Facelifter: The Characters Compilation, #9

By Graham Hamer

Detective Sergeant Kelly Ross is charged with discovering who dumped a mutilated body in the woods opposite the golf course. Along with her detective constable – Jordan Sparrow – she finds herself drawn into a mystery with so many unknows and so many false leads that it's impossible to sort the facts from the fiction. It's particularly unhelpful when her own senior officers seem intent on making the enquiry more difficult.

 

When another mutilated body turns up, it leads to Kelly and Jordan reopening a large-scale murder enquiry which had been finalised eight years previously. The man responsible for the killings was still in jail and wasn't pleading his innocence. Yet Kelly discovers absolute evidence that it couldn't have been him. Unfortunately, in prison, he claims to be transgender, dresses in baby's nappies and insists on being spoon fed baby food.

 

Jordan discovers that, in addition to the 'Facelifter' murders, young women are disappearing from all over the county. Could the two things be linked? You'll only know by reading 'Facelifter'.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graham Hamer
• Release date: Jan 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224554911

Book preview

PROLOGUE

A movement in the room disturbed Jack’s sleep. He’d been revelling in a top-of-the-range uncensored dream that he wanted to get to the end of. It featured a provocative twenty-year-old wearing nothing more than a string of dazzling diamonds round her neck. It was one of those lucid dreams when you're aware that you're dreaming, and you can in some ways control the dream's storyline and environment. He’d not yet arrived at the point where he would make the decision between screwing her or stealing the diamonds. In real life, he would have done both, of course. But dreams sometimes offered odd choices, even when you had a certain amount of influence over the outcome. He part-opened his eyes, expecting to see a delightful pair of pert breasts hovering over him, begging him to touch and fondle them. But what he actually saw was confusing as his brain struggled to focus on reality. The girl, who’d said her name was Lizzie, had shared his bed earlier that evening. Now, she stood naked and silhouetted by the light from the corridor. What the hell was she doing opening the cabin door like that? And who were these men who pushed past her and rushed towards him? Was he still dreaming?

He made to lift himself onto his elbows when a hand clasped over his mouth and pushed his head back down into the pillow. What the—? Jack could just make out Lizzie’s hovering form, watching with her arms folded under her rounded breasts as the men held him down. She made no attempt to cover herself up. She made no attempt to call for help. Quite the opposite, in fact. She seemed pleased with what was happening. Excited, even.

Jack reached out and grabbed somebody’s wrist. But it was attached to a solid, muscular arm that was going to do whatever it had come to do. As he struggled against the force holding down his head, more hands materialised and pinned him tight to the bed. Then came the distinct sound of someone pulling duct tape away from its roll. The first hand came off his face just long enough for someone to smash the tape to over his mouth. Without pausing, the invisible hands lifted him off the bed.

The moonlight from the cabin’s glazed door washed over the men surrounding him. Jack kicked out against them, but to no avail. There were three of them, all in dark suits, like they’d just come from dining at the captain’s table. They made no attempt to cover their faces. They slid the balcony door open on its track, and carried him, flailing like a fish, out into the night air. For God’s sake, no! The back of Jack’s head crashed into the metal handrail as they manhandled him and flipped him over the top. Then his feet were up high, with the railing beneath him. And he was falling. Fuck, no!

For a split-second, he thought that he was dreaming again. That the Stephen King novel he had been reading on the sun deck, earlier in the day, had sunk into his subconscious and laid down roots.

Until he hit the water and had all the wind knocked out of him.

The millisecond of consciousness that lingered after the impact developed into a final, timeless string of thoughts and memories that sped through his head. They started with him stealing his mother’s housekeeping money from her purse. They worked their way through several car thefts in his teens. They matured into successful high-value thefts from private houses. And then Jack arrived at the jeweller he’d stabbed to death a few months ago when the man wouldn’t open his safe for him. They evolved without pause to Lizzie and her strange actions in the cabin - opening the door to let in three strangers. And then his thoughts ended with ice cold fear as to what came next. He didn’t know what scared him more, his own atheism that promised an eternal nothingness of nonexistence, or the possibility of his mother’s dream of endless caterwauling to an omnipotent supreme being. Perhaps he should have considered the options sooner.

Jack’s eyes snapped open, and a flood of water filled his nose and throat. He needed to breathe, to cough. He looked up, saw the light of the moon reaching through the cold, black waters above him. When he tried moving his arms and legs, they didn’t want to respond. It was almost as though they were bound in kelp or some other aquatic weed. The keen water and the shock of the impact immobilised him. Each movement of Jack’s legs required a solitary act of will. But, with every determined kick, he came just a little closer to the shimmering light. With an explosion, he broke through the choppy surface, ripped the tape from his mouth, and inhaled the night air in great desperate gulps. He was alive. He didn’t know how, but he was alive. Though his suite was located on one of the lower decks, it was still a fall that should have killed him. Or at least, broken his neck. But that consolation faded into the invisible horizon, along with the floating city and all its lights, that were moving away from him at a steady twenty-five knots.

No!

Panic surrounded Jack’s pounding heart, squeezing it in an inexorable embrace. This couldn’t be happening. It had to be a bad dream. He kicked his legs, trying to keep his head above the waves that slapped at his face. As he turned to look around him, the Greek island of Kos, where they had docked that day, was nowhere to be seen. The cruise liner had left there two or three hours ago so it would be over fifty miles behind them by now. He turned again, and started swimming after the boat, not caring how futile it was. The boat’s rough wake swamped his efforts. But he refused to die without a fight - even a futile, meaningless attempt was better than just giving up.

Minutes later, gasping for air and with aching muscles, Jack surrendered to the inevitable. He began to cry as the ship grew smaller and smaller and the churning waters settled around him. The surrounding nothingness pressed in on him. Oh, please, God... Oh, please, God... he repeated over and over. But God wasn’t listening. Particularly the God whose existence he had denied all his life.

On the horizon a long way ahead, Jack could make out the coastal lights of one of the many Greek Islands. It could be Mikonos, the boat’s next port of call. Or maybe Naxos. Or just a tiny pastoral island with nothing more than a local fishing village. Whatever it was, there was no way he could make it. Not a chance in hell. Swimming naked through what would soon be his grave, he spun onto his back and stared up at the moonlit sky while he caught his breath. It seemed as though nature’s majesty was grinning down and mocking him. Him and all the insignificant things he had held dear. Money, status, fast cars, faster women... it was all nothing in the grand scheme of the cosmos. He was as alone as a leper in a suicide vest and nothing mattered anymore. Not a single thing.

Except, that was, revenge against the bitch who’d opened the door to let his killers into the cabin. If ever he escaped this horror, Lizzie, or whatever her real name was, would die the most abhorrent death. The fucking cow had stood and laughed as those men had manhandled him over the side. The injustice of it had him screaming at the top of his lungs. Help! For fuck’s sake Help!

How could this be happening? It didn’t make any sense. How the hell could it all end this way? Why? Help me! he screamed again at the disappearing cruise liner. The sound of the expanse surrounding him stretched into liquid eternity. Formless fingers snapped and sprayed the night sky with a salty mist. His arms were growing tired, his muscles burning, his heart racing. The luxury cruise boat continued to fade away, leaving him far behind. Oh, Jesus... The gravity of his situation dawned on him in full. Death was there, knocking on his soul, trying to be understood. But Jack refused to give in, refused to believe that this was for real. It couldn’t be real. He couldn’t die like this. All alone in the middle of a dark, empty ocean.

He needed to get hold of that bitch Lizzie. She’d planned it all and played him like a well-tuned fiddle. He wanted to make her suffer and die. He wanted to ram her voice like smooth sex back down her treacherous throat. No, he wasn’t ready to give up without a fight. He wondered how long it would take. How long could he stay afloat? An hour? Two? What about sharks? Though rare, they weren’t totally unknown in the Mediterranean.

Within seconds, his torment at not being able to revenge himself transferred to thoughts of what was to come. The afterlife. Being faced with it right now was terrifying. What if he had been wrong? What if his God-bothering mother was right and there was a way he could’ve ensured a happy harp-strumming eternity? Was it too late?

He kicked as hard as he could, but his naked legs were burning and, little by little, he began to lose the ability to command them, or even feel them. Inky waters washed over his head time and again, plunging him into the liquid abyss. He could sense the cold, black eyes of finned predators watching him, and waiting. A tasty meal in the making. His head broke the surface once more, but there was nothing in any direction. Only more waves. He was alone. His arms were prisoners, shackled by fatigue, and of little further help to him. And his legs were as useful to him as a paraplegic trying to walk up the Spanish Steps.

As Jack was once more submerged beneath the choppy barrier that separated the two worlds, he knew he would never again taste fresh air. He didn’t know what came next, but it would be what it would be. He could fight it no longer.

His body sank. And sank. His lungs were burning for the unreachable air that would keep him alive a moment longer. His head bobbed above the surface one last time. The lights of the cruise ship were now little more than a blip on the horizon. It was slipping away, just like his will to survive was slipping down into the black depths below.

CHAPTER ONE

The village of North Wootton was a suburb of King’s Lynn in Norfolk - the eastern-most county in Britain. The suburb was an enclave for wealthy business people and not-so-wealthy wannabes. A lot of old money resided in the neighbourhood, but the nouveau riche had begun to take over. Either way, Stephen Harding’s glistening Mercedes, blended into the sleek surroundings. He parked on Ling Common Road where hedges and bushes shielded the occupants from prying eyes. And shielded him from their eyes - rather like his own cloistered home on the other side of the town. As he sank into the leather driver’s seat, he hummed along to Lian Foley - a French blues and jazz singer he had recently discovered. His windows were down, allowing the lazy breeze from the English countryside to carry its summer scent to him.

Steve was enthusiastic about the work he did. Since he was very young, he’d felt that people should learn that there were consequences to their actions. That they had to be restrained and made aware of their shortcomings. It was his job to teach them. He saw it as a calling rather than an obligation. And now, having lain dormant for eight years, he deemed it safe to recommence his ultimate quest. A quest that was once more eating at him from the inside.

He had been waiting for close to half an hour with an eye on Gatehouse Lane one hundred metres away. On the corner, overlooking an open square of grass was a large, solid house built of old Norfolk sandstone with red brick quoins on the corners and round the windows. Steve checked his watch. It was almost time for the first of his concluding lessons. A smile of anticipation crossed his face when he heard the engine of the heavy mower stop.

Ten minutes later, an old pickup truck with lawn equipment in the back eased from the gated drive of the house. The gardener was done for another week and Steve knew it would be a full day before the man of the house would return from a business meeting and weekend sales convention in London, one hundred miles away. Sound research and homework had kept Steve safe for many years. Just as it would today. He started his engine and cruised towards the house. The gates said everything that needed to be said about new money, poor taste, aspirations, and even upbringing. Fabricated in squiggly wrought iron and held aloft by immense redbrick pilasters, they were only there for show. Steve doubted that anyone had ever pulled them closed. He drew the car onto the shingled driveway and eased it behind the tall hedge, out of sight from passing vehicles. The house looked typical of many suburban neighbourhoods. Contemptible, dull, and ordinary to his discerning eye. Shrubs, tended with meticulous care to within an inch of their lives, bordered a wide expanse of green lawn. Optimistic flower beds scattered with red and pink blooms were arranged with care to appear haphazard and natural. It all looked so tedious and smart that he wondered if he had the right place and made a mental check before exiting the car.

The sweltering summer looked set to continue. Steve would have liked to have taken off his jacket and leave it in the car, but appearances were of vital importance at this stage. He noted the vehicle parked in front of the double garage. An expensive Range Rover. The company car was gone, just as he expected and needed. He strode towards the property, rang the bell, and wiped the bell push with a small sterile wipe, which he slid back into his pocket. It was tiny details like that which could alter the whole course of his life. After a moment, the door eased open, enough for a woman in her late forties to peek out. She didn’t seem worried that a stranger had entered the property and was standing on her doorstep. North Wootton was a safe, secure neighbourhood where little ever happened to disturb the peace.

Stephen Harding was a good-looking man with a full head of hair. The cut and quality of his dark blue suit spoke of conservative wealth and, of equal importance, he had a charming smile, which he used to good effect.

May I help you? the woman asked, eyeing his well-dressed six feet of toned body.

Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Jameson. It is Mrs. Jameson, isn’t it? Patricia Jameson?

She hesitated a beat before answering. Then she returned the smile. Yes, that’s right. Do I know you? You look somewhat familiar.

Steve let out a friendly chuckle and teetered back on his heels. Unfortunately, we haven’t met. But I know your husband, Charles. He stuck his hand out. I’m Gregory Oliver. Pleased to meet you.

Mrs. Jameson beamed at the handsome stranger, her guard down, as she opened the door all the way.

Steve breathed in and savoured her floral sensation. Honeysuckle. How refreshing.

Patricia Jameson wore a knee-length cream linen dress, and a single strand of pearls draped around her dainty neck. She had pulled her dark locks back into a neat bun and held them in place by a jewelled pin. She’d been a schoolteacher in her former life and had never lost the demeanour and bearing of one. Well, I’m pleased to meet you too, Gregory, she said, as though talking to a nine-year-old. She extended her hand to meet his adding, That name, Gregory Oliver, it’s familiar. Are you the same Gregory—

It was then that she wished she hadn’t opened the door to this man. It was the last wish she would ever make.

Much later Steve strode into his house seven miles away on the southern outskirts of the town. He shut the door behind him and called out, I’m home.

Daaaaddyyy! Two young girls charged down the carpeted hallway to the front door. He scooped them up, one in each arm.

Where were you? one girl asked. You don’t work on Saturdays, do you.?

And you never work this late, the other one chirped, kissing him on the cheek.

Daddy had business to take care of, Stephen said. Boring stuff, you wouldn’t want to know. But I’m home now. He looked up at the antique clock on the wall. It’s well beyond your bedtime, young ladies.

Mummy said we could stay up till you got home.

Yes, well I’m home now, so maybe it’s time for you to get some sleep.

A woman wearing a bright smile stepped into the hallway. She wore her jet-black hair in an expensive chopped bob, like she’d just stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine. Her eyes were a shade darker than a blue lagoon, framed with black eye liner. She wore form-fitting jeans and a silk blouse. They wanted to stay up until you came home, Natalie Harding said. She gave her husband a kiss as he lowered the girls to the floor. The twins groaned in unison Josie, Paula, what did we agree to do as soon as Daddy got home?

Brush our teeth and get ready for bed, they said in unison. Josie was ten minutes older than Paula and always took the lead. Mummy, can’t we stay up just a little longer? she asked. Daddy’s been gone forever.

Natalie looked at her husband. It would be his call.

Here’s what we’ll do, Steve said as he pulled the cuff of his shirt down over the gold Rolex. You two go brush your teeth, and I’ll come by and read you a quick bedtime story. Sound good? Both girls cheered and raced each other up the stairs.

After they disappeared, Natalie turned to her husband. The girls had pasta for dinner. What do you fancy?

He winked and shook his head. Sounds tempting, but I’d rather have you.

She chuckled, stepped forward to hug him, and asked, It was a successful meeting then?

Very. It went like a dream. Your research was, as always, spot on.

Like a flower, her red lips parted into another broad smile. It was as though she knew everything he was thinking. She reached for his hand. Steve hoped she didn’t notice that his was shaking, but he was sure she did. He was certain that his wife knew things about him that he hadn’t even considered himself. So, get the girls settled, Natalie said, then we’ll have some Mummy-Daddy time. I’ll fix us something to eat afterwards. She glanced down at his hand. And maybe we can do a line of flake to steady your nerves.

Steve grinned and nodded. He ruffled his cravat with a crackle of starch, like a turkey spreading its feathers, then pointed up the stairs. I’ll freshen up and get out of my outfit before I get the girls into bed. I’ll be back down shortly. His wife nodded before turning and heading back into the kitchen.

Still fit at forty-eight, Steve double-stepped it up the stairs. He stopped by the bathroom, where his daughters were brushing their teeth. Hurry up and pick out a book, he said. We’ll meet in Paula’s room in a few minutes. He continued down the landing to the master bedroom and closed the door behind him. After hanging up his jacket, he slipped out of his shirt and trousers and replaced them with a fresh T-shirt and jeans. In the en-suite, Steve washed his hands and splashed water on his face. He ran his fingers through his thick, wavy hair, checking the length, looking for the occasional white strand.

As he was leaving the bedroom, he thought again, turned, and reached high into the wardrobe, where he retrieved a small metal box from the shelf where he kept his jumpers. Natalie knew the box was there but, even though it was high up, he wouldn’t want his inquisitive daughters stumbling over the contents by accident. After fiddling with the combination lock, he pulled open the lid. Inside were two packs of disposable scalpels, a box containing latex gloves, and some small, pre-loaded syringes. He plucked out two gloves, one of the syringes, and choose a scalpel. Then he tucked them into the inside pocket of the suit he’d just hung up. Always be prepared was a motto that had stood him in good stead for many years. As he replaced the metal box, his hands touched on the leather bumbag that he never wore. It was there to conceal his Glock 26 semi-automatic pistol. It was one he’d bought on the black market a few years earlier. He kept it oiled and cleaned at all times, never knowing when he might need it.

As Steve closed the wardrobe door, he thought of the delights to come once the girls were settled. He had met Natalie when she was a student at Oxford. Steve was a professor teaching sociology - not the easiest of subjects. It required analysis and critical thinking, an understanding of complex theories and theorists, and awareness of the social contexts of a variety of social problems. Natalie was an eager student and could handle all of those disciplines with ease. Despite the age difference, it wasn’t long before afternoon tea and scones turned into weeknight dinners in cosy out-of-the-way pubs. And that led to romantic weekend getaways. They dated for five years while Natalie sailed through her Degree, her Masters, and finally her Doctorate. Then she told him she would like children. That’s when they decided to marry. They were already living together, and they knew and shared each other’s likes and dislikes. There were no secrets between them. None. He had needs. She had needs. They were as certain as day follows night that their private thoughts and actions were safe with each other.

Steve Harding exited the bedroom and called out, What are we reading tonight, girls?

CHAPTER TWO

Detective Constable Jordan Sparrow approached his sergeant’s desk. Boss wants to see you, he said. Good start to the week, eh?

Which boss? This place is all chiefs and not enough bloody indians.

Detective Inspector Dawson.

What does that lazy waste of space want today? Needs me to wipe his arse for him, does he?

Jordan grinned. That’s well possible. He knows you’re a world expert arse-wiper.

Kelly Ross turned her head to look up at him. You’re getting close to the line, Jordy Boy. One more comment like that and you’ll be on the naughty step, and you know what that means, don’t you?

Means you’ll confiscate all my chocolate biscuits.

Kelly stood up. Damn right I will. She glanced around. Off you go then. You’re using up valuable oxygen just standing there.

Jordon turned and headed back to his own workspace.

And don’t forget to knock next time, Kelly called.

Jordan looked around. Knock where? We’re in an open office.

Yeah, well you can knock anyway. Good manners cost nothing. Didn’t your mother teach you that?

Jordan grinned, raised his eyes to the heavens, and muttered something indecipherable before sitting down. He knew when he was beaten.

At forty-three, Detective Sergeant Kelly Ross was a little shorter than her fellow police officers. She had a chiselled, yet delicate face and brown, shoulder-length hair, which made her somewhat unnoticeable at first sight. But most men took a second look when they spotted her firm breasts and rounded bottom. And all of it was natural equipment. Not for Kelly Ross, hours wasted on a stationary bicycle in the company of monotonous, skinny, and body-obsessed airheads. She was more a chocolate biscuit and bacon and egg sort of person. And on the occasions when she wore a dress instead of jeans, her legs could turn strong men to jelly - and sometimes did, when given the chance.

One man who would have liked the chance to take a closer look at those legs of hers, but didn’t dare even voice his wishes, was DC Jordan Sparrow. At twenty-four, he wasn’t supposed to lust after MILFs like Detective Sergeant Ross. And anyway, she was his senior with over twenty years’ experience in the force, while he was the new boy, having only received his promotion to detective constable just two years earlier. Jordan had a clean-cut, craggy look that attracted women towards him like iron filings to a magnet. But he was happy and spoken for with his partner, Daisy.

Kelly turned to leave the squad room. See you in a bit with the bad news, Spaz. Somebody’s most likely lost their dog and Dawson will task us to find it and take it home. Bloody careless if you ask me.

You do realise that’s very insensitive, Sarge, don’t you? I keep telling you it’s not very PC.

What? Calling someone careless?

No. Calling me Spaz. It’s not very nice that.

Kelly laughed. Do I look like I give a damn, Jordie Boy? The path to inner peace begins with just four words.

Yeah, I know - ‘Not my fucking problem’.

There you go, you can remember some things. So just get on with whatever it is you need to be getting on with while I discuss important work with that wanker, Dawson.

And you’re always swearing too.

Kelly sighed. Get a grip, will you? We’re in the twenty-first century. Women have the vote now. We can smoke, drink, fart, swear, and even leave the house without an escort. When do you plan to accept the superiority of women? No, don’t answer that. I don’t have time to listen to your bullshit excuses.

Kelly strode off with a smile on her face. Taunting Jordan Sparrow was as much fun as she could hope for in King’s Lynn. The town had been heading downhill for years. The only thing keeping it going were the docks on the wide tidal river that led out into The Wash