Three Little Angels: The Inspector Stark novels, #8

By Keith Wright

In 1978 witnessing a tragic accident as a child leaves Benny Smith mentally scarred for many years.

In 1987 he is suddenly and unexpectedly released from the mental health institution that had been his home for almost a decade.

Haunted by the incident and lacking sufficient support, his condition takes him to dark places in the corners of his mind, igniting a curious fascination. There is something specific he craves which can only be satiated if he sees young people die – it is a validation of sorts.

Nottingham CID are puzzled when two children accidentally die in unusual and identical circumstances and only a day apart. Something isn't right.

Detective Inspector Stark is suffering from his own demons and when he takes charge of this case, he realises that he and the killer have something in common.

Keith Wright, former CID Detective Sergeant, and now author, has won multiple writing awards for his internationally renowned Inspector Stark series of crime thrillers. He is married with four children and lives in Nottingham, England.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Keith Wright
• Release date: Jan 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224897810

Keith Wright

Keith Wright's series of crime thriller are set in 1980s Nottingham, England. Keith's first novel was shortlisted for The John Creasey Memorial Award by The Crime Writers Association as the best debut crime novel globally. He has received critical acclaim in The Times and Financial Times and other quality newspapers. His fourth crime thriller 'Murder Me Tomorrow' won best crime novel in the Independent Press Awards. He has also had short stories published in the CWA anthology 'Perfectly Criminal' and 'City of Crime' alongside such luminaries as Ian Rankin, Val McDermid and Alan Sillitoe. He has featured in the main panel in the World Mystery Convention, and been a contributor to their brochures. Keith has previously been a Detective Sergeant on the CID for 25 years covering an inner-city area – the murder capital of the UK at the time. He was Head of Corporate Investigations for a global corporation upon retirement. He has four children and lives with his partner, Jackie.

Book preview

Three Little Angels

Keith Wright

THREE LITTLE ANGELS

By

Keith Wright

In 1978 witnessing a tragic accident as a child, leaves Benny Smith mentally scarred for many years. In 1987 he is suddenly and unexpectedly released from the mental health institution that had been his home for almost a decade.

Haunted by the incident and lacking sufficient support, his condition takes him to dark places in the recessess of his mind, igniting a curious fascination.

There is something specific he craves which can only be satiated if he sees young people die.

Detective Inspector Stark of Nottingham CID is suffering from his own demons and contemplates his future for the sake of his family. When he takes charge of this case he realises that he and the killer have something in common.

'Three Little Angels' is the eighth book in the award-winning Inspector Stark series. All the books can be read as standalone.

Keith Wright, former CID detective, and now author, has won multiple writing awards for his internationally renowned and critically acclaimed Inspector Stark series of crime thrillers. He is married with four children and lives in Nottingham, England.

Copyright © 2022 by Keith Wright

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. and UK copyright law.

This book is intended for adults only. It includes scenes of violence, expletives, and issues relating to mental health. The book is set in the 1980s and therefore reflects the culture at the time which may seem unacceptable to today's values and beliefs.

If you feel adversely affected by any of these issues contact The Samaritans, Mind, or other relevant charities searchable on the internet.

Chapter 1

'There's no tragedy in life like the death of a child. Things never get back to the way they were.' - Dwight D. Eisenhower.

The curious thing about life is the unexpected surprises that it delivers, good and bad, personally tailored to each and every one of us. Life, like a fingerprint, is unique to us all. Across the entirety of the planet, no two are the same. Our life experiences define us. They shape our personalities like so much clay on a potter's wheel.

We hope the way we live our lives might steer these experiences toward being positive or negative, but it may be that our destiny is etched in stone and there is no escape but to endure whatever is thrown our way, regardless of whether it is justified or not. We know that life is not fair. It never was and never will be. How we respond to it all is the key. But there are some things that are so devastating that we surrender ourselves without a coherent response, and for a period of time, we are lost and drifting, whichever way the tide takes us. Usually, these times are created by the main curse on humanity. Death. Notably, the death of a loved one.

Death calls, often unannounced, into the lives of all of us. It comes out of the blue and deals a hammer blow, sending us reeling, shocked and desperate. It is like a disease and despite help from others, we must get ourselves better. It is our strength of spirit which must overcome. No one is coming to save us. No one can do it for us. We have to dig into the very fibre of our being to find a way to live the rest of our lives with a piece of us missing. The death of someone close feels like an amputation. A spell cast with such wickedness that we are changed forever, while doomed to continue, stumbling on with our own existence. What we must not do is forsake the remainder of our lives because of the loss of the life of another. They wouldn't want it and it is not the intended way of things. We have to get the other side of it. It just takes time and perseverance. Doesn't it?

Death came to call on Sunday 5th November 1978, the impact of which would haunt those present, and others, for decades to come.

Sunday 5th November 1978.

Winter had truly arrived. The temperature had been below freezing for the last five days and today was no different. A dry frost swept over the grass at Bulwell Hall Park in Nottingham, colouring it white and soaking the cheap black plimsolls of three boys as they trudged towards the lake. There were two lakes situated in the park, adjacent to one another, but they had never ventured beyond the closest. Despite the cold, the frost engendered a sense of excitement in the boys.

With the temperature lowering consistently over several days, the lake gradually froze, causing congelation ice or, as it is more commonly known, black ice. This meant the ice had frozen without many air bubbles, and whilst thick, it was relatively transparent. The gradual freezing of the lake pushed all the impurities and gases into the water below. The weather, however, would not stop the festivities arranged for later that day, with it being 5th November – bonfire night. Bonfires and fireworks would be lit in the community with the excitement born from lives with little else to celebrate. The commemoration of Guy Fawkes's plot to blow up the British Houses of Parliament in 1605 had grown into an annual celebration over the centuries and now involved people making effigies of Guy Fawkes or 'guys.' The 'guy' would usually be placed on a wooden trolley with children crying out to passers-by for a 'penny for the guy.'

The feral kids in the community, of which there were many, would beg, steal, or borrow to collect money for 'bangers' and rockets using the 'guy' they had fashioned with newspaper stuffed into old trousers and jumpers. A balloon or papier mache mask, painted or coloured in with crayon, would be used for the head and face. The kids would mostly spend proceeds on fireworks at a time when shopkeepers in the many corner shops were not too fussy about selling fireworks to children.

Songs and poems had grown up over the generations, seemingly passed from parent to child:

'Remember, remember 5th November, gunpowder, treason, and plot.'

'Build a bonfire, build a bonfire, put (name) on the top, put (name) in the middle and burn the bloody lot!'

It was no small miracle that such a historic celebration had endured over centuries, but it did. Maybe the thought of the Houses of Parliament being blown up was a perennial and unifying desire. It was an event in which the community of all walks of life would get involved. Anyone who was of the mind to do so would put wood and all manner of flammable detritus onto the local bonfire, usually situated in a space where a house had once been or a local field. Building bonfires twelve feet high during the build-up to the day added to the growing anticipation. A 'guy' would be placed atop before being set alight, and fireworks let off come the evening of the 5th of November.

Ancillary pleasures such as the making of 'bonfire toffee' and the scoffing of mushy peas and mint sauce were also a bonus to families in England entering the bleakness of winter.

Bonfire Night, or Guy Fawkes Night as it was also known, was one of the year's key events in England, with Halloween celebrated scarcely at all, being sandwiched between Goose Fair and Guy Fawkes night, at least in the city of Nottingham. Halloween was more of an American tradition.

The three boys were all friends; Benny, 'Chip,' and little Franky. Twelve-year-old Franky always hung around with the fourteen-year-old boys, Benny and Chip, despite him being a couple of years younger. Franky was slight in build and never seemed to have clothes that fitted him, mainly because they were hand-me-downs from his older brothers. They were several sizes too large, so his grey jumper and scruffy denim jeans with a snake belt hung loosely on his slender frame. His hooded anorak had numerous rips, exposing glimpses of thin white fibrous material which passed for a lining. Franky would have made a good 'guy' himself. They might have made a few pounds if he had lain down on the pavement and kept still. In truth, the three lads lacked the wit or the inclination to make their guy, and although they planned to do so every year, it never materialised.

None of the three lads came from homes with money and had to find ways to entertain themselves by playing out on the streets. Being outside and unsupervised often brought about mischief, whether it be knocking on doors and running away or trying to steal penny chews in the form of a fruit salad or blackjack from the local beer-off. Little Franky was always trying to impress his two older friends in one way or another, often to the point of annoyance. His friend's irritation would manifest itself by way of a clip around the ear or a punch to the shoulder from his buddies, sometimes prompting a welling of tears that he refused to set free for appearance's sake.

As the frost merged with mist on the horizon, the lads sang their usual bonfire song, which they thought was hilarious. It was a song that all the kids knew, an amusing 'carol' for bonfire night.

'Bonfire night, the stars are bright, three little angels dressed in white, one with a biscuit, one with a drum, one with a firework stuck up his bum!'

There was always a communal giggle at the end. It was all harmless, childish fun.

As they walked, knocking into each other, sometimes by accident, sometimes by design, Franky heard a fizzing sound. He turned and saw Benny holding a lit 'banger', which he threw at the lad who dodged it, and they all ran. A couple of seconds later, the bang rewarded them, and they skipped and whooped with delight; steam from their mouths adding modestly to the encompassing mist.

'Get stuffed, Benny. Mam says you shouldn't throw fireworks.' Franky shouted at his friend excitedly.

'Your Mam ain't here, is she?'

'No. If you do it again, though, I will tell her. You told your Mam you would look after me, so you'll get done.'

Chip shouted up. 'Last one to the lake has to swim in it.'

That was the trigger to send the three scruffy lads tearing toward the lake as fast as their legs would carry them. Inevitably little Franky was last.

They were puffing and panting as they sat on the icy white bench.

'That's you then, Franky. Off you go.' Benny gasped.

'Get knotted, Benny, me mam would kill me if I jumped in there.'

'Okay, but that's what little kids say.'

'What?'

'Nothing, it's fine.'

'No, what? Come on, Benny, what do you mean?'

'I'm just saying that little kids promise stuff and then get scared and go back on it. It's fine. We understand, don't we, Chip?'

Chip shrugged. 'Yeah, I s'pose.'

Little Franky took a few steps and looked down at the water a couple of feet below the bank. 'Hah! It's frozen over, so the bet is off.'

'No, it ain't,' Benny said.

'Tis.'

'Tint.'

'Tis.'

'This is why it's a pain having kids with us, int it, Chip?'

'Yeah. It's a pain in the bumhole.' Chip giggled.

'How can I swim in an icy lake?' Franky asked. He hated the thought that the other two saw him as a kid, and they played on that.

'You don't have to swim, just jump in and jump straight out. It's piss-easy.' Benny said.

'Swallow-dive in.' Chip laughed.

'I can't do that.' Franky frowned.

'You can jump in, though. We'll make a hole for you.' Benny said.

'Straight in and straight out?' Franky said, now biting his nails.

'Your head has to go underwater,' Chip added to the 'rules.'

'Ah, come off it. That's mental.' Franky said.

'No, it's not. No point doing it otherwise. Stop being a spaz.' Benny said.

'What you gonna give me if I do it?' Franky said.

Both boys could not believe he was thinking about doing it. This was going to be a hilarious story for school tomorrow.

'All my bangers.' Benny said, pulling out five bangers and five matches from his pocket. He thought that was grand enough a prize to seal the deal.

'Jeez. All of them? Seriously?' Franky's eyes lit up.

'Yeah.' Benny winked at Chip, who shrugged out a laugh.

'It'll be freezing.' Franky said.

'You can use mine and Chip's coat when you get out. We can run home; it will only take two minutes.'

'I daren't.'

'Fine. Let's go, scaredy cat. That should be his new nickname, Chip. What do you reckon? Scaredy Cat Frank, the fucking spaz.'

'Don't, Benny.' Franky said, looking worried.

'You're the one dobbing out, Franky, not me.'

'You're the one who said you would jump in if you were last.' Chip chipped in. Living up to his nickname.

'How do I even get in?' Franky said.

'We'll make a hole for you?' Benny suggested.

The two older lads went to the water's edge and threw rocks and boulders of increasing size at the ice, which scarcely touched it. A tiny dent was all.

'Hang on. Come down here. Look, there's some already broken at the edge.' Benny led the way towards a sizeable hole in front of the exposed roots of a great oak tree.

Without warning, Little Franky overtook Benny and took a running jump, and there was a splash before he disappeared under the water.

'What the fuck?' Benny said.

Chip and Benny were in hysterics for a few seconds before Benny said, 'Where is he?'

Instant terror swept through the two boys as it was apparent that Franky had not come back up. The angle he had jumped in had swept him under the ice, and the lad could not find his way out.

In a panic, the two older boys jumped over the gaping hole and got on the ice on the other side, trying to see where Franky was. There was no sign. In desperation, Benny thrust an arm into the hole but could feel nothing but ice-cold water and bits floating around in the blackness.

'Shit! This is your fault, Chip.' Benny said, his voice quivering.

'Get stuffed; it's yours. I didn't know he would throw himself in, the mental twat.' Chip shouted aggressively.

Tears were welling in both boys' eyes. They were frightened, and it had gone too far.

'You told him to do it. He's only a kid, and you're gonna get fucking done for this, mate.' Benny said.

Chip turned and fled. He ran back across the field towards the houses as fast as he could.

Benny whimpered and was close to crying. He again peered into the darkness.

'Franky!'

Benny looked over the field to Chip, who was a hundred yards away. 'Get help!' He shouted, but Chip just kept running.

Benny looked over at the hole and then back to the disappearing silhouette of Chip running away into the mist. Benny was out of ideas and decided to scarper. He was running and crying and sobbing his heart out when he collapsed into the frozen grass. He couldn't leave little Franky there; he had to do something, but what? He started to trudge back towards the lake, now shivering with cold and fear.

The ice was thicker the closer you got to the middle, and Benny bound over the hole where Franky had disappeared and began to peer into the depths. It was pretty hopeless.

Benny wiped his forearm across the thin veil of dry ice on the surface to see if he could see his little friend. A few feet along, he caught a glimpse of something. It was a few feet from where he was, and he listened. It was like a tapping sound. Benny moved to where the ice was more transparent, and after wiping it with his sleeve, he cried out in horror when he saw the distorted face of Franky staring up at him. It was barely visible at first, but Benny's brain filled in the gaps. Franky had a blank expression on his face, lying on his back, eyes open, with tiny bubbles trickling out the side of his mouth and nose.

'Franky! The hole is here.' Benny was pointing, even though he knew the gesture was futile. He was stamping on the ice, trying to break it. He looked around for something he might use, but there was nothing. He was crying and shouting desperately. He felt helpless and alone.

Benny went on hands and knees, getting close to the ice to shout again. He was banging on the ice, sobbing and scraping, all to no avail. He saw little Franky's mouth move. Was he alive? His lips turned up slightly on each side. It perversely looked as if he was smiling, and then Frankie began slowly sinking into the depths. Benny thought he saw a glimpse of him resurface further along against the underside of the ice, but in any case, he was gone.

'Franky!'

Benny ran to the bank, dropping to the floor, unable to function. He sat with his knees curled below his chin, arms wrapped around his knees, crying and wailing, rocking backwards and forwards. Benny was shivering uncontrollably; mucus came from his nose into his mouth, and the stringy substance remained unmolested by hand or sleeve. After what seemed like an age, the sobbing was replaced with a guttural sound as he continued to rock back and forth. 'Uh!' 'Uh!' Uh!' It made an uncanny noise as it echoed across the desolate lake and landscape. Benny couldn't move, nor did he consider it. He urinated in his trousers as he sat there. Eventually, he just rocked in silence. The poor lad had lost his mind. He would lose his life if help did not arrive in the next couple of hours.

As darkness enveloped the lake, fireworks exploded in the sky. No one came to help. Chip had been too scared to tell anyone and, once home, ran straight upstairs to his room. He thought he would be in trouble if he said anything. Had Chip sought assistance and with the ice-cold water, Franky would have had a chance to be revived, even after death, if they could get him out, but Chip did not know that. He knew he was in serious trouble, and that meant keeping his mouth shut.

It was long after dark before a policeman's torch caught sight of the boy whimpering on the banks of the lake, close to death with hypothermia and early frostbite at the extremities. By that time, it was too late for Franky and too late for young Benny's sanity.

Chapter 2

'The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.' - Ernest Hemingway.

Thursday 15th October 1987.

One bald head, a man with a ponytail, and a woman sporting a crewcut sat at the long table in the meeting room of Mapperley Psychiatric Hospital. The man with the ponytail, section lead for social services mental health, was smoking a cigarette and sipping lukewarm tea from a chipped mug sporting the logo Trent FM. As he listened, he ran the tip of his cigarette around the steel ashtray in front of him. Two empty chairs were facing the panel.

'He has been here for 9 years. I have seen his progress on a weekly basis so I ask, if not today when? What has he got to do that he hasn't already done? That is the burning question for me.' Dr Jones looked earnest, his voice trimmed with an echo in the large, high-ceilinged room.

Miriam Court was head of regional services for the NHS and shuffled papers in front of her. 'I see he is still having the dreams, Dr Jones.'

'If they haven't stopped by now, I don't think they ever will, I'm afraid. But remember, this has been a constant throughout his time here, and the dreams have never manifested into actions or behaviour which caused concern. Young Benny is the only victim of his night terrors, no one else, but he has learned over the years to adapt pretty quickly when he awakes, which, granted, is helped by his medication.'

'Would you describe his behaviour as passive, then?' Miriam asked.

'I think I would, yes.'

'Are you saying there is no issue or risk to the public as far as you are concerned?' Miriam said.

Matthew Parkinson stubbed his cigarette out unsuccessfully, leaving an ember within the tobacco emitting a tornado of smoke. 'I don't think we can say there is no issue. I mean the man is clearly suffering from a personality disorder. Let's not kid ourselves.'

'As is half of the population, Matthew.' Dr Jones said ruefully.

'Is that so?' Matthew shrugged.

'It is, Matthew. I think it is safe to say he is low-risk, and I would never say zero because he is taking mood-altering drugs, so if that were to stop, there could be a problem. Quite what that problem would be, I don't know because he has never been off them. But I don't see him as being intrinsically violent, and it's not in his nature or his condition.'

Miriam spoke again. 'What about his medication?'

'In what sense?'

'What does the medication do?' Miriam asked.

'He has been taking the same since his first day here, albeit the dosage has reduced somewhat. There have been minor adjustments as the drugs have been modified or renamed over the years. They are all seeking to achieve the same aims.' Dr Jones said.

'Which is?' Miriam asked.

'It is a cocktail of stabilising medication, sleeping tablets, and anti-hallucinogenic products. The patient takes four in the morning and one at night.'

'Would that stop him from functioning well in society? It sounds like his whole personality is being dampened down.' Matthew asked.

Dr Jones looked over his half-rimmed glasses. 'Many people are functioning in all sorts of professions whilst taking this medication. It would not stop him from living a useful life or indeed having some sort of low-level employment, for example. Not at all.'

'I have to be guided by you on that one, Doctor. If necessary, one of my team can seek out a suitable employer, bricklayer, maybe, that sort of thing.' Matthew smiled.

'Does he have any sort of trade? How is he going to survive out there? On a practical level.' Miriam asked.

'To some extent, that is where you two come in. Naturally, we will see him every month for a while, but that will trail off once he shows he is self-sufficient.'

Dr Jones flipped his sheets of paper back a few pages. 'He is quite a skilled carpenter, by all accounts, which underlines the level of trust afforded to him. He works with sharp tools and has done so for years without any sign of problems. That is quite a potent indicator when deciding whether he is safe to be released into the community.'

There was a slight lull. The three stared at their notes as an excuse to gather their thoughts. The room was silent but nibbling away at the edges were the distant cries and shouts from the patients resident in the building, sufficient only subliminally to remind them that they were in a psychiatric hospital.

'I must admit I feel so sorry for him. Such a tragedy. To witness a horror like that at such a young age. Poor lad.' Miriam said.

'The ward is full of them, Miriam. Tragedies, I mean.' Dr Jones said. 'Tragedies cause the patient's condition, and tragedies are caused by the patient's condition. It was ever thus.'

'I know. I don't envy you. I just want to ensure we are doing what is best for him and society as a whole.'

Dr Jones continued with a broader context. 'Look, we all know the latest political will is to lean towards care in the community, and these are the unofficial first steps to testing how it might work. The old belt and braces approach needs to change. If we are baulking at releasing young Benny Smith, then God help us when we come to some of the others under review today. They want us to be braver,