word ‘PERV’ deep into Trevor’s chest and watch as drips of blood trickle from each letter downwards to his groin.

‘Snips and snails and puppy dog tails,’ I say to the dearly departed. ‘That’s what little boys are made of, Trevor.’

Placing a calling card beside the body, I use my phone to capture a short video clip of the scene. My fingerprints and DNA are absent from every known database; nevertheless, I methodically wipe clean the car’s interior surfaces before making my way to the dismal wasteland’s boundary and a parked-up Toyota hire vehicle.

I strip to bra and panties, wrap my blood-stained clothes around the knife, and deposit the bundle in a metal photographer’s case. The sky is clear and a cool breeze prickles my naked skin. Light pollution from night-time Belfast cannot thwart an abundance of heavenly stars sparkling above me as I pull on a sweater and jeans, slip behind the wheel, and drive away, leaving a decomposing Trevor to his unfulfilled future.

Fifteen minutes later, standing on Annadale embankment staring at a black River Lagan, I drop the case and watch as it sinks into the murky depths. I hit the ignition and accelerate. Passing City Hall, I drive along Chichester Street towards Victoria Square and Albert Clock, and after opening a remote-controlled security gate at the Custom Square building, I park in my allocated space, ascend to floor eight, and enter the rented apartment.

Meagrely furnished, my temporary residence accommodates a lounge-kitchen-diner, one bedroom, a bathroom, and boasts an unimpressive outlook onto the office block next door. My Louvre blinds remain closed; I do not require a view. Acquiring false identification, I’ve signed a six-month lease in the name of Mia Stravick, the property agent eagerly accepting an advance cash payment. The apartment serves as an ideal base from which to conduct my campaign.

I kick off my shoes, brew a strong coffee, and crash on the sofa to bathe in an adrenalin-provoked high. My plan has worked flawlessly, although in retrospect I realise how fortune has favoured me by giving up Trevor as the first kill; a naive man simply seeking no-strings sexual pleasure.

Tough luck for poor old Trevor; the bastard deserves to rot in hell.

My mind focuses on the next target, the next sex parasite, the next male marauder daring to manipulate and denigrate female flesh. They’ll die as an apology to Amelia. I select a voice modelling application on my mobile. Having experimented with the downloaded software, digitally sampling pitch and cadence, the effect adequately disguises my voice.

I dial the emergency services number.

‘999, what is your emergency?’ asks the female operator.

‘I’d like to report an execution,’ I reply.

‘A what?’

‘You heard.’

‘Your name and address please.’

‘All you get is the body’s current resting place.’

I reveal the location of Trevor’s corpse.

‘Are you related to the victim?’

‘The deceased is not a victim. He deserved to die. I killed him by shoving a long knife into his heart.’ I pause for effect. ‘Then I gouged a message into his flesh. Goodnight.’

‘Stay on the line,’ she says.

‘Afraid not,’ I say. ‘My time is precious.’

I hit the ‘end call’ icon.

I’ve disabled Bluetooth, wi-fi, and GPS tracking on the burner phone, and although base station triangulation is accurate to within a few hundred metres, in a city of numerous highly populated apartment buildings the call does not pose a problem. Still, I must be careful in all future communications. Sliding open the mobile’s rear cover, I extract the prepaid sim card, insert a replacement, and listen as my waste disposal unit grinds the redundant sim to a pulp. Closing my eyes, I revel in the crusade’s successful launch.

CHAPTER 2

Dirty-blonde, shoulder-length hair, broad forehead, strong jaw, and a complexion exposing the peppering of ice-pick scars inherited from severe teenage acne. Madagan studied the face, a face displaying slight midlife ruts and furrows. A once attractive man, he mused. Yet, with gunmetal-blue eyes, straight nose, and full lips, a rugged handsomeness remained.

‘Your Adonis looks are fading,’ said Madagan.

His reflection scowled in reply. Lifting his shirt, he pinched a layer of belly fat.

‘And you definitely need to lose a few pounds.’

The mirror image nodded in agreement.

Detective Inspector Michael Madagan used the urinal, washed up, re-tied his ponytail, and returned to his office, thoroughly pissed off.

The South Belfast police station was encountering higher than usual misdemeanour activity for a midweek evening, and throughout the night Madagan had casually observed as uniformed officers paraded past, handcuffed petty offenders in tow. A glance at the various culprits led him to surmise crimes of assault, burglary, drunk and disorderly, or drug possession.

All very stimulating stuff he thought whilst releasing a noisy yawn. Merely his workplace scenery, the corridor commotion was superfluous to the paper mountain facing him as he continued digesting thick evidence files on three impending court cases.

‘It’s a madhouse out there,’ pronounced Duty Sergeant Maurice Hanna as he entered the room bearing two mugs of coffee. ‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Good to see a friendly face,’ replied Madagan.

Hanna’s Rottweiler-like features suited his job description, belying the affable disposition that lay beneath.

‘Burning the midnight oil?’ asked Maurice.

‘Seventy hours a week since my reinstatement at this bloody desk. The pen-pushing is melting my brain.’

‘Tell me about it. Dotting I’s, crossing T’s, procedures and red tape. Makes you wonder how we ever manage to lock anyone up.’

Maurice cast an eye over his colleague’s muscular, six-foot-two-inch frame. Aged thirty-eight and in the force for sixteen years, Madagan had earned widespread respect for his unorthodox but effective homicide investigation techniques.

‘Thankfully,’ continued Maurice, ‘when my stint ends, I’m out the door and work stays behind. You carry it home in your head.’

‘I don’t have a home these days, Maurice.’

Hanna had witnessed Madagan’s job dedication and commitment steadily edge into the realms of obsession, an obsession destined to become the major contributory factor in a two-year-old marriage breakdown.

The Duty Sergeant donned an apologetic expression. ‘How’s Lila and the kid?’

‘Both great. Rosie has turned eight.’

‘No sign of a reconciliation?’

‘Lila refuses to entertain the idea whilst I remain a cop. Funny thing is, we’ve been getting on better since the separation.’

‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder.’

‘Who’s to understand the female mind?’ posed Madagan rhetorically.

‘At that front desk, Duty Sergeant Maurice Hanna is the boss. At home, I simply nod and agree; it makes for an easier life. So, any undercover jobs in the pipeline?’

‘The Chief says my covert days are finished. Seemingly, I’m infamous within the villain fraternity and he believes my last assignment was too close for comfort. In other words, he thinks I’m past it.’

‘You’ll be getting your ears lowered then?’

‘I’ve asked him to reconsider, so until further notice I’ll be keeping my hair on.’

‘I’m finding it difficult to visualise you without the mop,’ said Maurice. ‘It wouldn’t suit your extracurricular activity.’

Playing the guitar from adolescence and developing a passion for blues, Madagan performed weekend gigs when possible.

‘I could always buy a wig,’ said Madagan.

Hanna chuckled, stood up, and drained his coffee. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘Not if I can help it. My late-night TV dinner awaits.’

Inhaling deeply, Madagan reclined and stared at the document pile, thoughts dwelling on his current work-life imbalance.

Lila: they’d met in a karaoke bar, stag and hen nights colliding and a friend whispering in his ear, ‘her name is Delilah.’ Grabbing a microphone, he belted out the song as her laughter filled the room. Love at first sight, an engagement and marriage in less than a year, an early pregnancy, and a few years of idyllic family life. Then, his promotion to Detective Sergeant. Long, erratic hours, heated arguments, and ever-increasing tension conspired to pull the relationship apart. Antagonism, resentment, antipathy, and separation.

Forgive me, Delilah, I just couldn’t take any more. The tune bounced around inside his skull until abruptly, darkness turned to light as an epiphany took hold. He’d shared his happiest years with Lila and he resolved to get her back, whatever the cost.

Giving his files the evil eye, he closed his laptop and prepared to leave for the evening.

––––––––

Ten minutes after the killer’s call, two mobile police response cars pulled onto the deserted waste ground, headlights shining on an abandoned vehicle. In times gone by, this call of duty would have required armoured Land Rovers and a bomb disposal team to safeguard against hidden explosive devices. A relatively normalised Northern Ireland however, did not preclude the uniformed constables from adopting a cautious approach.

Circling the vehicle, they examined the surrounding area, and torches in hand, slowly closed in. One officer swallowed hard on clocking a blood-soaked body and instantly radioed base, requesting forensics mobilisation and C.I.D. support. Securing the site using crime scene tape, they returned to the corpse.

Long seconds passed, comprehension finally dawning on a young policeman’s countenance.

‘Good God,’ he said, staggering backwards. ‘There’s some sort of message gouged into the dead guy’s skin.’

––––––––

As Madagan opened his office door, a fleeting slice of freedom forefront on his mind, the clanging desk phone caused him to backpedal.

‘Should’ve decamped earlier,’ said Hanna. ‘Although I must say, this one’s a cracker. Right up your street.’

‘Okay, Maurice, spit it out.’

The Duty Sergeant obliged and Madagan mentally processed the report while speed-dialling his partner’s mobile.

‘Get yourself in here pronto,’ said Madagan as Sergeant Reagan Kelly answered. ‘We’ve got a job, a homicide stabbing; sounds like a throwback to the Shankhill butcher days. I’ll brief you en route.’

‘Fifteen minutes,’ said Kelly. ‘Thought you were off duty tonight?’

‘So did I,’ replied Madagan.

Half an hour later, they left the city in an unmarked police car, Reagan Kelly at the wheel as Madagan imparted a synopsis of information to date.

Covert assignments aside, his partnership with the determined, dark-haired twenty-nine-year-old had endured five years and been successful in cracking several difficult murder cases. Madagan respected her unwavering ability to operate under rulebook constraints, thereby acting as a counterweight to his characteristic corner cutting.

‘A female rang it in?’ asked Reagan.

‘And confessed to doing the deed,’ answered Madagan. ‘An inconvenient interruption to your evening?’

‘Dinner with a friend. No worries.’

Madagan did not ask about the friend; male or female, it was not his business. Clearing his throat, he decided to impart an additional vital piece of intelligence.

‘The letters P.E.R.V. have been carved into the victim’s chest.’

Reagan shot her boss a look. ‘The killer sending a message.’

‘Revenge, retribution, payback; who knows? At least it’ll be more exciting than investigating the theft of fucking flatscreen televisions.’ 

Reagan smiled, reflecting on the unnerving effect of Madagan’s physical presence and inscrutable visage, an effect serving to create extremely entertaining suspect interrogation sessions.

They arrived to find a police photographer circling the abandoned car and visually recording the proximate area, his flashgun in overdrive. Outside the cordon, a crime scene truck had parked alongside a bulky mobile generator, powerful arc lights on galvanised poles were being slotted into large, triangular, metal feet, and four forensic investigators stood wearing bunny suits.

Uniformed police Sergeant Robert Patterson approached. ‘The big guns are out tonight,’ he said in salutation and led the way up the truck’s rear steps.

Inside a puny-sized office, they sat at a puny-sized desk while Patterson fetched coffee.

‘Okay,’ began Madagan. ‘From the top.’

Patterson launched straight in. ‘At 11.25 p.m., a female phoned to report a murder, referring to it as an execution. After disclosing the location, she calmly described how she’d killed the man. I’ve printed the conversation transcript.’

Patterson slid a page across the desk, pointed out the window, and continued.

‘Our officers arrived at 11.35 p.m. and confirmed a homicide. The victim is in that car. It’s registered to a Mr. Trevor Magowen and we’ve obtained his D.V.L.A. home address. Next of kin have not yet been contacted.’

Daylight dawned as the generator cranked to life and arc lights blazed.

‘Welcome to psychoville,’ said Madagan as he absorbed the brief transcript.

Reagan appeared shocked. ‘It’s so clinical. I wonder what fatal sin the dead guy committed.’

Madagan returned his partner’s stare. ‘Uncover a motive and we’ll join the dots.’

Outside, white-hooded forensic detectives diligently executed well-practised tasks. Floodlit snowmen, thought Madagan, as an ultraviolet light beam travelled along the car’s exterior surface. He watched them identify latent fingerprints on panels, windows, and door handles, and apply magnesium powder to highlight and lift impressions.

‘The far-left bigfoot is our senior crime scene officer this evening,’ said Patterson, observing the technicians. ‘I’ve asked him to search for identification.’

Madagan looked sceptical. ‘Wouldn’t hold my breath. Those guys tend to work at their own pace.’

A battered 4x4 pulled in beside the cordon and an obese, middle-aged male struggled out from the driver’s seat. Recognising Bill Gillespie, police pathologist, Madagan strode to greet him.

‘Bill, you fat old fart.’

‘Not so much of the ‘‘old’’ please, Inspector,’ responded Gillespie in his usual raspy voice. ‘We must stop meeting like this.’

‘Thankfully,’ said Madagan, ‘murder is no longer an everyday occurrence in our little neighbourhood.’

Thru several years, and somewhat improbably, Madagan had established a close friendship with the pathologist.

‘How are these goons getting on?’ asked Bill.

‘Slowly by the looks of it. Will you have a word?’

‘I’ll see what I can do. The car’s bodywork ought to be finished by now.’

Both men approached the senior technician and after a brief conversation, Bill moved to the vehicle, his gloved hand opening a rear door. The poke of an index finger on lifeless flesh enabled him to estimate two hours post-mortem, and on a cursory corpse appraisal, he surmised the autopsy as a formality. Fully seasoned at grisly killing grounds, still Madagan grimaced, disgusted at the insanity of human-on-human carnage.

‘Check for I.D.,’ said Madagan, gazing at the body.

Bill located the dead man’s wallet in a hip pocket and placed it in a plastic bag. Retreating to the makeshift office, and careful to avoid evidence contamination, Madagan extracted one debit and two credit cards, twenty-five pounds in notes, a teachers’ union membership card, various hand-written paper scraps, and a family snapshot. The wallet also held a photocard driving licence identifying its owner as Trevor Magowen.

Madagan scrutinised the head and shoulder image. ‘Unquestionably the victim. When do you slice and dice, Mr. Pathologist?’

‘Call me tomorrow afternoon for the initial findings,’ replied Bill.

‘A wife and child,’ said Reagan, studying the snapshot. ‘Tonight, someone sanctioned this family man’s death.’

‘Which is where we come in,’ said Madagan. ‘This ‘‘someone’’ has a background, a story, and a life, and we’re on her case.’

‘You want me to visit the victim’s wife?’ asked Reagan.

‘I’ll do it. Get some sleep and report to base at 7 a.m. It’ll be a long day and there’s a lot to get organised.’

Calling HQ, Madagan arranged to meet a female liaison officer at Trevor Magowen’s home.

CHAPTER 3

Karen Magowen slammed down the handset after another unsuccessful call to her husband’s mobile. The parent-teacher meeting, normally concluding at ten o’clock, invariably allowed Trevor to arrive home before 10.30 p.m. and as two fretful hours elapsed, mild annoyance turned to anger, soon replaced by concern. Eventually managing to contact a fellow PTA member and learning of Trevor’s non-attendance at the meeting, her concern morphed into a deep-rooted worry.

Twice she’d felt the urge to phone 999 and report a missing person but resisted, fearing the police would treat her as a neurotic wife. Nauseous, she poured herself a drink and was dialling Trevor’s mobile once more as the doorbell rang. Struggling to the door and greeted by a male and female whom she instinctively labelled as plain-clothed police officers, Karen felt a leaden weight in the pit of her stomach.

‘Detective Inspector Mike Madagan, and Constable Debbie Marshall,’ said Madagan, flashing his warrant card.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Karen, the dreadful sensation deepening.

‘Mrs. Magowen?’

‘Yes; where’s Trevor?’

‘May we come in?’ asked Madagan.

Unsteadily, Karen led them to the lounge. ‘Please, just tell me he’s okay.’

Madagan withdrew a driving licence photocopy from his jacket pocket. ‘Is this your husband?’

Hoping in vain to see anyone other than Trevor, Karen nodded in affirmation. Madagan spoke in an assured, resolute voice, knowing empathy would not cushion his words.

‘Mrs. Magowen, a body was discovered at 11.35 p.m. We believe it to be your husband.’

An incredulous horror instantly flooded the woman’s features.

‘That’s impossible,’ protested Karen. ‘It’s a mistake. He was here only a few hours ago.’ 

‘Formal identification is required, but we are sure.’

Staring vacantly, the gravitas written on Madagan’s face finally hit home and Karen Magowen collapsed, landing on the floor with a thud.

Ten minutes later, brandy glass in hand, she sat sobbing. Handing her a paper tissue, Madagan waited as she regained a semblance of composure.

‘How?’ Karen asked at length. ‘Trevor always drove carefully.’

‘Your husband was stabbed, Mrs. Magowen, and I’m investigating his murder.’

Karen glared at the detective and for long seconds the room remained still.

Her anguished outcry shattered the silence. ‘No! Nobody could kill Trevor. Everyone liked and respected him.’

‘It’s homicide,’