BEWARE THE PAST a gripping crime thriller with a huge twist (Detective Matt Ballard Mystery Book 1), page 1
BEWARE THE PAST
A gripping crime thriller with a huge twist
JOY ELLIS
First published 2017
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.
©Joy Ellis
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THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.
Please note
DROVE: This is not a typo. It is an ancient way along which cattle were taken to market.
CONTENTS
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PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
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Glossary of English Slang for US readers
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PROLOGUE
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The Fens, 1991
‘Do you like the dark, Matt?’
DC Matt Ballard did not hesitate, ‘No, I bloody don’t. Especially not in a place like this. It’s treacherous!’
There was a soft chuckle in the darkness. ‘I know what you mean. Not the most hospitable of spots, is it?’
Matt shivered and felt mud squeeze between his boots as he tried to find a more comfortable position. ‘How much longer do we have to watch this dump, Sarge? I reckon your informant just wanted to make sure we spent a really miserable couple of hours, freezing our butts off out on this blasted marsh.’
‘Patience, Matt, my boy, another half an hour and it will be dawn. My snout’s never been wrong yet. If she says someone is using this ramshackle old place for a drugs drop, then they are, simple as that.’
Matt stared at the shadowy outline of the decaying cottage. ‘I suppose she could be right. If you know your way around this terrain, five minutes on foot and you’re at the river, catch the right tide and another ten in a boat, and you’re out into the Wash.
‘Exactly. Where a nice Dutch cruiser is waiting to fill your little dinghy with enough junk to make half of Fenfleet high as a kite, then bugger off back into the North Sea with a sackful of wonga ready to buy the next load,’ Sergeant Bill Morris said as the thick, dark night clouds parted, and moonlight flooded down.
Matt saw the great stretch of silvery water that was the salt marsh and the decaying ruin that was the object of their surveillance. He realised just how remote and inhospitable Gibbet Fen really was. It was late spring, almost summer, but his teeth chattered with the damp and the chill of the watery marshland.
‘So why don’t you like the dark, Matt?’
As the moon selfishly withdrew its pale light, he was glad to talk, even if he didn’t much like the topic of conversation. ‘Because nothing’s real. The dark changes things.’ He paused, frowning. ‘You sound like you actually like it?’
‘Oh, I do. I love it.’
Matt might not be able to see his sergeant, but he knew he was smiling. ‘Great! Why is that?’
‘Because, in the dark, I’m equally as frightening as any other nasty bastard that’s lurking out there.’
‘You like frightening people? Aren’t we supposed to be the good guys?’
‘Oh, I love scaring the shit out of people, Mattie, but only the bad guys.’ Bill chuckled softly.
‘That’s reassuring.’ He was about to say more but heard a sharp intake of breath from his colleague.
‘And speaking of bad guys,’ he touched Matt’s arm. ‘On the track from the seabank. See, the beam of a torch?’
It took a moment to spot the tiny light moving along the rough track, but when he saw it, Matt felt a thrill pass through him. ‘Result! No one else would be in this God forsaken hole, unless they were up to something they shouldn’t be.’
‘That’ll teach you to doubt my snout, Matthew Ballard. Now, we’ll let ‘em get into the cottage, then radio for uniform to block the path back to the seabank, okay?’
‘And then we take them, Sarge?’
‘Oh, so right, my son. Then we take them.’
Thoughtfully, the moon made another short appearance, and the policemen could see two shadowy figures on the path. Matt thought they were men, but it was hard to tell. They walked confidently, obviously used to this clandestine trip. The first one led, flashing the powerful torch this way and that in order to find the safest passage along the rough lane. The other, a shorter, heavier individual followed a few steps behind and carried a bulky bag over one shoulder.
‘C’mon, c’mon,’ Bill said. ‘Come to Daddy, you naughty children.’
Matt felt cool breath on his cheek as the sergeant whispered close to his ear.
The two figures seemed to be taking an eternity, but finally they were at the broken and dilapidated bridge that crossed the drainage ditch that surrounded the cottage. Just a moment or two more and they would have them. Matt tensed, he could hardly wait to hear the click of the ratchet as his handcuffs secured themselves to the criminals’ fleshy wrists.
The hand on his shoulder suddenly tightened its grip. ‘What the—’
The men had stopped. One knelt down on the frail wood, then pulled sharply back and grabbed at his friend. There was a muffled shout, then the other man moved forward, peered over the bridge and recoiled back in the same manner.
As Matt and the sergeant stood stock still and watched, the two suspected drug dealers turned on their heels and fled back up the incline. This time there was apparently no thought of danger and no care for personal safety. They slipped and slid on the wet grass but still ran as if pursued by demons.
‘Radio uniform! Quick! Let’s get down there and see what the devil’s going on!’ The sergeant broke cover and ran towards the bridge.
‘All units! Attention drawn to two men, suspected drug dealers, on the Gibbet Fen marsh path, heading up towards the seabank. Apprehend and detain!’ Matt shouted into his radio as he ran after his friend.
As he approached the edge of the bridge, an arm shot out and stopped him in his tracks. ‘Dear God in Heaven!’
‘Sarge?’
The arm slowly dropped down, allowing him access to whatever horror his sergeant had seen.
Matt felt a coldness slither between his shoulder blades as he stared over the splintery planks of rotting wood. Below him in the shallow, reed-tangled water, was the naked body of a boy. It took Matt a few moments to assimilate what he was looking at. His flashlight and the weak glow from the moon made the surreal scene seem too weird to comprehend. Maybe it was a mannequin? A tailor’s dummy? Surely a youngster’s body could not be so impossibly white? Could it? He stared harder. No matter ho
He looked around helplessly and saw that his sergeant had abruptly returned to consciousness and was barking orders into his radio. ‘Get hold of DI Raymond immediately. We are going to need the full team out here, and forensics, oh, and a vanload of uniforms to secure the area, okay?’
Now Matt could do nothing but wait. There would be no heroic wading into the brackish dyke and dragging the lifeless boy from the water. No frantic pumping his young chest or desperately trying to refill his flaccid lungs with air. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t have tried, of course he would. It was the fact that the youngster was secured firmly and purposefully beneath the water level. His thin arms were tied to the heavy wooden stanchions that supported the bridge with lengths of barbed wire. In fact, he was snared in a tangled cocoon of the vicious fencing, and the wire that held his feet was weighted by heavy pieces of concrete.
Matt dropped to his knees, as close to the edge of the bridge as he dared, and stared down at the boy’s face. Maybe it was because the boy was about the age of his best mate’s son, Harry. Maybe it was because, like Harry, the lad was thin and lanky, with hair too long to be cool. Whatever, this one affected him differently to anything else he’d ever seen. And he’d seen plenty of bodies. Old ones, young ones, burnt ones, meat puzzles from the railway tracks, he’d coped with it all. Until now. He swallowed back a sob. ‘He can’t be more than eleven or twelve, can he?’
‘Looks that way.’ Bill’s voice crackled with emotion. ‘So, I guess this is number three.’ He knelt awkwardly down next to Matt. ‘It’s been six months since the last poor kid, I really thought the murdering bastard had either topped himself or buggered off out of the area when things got too hot. Can you see if his signature mark is on the boy?’
Matt shone his torch down into the water. ‘I think so, Sarge.’ He swallowed bile and tried not to heave. It was hard to see between the weeds and the strands of wire. ‘Yes, it’s there.’ On the front of the boy’s naked shoulder was a symbol carved into the young flesh. Matt had seen it before on the other two victims. No one had quite deciphered its meaning, but it looked like some sort of hieroglyphic set in a triangle. ‘It’s him alright. He must have been lying low, just biding his time, waiting for the next opportunity.’
‘The sick son of a bitch! I’d like to rip his . . .’ The older man’s words faded into silence, then he sighed and rubbed a broad hand across his stubbly face.
‘We’ll catch him, Sarge.’ Matt’s voice wavered as he stared at the boy’s black hair flaring out from his cold white face like a beautiful dark sea anemone. ‘Won’t we?’ He had done six years in uniform, and almost six months in CID, but his voice sounded like that of a small child who had just found his pet rabbit dead in its cage.
An arm encircled his shoulders, and as the two men stared down at the dead boy, the dawn broke over the silent and desolate landscape, casting an eerie pale light on the strange tableau. ‘Oh, we’ll catch him, Mattie. One way or another. We’ll catch the bastard.’
CHAPTER ONE
Present day
‘Sorry to drag you all away from your duties.’ He surveyed the room of police officers and acknowledged their puzzled expressions with a smile. ‘I thought you should be the first to know . . .’ He paused, because he knew exactly how much his news would mean to his team. ‘I’ve just heard from London. Brendan Kyle and Tricia Brown have been given life sentences.’
The room erupted with shouts and cheers. Men and women punched the air, slapped their colleagues on the back and hugged each other.
Detective Chief Inspector Matthew Ballard held up his hand and slowly the furore died down. ‘Without your painstaking work and dedication, we would never have got a result like that. I know that every one of you sweated blood to see those two go down. It was a difficult and a delicate case, but your attention to detail and thoroughness has paid off. Well done! Thank you all.’
‘Well, we couldn’t have done it without you, boss.’ The unusually bright voice of his detective inspector, Jason Hammond rang out. ‘Three cheers for the guv’nor!’
Matt shook his head. ‘Thanks, but it was a team effort, a bloody good team effort. Which means, if you have the time when the shift finishes, meet me in the Dragon bar. The drinks are on me.’
‘Again!’ shouted someone.
‘Yes, we’ve had a pretty good run over the last few years, haven’t we?’ Matt ran a hand through his iron-grey crew cut. ‘But it looks as though this may be my last big case as your DCI. Only six months to go, and you scruffy lot will be dancing to a new piper.’
‘DCI Ballard retire? Never! It’s just a ruse to keep us all on our toes.’ Detective Sergeant Liz Haynes smiled at him.
‘Sorry to disappoint you, but thirty-two years is enough for anyone, including me.’
‘We’ll believe it when they hand over the gold watch!’
‘With the budget they allow us these days, I don’t think I’ll be that lucky!’
The congratulations went on for a few minutes more, then slowly the room began to empty.
‘Sir? May I talk to you?’
Matt looked around and saw the short blond hair and friendly smile of PC Gemma Goddard standing behind him.
‘Gemma.’ He pulled up two chairs. ‘Come and sit down for a moment. I think I need a break after all that excitement. What’s the problem?’ He sat back heavily.
The police woman sat down and stared at him, biting her lip and apparently unsure of what to say. This was not like the PC Goddard that had worked with him for the last five months. She was bright, forthright, a bit gobby, and apparently at her best when it was a slanging match in the mess room. If he had to be hypercritical, her only failing seemed to be that she didn’t suffer fools gladly, and didn’t disguise the fact.
After a while, she said, ‘This is pretty weird, sir.’ She pulled an envelope from her jacket pocket. ‘This came in this morning’s post. I opened it, I mean, it’s addressed to me, but inside I found a second envelope.’ She offered it to him with a shrug, ‘I really can’t think why anyone would do this, can you, sir?’
Matt stared at it, then almost without thinking, produced the ever-present disposable gloves from his pocket, slipped them on, and took the brown envelope from her. He handled it as if it were made of fine spun gossamer. Thankfully, she’d had the sense to leave it sealed. ‘It came to your home address?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘By normal Royal Mail, not pushed through the door by hand?’
‘Along with all the bills and the junk mail, sir. Look, the postmark is local, it was mailed here in Fenfleet.’
He glanced at the outer envelope. ‘Has anyone else handled this, Constable?’
‘Only my dad. He picked up the post from the mat and put it on the breakfast table. Other than that, just me.’
‘Bag it and seal it, PC Goddard. I really don’t like the look of this. Why on earth use you as a go-between and not send whatever it is to me directly. It doesn’t make sense.’ He stared at the neatly typed envelope. For the personal attention of Detective Chief Inspector Matthew Ballard. Please pass on immediately.
‘Maybe we should let the explosives boys have a butchers at it, sir?’
Matt felt it gently. It was certainly thick enough to contain more than just a single sheet of paper, but it was flat, not uneven or bulky. Chemicals, maybe? They had been sent a directive about how to deal with suspicious mail after an anthrax scare some time before. But for some reason he thought it was nothing physically dangerous. ‘No, Constable, I get the feeling that it won’t kill us.’
Gemma Goddard didn’t look convinced. ‘What shall I do with this, sir, when it’s bagged?’ She was holding the outer envelope by a corner, as if it had suddenly turned venomous.
‘Put it on my desk. If there is anything in here that I don’t understand, I’ll get forensics to take a look.’ He frowned at the packet and almost whispered to the woman, ‘Why you, I wonder?’ He knew there was no answer, and Gemma could only shrug helplessly.
