Dark Webb: Dark Webb, #1

By Harry Dayle

"Meet Amy. Should she live, or should she die? Her fate is in your hands! Vote now…"

Reclusive website designer Thaddeus Webb thinks he knows the internet, but a brief excursion into its shadier regions throws up more than he bargained for. He stumbles across a harrowing video of a captive girl, her destiny to be decided by paying voters.

When it becomes clear the authorities aren't taking the plight of the victim seriously, Thad knows he can't stand by and do nothing. Could this be his chance to redeem himself for the sins of his past?

Before he knows it, he's become embroiled in a search that traverses both physical space and cyber-space as he works to track down the un-trackable, trace the untraceable, and try to save the blameless teenager before the vote reaches its grisly conclusion.

Dark Webb is the first in a brand new series from Harry Dayle, author of the acclaimed Noah's Ark and The Faslane Files.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harry Dayle
• Release date: Jan 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224563265

Book preview

Prologue

Bye, Mum.

Don’t forget your phone, love.

The battery’s dead. I’ll charge it later. Amy slammed the door before her mother could argue. She shot down the steps, taking them two at a time, landed on the pavement with a thud, and set off at a brisk pace.

A stiff breeze blew wisps of blonde hair across her face, and thick cloud threatened to unleash a downpour. The clock in the hallway had read 8:47. She wouldn’t make it on time even if she ran, so she walked. Better to be late and retain one’s dignity than stagger into class out of breath and sweaty. Body odour and sticky clothing was not the right way to get Marco to notice her. Amy still wasn’t sure what the right way was, and time was running out. The object of her desires was showing an interest in that slapper Angie. Was he really so shallow that only big tits and short skirts interested him? Had she made an error of judgement?

A white van revved its engine and mounted the kerb beside her. A scruffy head emerged from the passenger window. Oi oi!

Fuck off, Keith, she groaned, giving him the middle finger.

With you, Amy? Any day!

Why are all the men in Leeds such pricks? she shouted after him as the van accelerated away, honking. The corners of her mouth twitched — Amy secretly cherished the attention — and she picked up the pace. Marco wasn’t the only person to impress. Mr Pickles had commented on her tardiness just the week before. Disappointing him made her feel bad. The man had gone out on a limb taking a chance on her. It was important to make the best of the opportunity.

Amy turned left into a narrow lane, cutting behind a row of terraced houses. As she walked, she thought more about her sculpture. Pickles had said it showed promise but lacked gravitas. The comment had stung, and since then her brain had been preoccupied with thinking up ways to add emotional weight to the piece.

A shiver ran down her spine. Something about the laneway touched her deeply; unease gnawed at her soul. Rather than be afraid, she stopped and analysed the emotion. Why did the place make her so uncomfortable? If that feeling could be translated into her own work…

An engine roared, out of sight.

Was it the height of the opaque fences enclosing her? The relative darkness for the hour of the morning? The fear of the unknown? After all, anything could be lurking in the gardens on the other side of the wooden panels. Except it was her own back yard behind the fence on the left. Hardly unknown.

It could have been the background smell of urine, most likely human rather than feline given the empty beer cans strewn along the side of the path. Recreating the scent would be impractical in a wooden artwork.

Time was against her. The lane could be examined another day. Amy took a deep breath and marched on. It was, she concluded, most likely the knowledge of what had happened between those fences a year ago that caused her unease. They had never found a body, but the police were certain Mathilda Armstrong had been murdered. Mrs Potter swore blind she had seen the girl enter the laneway, yet nobody had seen her come out the other side.

The sound of the engine drew closer. It revved hard, right behind her. Amy turned and held up a hand to shield her eyes against the dazzling headlights.

Keith? You’re blinding me, you daft prick! She stepped aside to let the van pass.

The vehicle stopped and the driver’s door opened. Somebody got out, a dark shape, difficult to make out behind the glare of the lights.

Danny? Is that you? Keith, you in there?

The figure moved to the back of the van. Amy shrugged, turned back, and carried on walking. She checked her watch, conscious that Pickles’ lecture was about to start, but saw only red and gold stars as her eyes tried to adjust back to the gloom of the dingy lane.

Footsteps from behind made her turn again. Danny, stop playing silly bu—

The words were lost and the world went black as a thick cloth bag came down over her head. It was pulled tight behind her neck, and a wedge of the material was pushed into her mouth before she could scream. Tape ripped noisily from a roll then wrapped around her head, holding the gag in place.

A survival instinct kicked in too late. As Amy brought her hands up to pull away the bag, stronger hands grabbed them and forced them behind her back. More tape encircled them, locking her wrists in place.

Only her legs were free now, and they carried her towards what she hoped was the exit of the lane. Three paces later the powerful hands grabbed her by the arms, preventing escape. A gravelly voice whispered through the cloth, I don’t think so.

Amy kicked out, but her feet floundered in empty air. Someone was still holding her, so she kicked harder in every direction, hopelessly trying to free herself.

Then, a prick in her neck. A jet of cold entered her, and within seconds her body became limp, unwilling or unable to respond to her demands. The needle withdrew and Amy slumped to the ground. There was no pain, only a vague awareness of what was happening.

The strong hands lifted her into the air. She floated awhile, then came to rest on a hard surface. Her limbs were shutting down and her mind wasn’t far behind. The sound of a van door closing somewhere nearby made her think of Keith. Was he coming to rescue her? Only when the vibration of the vehicle shuddered through her body did she understand that she was inside it.

It was the last coherent thought Amy had.

30th September 2015

Thad glanced over his shoulder,

pulled his hood over his head, and sidestepped into the laneway, face to the ground. There were only a few people in the street, none of whom seemed interested in him. Rush hour was long since over, but it was still too early for the pubs to empty. The stragglers on the pavements were most likely those who had finished work late and were keen to get home. One man looked familiar, but Thad couldn’t place him. Probably a former client, he decided. Certainly nobody who would recognise him now.

Precisely halfway down the lane, deep in the shadows of the buildings either side, he slowed and moved close to the wall. A man, taller than himself, stepped out of a recessed doorway directly in front of him.

Thad stopped and lifted his head just enough to show his face.

The man jerked his chin upwards in a nod of recognition. Usual?

Thad nodded. He wrestled his hand free of the hoodie and thrust forward a fist stuffed with rolled notes.

The man relieved him of the cash and in the same smooth gesture, refilled his hand with a tightly bound plastic bag. Have fun, he grunted, disappearing back into the shadows.

Thad broke into a swift walk, continuing in his original direction. His heart raced, his pulse pounded in his ears. He could no longer count the number of times he had made this same deal on the fingers of one hand, but it never got any easier. Buying drugs wasn’t the worst crime he had committed — not by a long shot — but it was the one he was most in danger of getting caught for. The Manchester Police were having a major crackdown in the city, and buyers and dealers alike were being busted left right and centre. Thad was convinced he would be next to have his picture printed in the local paper’s page of shame. The criminal record wouldn’t bother him, but having his face splashed across the media could lead to far more grave consequences.

The weight of the law and his blatant disregard for it weighed heavily with every step. His sense of guilt only increased when two men stepped in front of him, forcing him to an abrupt halt. This was it, he thought. He had stretched his luck to breaking point. Undercover cops were about to find his purchase, and there was nothing he could do about it. His shoulders slumped, and — leaving his stash in the pocket of his hoodie — he pulled out his hands to raise them above his head. British police might not carry guns, but more and more of them were armed with Tasers. Thad had no intention of being zapped for a misunderstanding.

It was because his hands were free that he could react quickly enough to block the first punch.

The man on the right, stocky, and bald like himself, threw a fist towards Thad’s belly. Thad swung his arm anti-clockwise, deflecting the attack. But the fat man’s accomplice was already following through, and Thad wasn’t quick enough to avoid a punch landing on his side. He staggered back a step, more surprised than hurt. Adrenaline was already pumping through his body, a by-product of his guilty conscience. It meant his muscles were primed, so when the third punch came, he was ready for it. At the last possible second he swerved away from the incoming fist. The missed connection sent the attacker off balance, and Thad — ducking another blow from the second thug — got a right hook immediately followed by a strong left hook into the man’s ribs. The force sent him crashing sideways into a brick wall.

Before the first man recovered, Thad had spun on the spot and kicked the second man’s legs from underneath him, pitching him forwards onto one knee. But he managed to grab Thad’s hoodie on the way, pulling him back towards the middle of the alleyway.

You little f— the fat man began, launching himself off the wall and charging Thad, who again moved aside at precisely the right moment and then delivered a hard punch to the kidney. The man tumbled over his accomplice, rendering them both immobile for precious seconds. Seconds in which Thad sprinted for the end of the alley and the relative safety of the sparsely populated street.

In the scrum he had become turned around, so emerged back on the main road, not the quieter street he had been aiming for.

Thaddeus? It is Thaddeus, isn’t it?

Thad turned to see who had addressed him before he could stop himself. His hood had come loose, making his head and face clearly visible.

Are you okay, pal?

He peered back into the alley. The two men were on their feet and pointing his way. They appeared to come to the conclusion that he was out of reach, and after making an offensive hand gesture, they made their exit at the other end of the lane.

Did they— Have you been mugged?

Thad studied the young man who was addressing him. He had neatly parted blond hair, and wore a sharp pin-striped suit. It was the same man he thought he had recognised earlier, but still he couldn’t place him. Keenly aware of his recent crime, he pulled a face and said, Nah, just a couple of kids messing about. It’s nothing.

It didn’t look like nothing from here. They really had it in for you. You should report it. I’m happy to give a witness statement. These people shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it. It’s why this town’s in the state it is. People are afraid to stand up to criminals. Well I tell you, I’m not afraid. What do you say, Thaddeus? I’m not in any hurry to get home. We can go to the station right now while the memory’s still fresh and we can give an accurate description. Did you get a good look at them?

It’s fine, honestly. He racked his brain, but the stranger remained a stranger. Like I said, they were kids. I need to get home. He turned to leave, eager to be anywhere else.

At least let me give you a lift. You seem pretty shaken up if you don’t mind me saying. My car’s down there.

I don’t want to put you to any trouble—

How can it be any trouble? We’re going to the same place.

Thad frowned. Then it dawned on him. Taken out of context, the man had been unrecognisable. Now he realised who he was.

At the same time, the man came to understand that Thad hadn’t until then recognised him. His expression flickered briefly to one of disappointment, but he hid it well. He held out a hand. Calvin. Calvin Bacon. I live downstairs from you.

Yeah. I know. He gave up on the forced smile. I mean, I didn’t place you at first. Sorry, the shock, you know? He cast his eyes back towards the empty laneway.

Sure, sure. Understandable. So what do you say? Can I at least give you a lift home if you’re not going to the police? Trams are a bugger at this time of the evening.

Thad sighed, nodded, and fell into step beside his neighbour.

Calvin’s car turned out to be a plush Mercedes, loaded with options and gadgets. It was parked in a private space outside an office building. Company motor, he said, noting Thad’s surprise. Unfortunately the wages don’t match the car pool, otherwise I wouldn’t be living in the block. Shit, that came out wrong. I didn’t mean— It’s a nice apartment block.

Thad smiled for the first time since the encounter. He eased himself into the passenger seat and strapped in. It’s fine. I know what you meant. It’s okay. Not exactly aspirational.

How long have you lived there now? You were there before me, weren’t you?

Must be about five years, give or take.

Were you down south before that?

Thad frowned. He didn’t like the questions, but the engine was running and Calvin was already reversing out of the parking space. Too late to get out now.

Sorry, don’t mean to pry. It’s your accent. You’re not from round here originally, right?

He shook his head.

Calvin took the hint, and for the duration of the drive out of the city centre he talked about himself rather than posing leading questions. Thad barely paid any attention. As far as he was concerned, the quicker their relationship could return to a casual hello in passing in the lift or the foyer of the residential block, the better.

After half an hour of small-talk, the car rolled into an allocated space in the underground car park, and Calvin cut the engine. Home sweet home.

Yeah. Thanks for the lift. Do you, erm, I dunno, want some petrol money or something?

Don’t be daft, pal. I was driving here anyway, weren’t I? And even if I’d gone out of my way, the company pays, not me. So, happy days, yeah?

Thad nodded. He undid his seatbelt, but the buckle caught in the side of his hoodie and in his haste to get out he yanked it too hard. The fabric of the garment stretched, the buckle came free, and the contents of his pocket popped out like a mini cannon ball, landing in Calvin’s lap. Thad felt his cheeks flush crimson. That’s, um, cake mix. For my grandmother’s birthday. She’s going to be ninety-six.

Calvin collected the small plastic wrap, turned it over twice in his hands, then passed it back to him. You put that in your gran’s cake and she won’t remember much about the party! He chuckled.

Thad grabbed the package and opened the door.

Is that what those blokes wanted? Is it why they attacked you in the alley?

For my cake mix?

Thaddeus? Thaddeus!

He hesitated briefly, then got out of the car.

Open the glove box. Go on.

Why?

Trust me, yeah? Cake mix… Calvin chuckled some more, and directed a perfectly manicured finger at the glove box.

Thad, realising he wasn’t in a position to negotiate, did as he was told. The panel in the dashboard popped open with a satisfying click, and rose gently into the air. A light came on inside, illuminating several bags of very obviously controlled substances. He looked from the bags to the man in the driver’s seat — still chuckling loudly — then back to the drugs.

Cake mix, Calvin said again.

While the computer booted up, Thad opened the back window, leaned out, and smoked a large one. His nerves were shot. The deal, the mugging, then getting caught red handed by his own neighbour was too much for one day. Ironically, he hadn’t needed the weed until then. The pain had been manageable, and he was optimistic the stash would last well into the following month. Now he was using the stuff to calm his shattered nerves, which meant there would be less for when he really needed it.

Calvin had been remarkably understanding once he’d managed to stop laughing. Your face! he had said, wiping a tear from his eye. You look like you’ve been busted for armed robbery or something, pal. It’s only a bit of skunk. We all do it.

An exaggeration, Thad muttered. So you won’t report me to the police?

Are you joking? For smoking dope? Mate, they’ve got bigger fish to fry. Anyway, I’m hardly in a position to judge, am I? He pointed to the glove box, which sent him into a fit of giggles again.

I’m not a criminal. Not properly. It’s for medicinal purposes.

Yeah, course it is, pal. So’s mine. Ever since I got divorced I found I needed more ‘medicine’.

Thad didn’t press the point. He didn’t want to talk about his condition. He didn’t want to talk about anything, just to get home and be alone.

Thanks again for the lift.

Listen, Thad. Can I call you Thad?

If you must. People do.

Okay. Thad, buying weed’s hardly the crime of the century. The filth couldn’t give a shit. If you’re dealing, or growing, that’s another story. But not using. Shit, half the force smoke the stuff. But buying on the street? That’s a mug’s game.

You think I’ll get caught? With the crackdown on drugs?

No. But this is Manchester, pal. Gang warfare’s a proper problem. It’s getting worse. You got lucky with those two who jumped you. Loads of them are armed now.

I’m not a dealer. Why would any drugs gang want to hurt me?

You got in the way, that’s why. Collateral damage. They don’t give a toss about you. They’ll nick your gear sure enough, but they wanted you out the way so they could do in your dealer. That’s why street buying’s so dangerous now. It’s not worth the risk.

But I need this stuff. I really do need it, for the pain.

I hear you, pal. I do. So listen, a word of advice. This is 2015, not 1915. Take your shopping habit online.

Thad’s head snapped round. He frowned at Calvin, expecting to see him laughing again. His neighbour was serious though. Online? Come off it. It’s not like there’s a drugs-r-us.

You’d be surprised.

Yeah, you’re right. I use the internet. I work online. I think I’d have noticed a narcotics version of Amazon popping up.

Thad, you’re not looking in the right place.

Thad shook his head. He knew Manchester well enough, but he knew the landscape of the World Wide Web even better. Heck, he had built large parts of it with his own hands.

I’m not talking about the clear web, Calvin had muttered. You need to get yourself onto the dark web.

Ouch! Thad dropped the remains of the spliff out of the window. It had burnt down to his fingers without him noticing. He took a deep breath of the cold evening air, trying to suck in the last of the precious fumes.

Sitting back at the computer, he looked at the scrap of paper Calvin had given him. Scrawled in poor handwriting was a long address, like a website address, except the first sixteen letters looked like gobbledygook, and instead of ending in .com or .co.uk, the address ended with .onion.

Thad typed the whole thing into his web browser.

Error: Page not found

Hmph. He sat back in his chair, pouted at the laptop, then leaned forward and typed the address in again more slowly, double checking every meaningless letter.

Error: Page not found

Bollocks. He was winding me up. He shut the lid of the laptop and closed his eyes. It had been a long day, and the weed was starting to have its familiar effect. He could worry about where his next stash would come from another time. For now, he would let himself be carried away to another world.

27th May 1999

The funeral was yesterday.

I’ve written nothing in this diary since the day before the crash. How could I? I don’t have the words to express how I feel. Numb, is the closest I can get to describing my state of mind. Numb and exhausted. Arranging the funeral’s taken up most of my time. That’s a good thing, I think.

I didn’t cry until this morning. Is that bad? How can I not cry at the loss of my own parents? Father Pierce kept asking if I was okay. I think he was worried I wasn’t upset enough. Would have been more helpful if he worried about finding me somewhere to live. I already had a lady from the bank come round the other day demanding to know how I intend to pay off the debt.

What debt? I asked her.

The series of loans your parents took out over the last five years, she told me. She never offered her condolences, by the way. Just barged right in and said there were some urgent matters to discuss.

I told her I didn’t know anything about any loans, so she laid out a ton of paperwork on the kitchen table and waffled on about terms and APRs and missed repayments and fuck knows what else. I wasn’t paying attention. Jesus, I don’t understand all that shit. I kind of zoned out and went back to making a mental list of Mum and Dad’s friends I still had to get in touch with.

Mr Newson? Mr Newson! This is important you know. She scowled at me like Mrs Partridge used to.

I can’t help you with my parents’ loans, I said, standing up.

Your parents were in serious arrears, Mr Newson. The overdue interest alone comes to a significant amount of money. She scribbled a figure on the bottom of one of her papers and pushed it across the table. She was right, it was a big number.

I suppose that means your bank has lost out then, doesn’t it? I felt suddenly very tired. I haven’t been sleeping well since the crash. I think my brain’s trying to process everything that’s happened, and it can’t sleep and do that at the same time.

No, Mr Newson, it does not mean that. One way or another we will recover our funds. I suggest you have three options. One, is we work out a revised payment plan for the full amount and the overdue interest. Given the debt outstanding, we’re talking many years of repayments, and the rate we can offer will not be as advantageous as the one your parents enjoyed. Such is the cost of failure to meet one’s obligations.

I stared at her, not sure if she was serious.

Option two would be to re-mortgage this house. Property prices have enjoyed something of a boom these last couple of years. I dare say there’s a good possibility of releasing sufficient equity to significantly reduce the overall debt—

I’m eighteen! I spluttered. I’m an art student. A kid. I can’t get a mortgage. You’re having a laugh. Look, I’m sorry you lost money, but it’s not my problem. Would you mind leaving now? Only I have to arrange my parents’ funeral.

Well, she didn’t like that. She put down her pen, took off her glasses and folded them neatly, setting them down on top of a bar chart about repayment terms. She clasped her hands together and looked at me sternly. I thought of Mrs Partridge again. I felt about ten years old.

Mr Newson, she said, her voice quiet and cold. I don’t think you’ve grasped the gravity of the situation you’re in. Your deceased parents’ debt is very much your problem. As an adult, and their sole heir, you have inherited everything they accumulated in their lifetimes, including their debt. I understand this may be a difficult time for you, this was the closest she got to acknowledging that fact, so the sooner we find a workable solution, the better for all concerned.

I sat down again. My legs had gone wobbly and I didn’t want her to see me shaking. I felt angry and sad at the same time. Angry Mum and Dad had left me in this situation, sad knowing they would never have intentionally put me in such a position. Angry they hadn’t considered the possibility it could happen anyway, sad at the thought that perhaps they had had no choice. I’d always believed they were doing well. I mean, obviously things were harder after Mum lost her job, but she was doing part time bits and pieces, and she always refused when I offered to pay rent. Not until you’re working, Matthew, she used to say. When you’re earning, you can pay your way. And they’d been on holiday — to Spain, for goodness’ sake! If they could afford a holiday, they can’t have been short of a few quid.

What about my sister? I blurted out. Celine. What about Celine? She must have inherited half of this debt.

The bank woman frowned, put her glasses back on, and shuffled through her papers. I don’t have a record of any sister.

My half-sister. She doesn’t live here, she lives in Hampstead. I’ll get her address. I jumped up from the table and went to find Dad’s address book. I’d been using it to contact their friends about the funeral, so I knew exactly where it was.

Have you spoken to your solicitor about your parents’ will yet? the bank woman asked.

No. That’s happening after the funeral.

Very well. I’ll come and see you in one week. As we have no record of your sister, this puts the situation in a different light. This, she said, putting down a folder stuffed with paper, summarises what’s owed. Have a look through and discuss it with your sister, and we’ll decide on the best way forward next time we meet.

I couldn’t get her out of the house fast enough. Horrible woman.

Why am I writing about a meeting with a lady from the bank, the day after Mum and Dad’s funeral? Shouldn’t I be writing about that instead? When I read this back years from now, will I want to know about that blackest of days? I don’t think so. I already want to forget.

Celine didn’t come. Hardly a surprise I suppose. I wondered if she hadn’t got the news. I mean, obviously I couldn’t phone her to tell her, or see her in person. I had to write. I wondered if she’d moved and I didn’t know. But at the wake, Geoff from Dad’s bridge club said he’d seen her in Marks & Spencer and had passed on his condolences, so she definitely knows her dad’s dead.

I’m seeing the solicitor this afternoon. The bank lady will be here tomorrow. What will I do if Celine won’t pay my half of the debt? She has to. There’s no other way. She might be a greedy cow, and she might try to pretend we don’t exist…that I don’t exist, but she has to help. She has to.

1st October 2015

Debbie Summers stepped

through the front door and dropped four heavy bags of shopping onto the carpet. Girls? Anyone in?

Silence.

Great. What’s the point of having daughters if you have to do everything yourself? She pushed the shopping further into the hallway with her feet, closed the door, then picked up one bag and took it through to the kitchen. The room was unusually clean and tidy, a sure sign nobody had made themselves anything to eat since the breakfast things had been cleared away hours earlier. She groaned and began unpacking.

She was still tidying away the last bag when the front door banged.

Amy? That you, love?

No, Mum. It’s me.

Have you heard from your sister?

Nice to see you too. And I had a good day, thanks for asking.

I know you did. Debbie smiled at her daughter as she entered the room. You always have a good day.

No, I haven’t heard from our Amy. What’s for dinner? I’m famished.

Don’t know. What are you cooking?

That’s what mothers are for.

Debbie raised an eyebrow. So what are daughters for?

I’m out all day, I don’t have time to cook. Claire pulled open the fridge and scanned the neatly arranged new contents.

I’m at work all day. I wonder where our Amy is. Do me a favour and give her a call would you? She never said nowt about being late this evening.

Claire slammed the fridge shut, opened a cupboard, took a handful of chocolate biscuits out of a box, stuffed one in her mouth, and sat down at the table. Aye, she said, the word muffled and mutilated by the food. When I’ve finished this.

Debbie eyed her daughter, saw she was in no hurry, and so picked up the phone herself. Hey, Amy love, it’s Mum. Just wondering when you’ll be home. Text me, will you? Bye.

That were quick.

It went straight to voicemail.

She’s probably shagging.

Claire!

What?

Don’t talk like that.

Fine. Don’t mean it ain’t true though.

Amy wouldn’t— she began, but stopped herself. Wasn’t it entirely possible Claire was right? Amy had become distant these last few weeks. Something was definitely going on in her life, but Debbie knew better than to quiz her daughter about it.

Nine hours after finally starting work, Thad closed down his editing system and called it a day. The job wasn’t finished, but he had more than caught up from his lack of progress the previous day. The client would get their shiny new website on time, Thad would get a cheque, and the rent would be paid for another month. A small but significant victory.

He stood, stretched, and walked to the window where he looked down on the office workers leaving the shiny buildings of Media City in droves. Without intending to, he had fallen into a routine