FINAL BREATH; A Compelling Murder-Conspiracy Thriller: The DCI Jamie Carver Series Book Two, page 1
Contents
Title
Free Download
By The Author
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Prologue 1
Prologue 2
Part I
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
Part II
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
Part III
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
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Further Reading
OUT OF AIR SYNOPSIS
Out Of Air - Prologue
Out Of Air - Chapter 1
About The Author
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http://robertfbarker.co.uk/
By The Author
The DCI Jamie Carver Series;
LAST GASP
(The Worshipper Trilogy, Book One)
FINAL BREATH
(The Worshipper Trilogy, Book Two)
Kindle Version first published in 2017
Copyright@Robert F Barker 2017
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book
may be reproduced in any form other than that in
which it was purchased, and without the
written permission of the author.
Your support of authors' rights is appreciated.
All characters in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead is purely coincidental.
To my family for your endless encouragement
To my good friends, Sue and Keith, for your patience, honesty, and valuable feedback on my early, woeful, attempts.
To all members of the excellent Vale Royal Writers Group –
whose invaluable feedback and support keeps me rooted
Prologue
1
As has become his habit, the man waits until late evening when most have gone, to progress the work that plays on his mind more and more these days. Soon, he will have to make others aware of the time-bomb on which he is sitting. Before then, he needs to know how far the fall-out will spread, more importantly, who he can trust.
Tonight, he is working his way through more of the video files stored on the hard drive they recovered from the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet that now stands over in the corner. In doing so, his focus is less on the what, than the, who. Some he has identified so far - those who like to see themselves in the gossip mags for example - may not be overly-concerned about aspects of their lifestyle being revealed. They may even revel in it. For others, it would spell disaster, personal and professional.
As he finishes typing-up the file note on the clip he has just watched and clicks 'save', he checks the time. It is coming on ten o'clock, the limit he set himself for that evening. The hours he devotes to the work have expanded in recent weeks. In part, it is due to his desire to just get on and be done with it. But he is also conscious of the urgency of the task. When the shit hits the fan, he doesn't want to be the one accused of feet-dragging. He is also mindful of the effect it is having on other areas.
The woman with whom he shares his life for instance.
Like him, she still bears the scars of what they went through. He knows how she feels his absences. Once before he lost someone because he failed to pay attention to things that matter. He is determined that it will not happen again.
About to close-down and clear away, he pauses. He still has ten minutes. Provided the next clip isn't too long, he should still be home in good time. He hesitates, then clicks on the icon. Almost at once, he realises his mistake. The telling factor is the quality. Most of the stuff he has seen is amateurish, filmed on hand-held devices, the sort of thing people put up on social media every day.
Not this.
The stillness of the frame suggests a mounted camera of some sort. And the first edit, a few seconds in, shows at least one other is being used. Lit, staged and, by the look of it, maybe even scripted, it is of a different order to the others he has seen. A couple of the others are almost, but not quite, of this standard, the activities depicted, the sort that cater to a very narrow range of tastes. As he waits to see what the focus of this particular scene will be, he holds his breath, gaze locked on the screen. It doesn't take long for things to become clear, and when they do, his stomach starts to churn the way it does when he knows he is about to witness something it will take him a long time to forget.
It starts with the girl being led into the room. It is not so much her nakedness and the blindfold that worry him - it is a common motif in such productions - but her hesitancy, and age. The first could be down to good acting. But whilst her figure suggests someone of at least consenting years, it is clear she is not yet fully mature. His guess is late-teens, which means that regardless of whether she works in the industry or not, she is exploitable. Such exploitation takes many forms. Money, drugs, physical coercion, even the sex. His instincts tell him that in this case, the middle two are most likely.
It is when the camera pans and he sees the wooden beam with the noose hanging from it, the low stool set up beneath, that real fear starts to replace the churning. He knows how these days, visual trickery, clever editing, even CGI, can achieve the desired effects. But something tells him that what he is about to see may not involve such techniques.
For the next few minutes he sits and watches the scene play out. In many aspects, it mirrors the sort of 'edge play' that those whose tastes run in such directions can access on-line any time they wish. Only the girl's reactions, and the clip's provenance, tell him that what he is witnessing is not, in any sense of the word, 'play'. Tears of fear are hard to achieve in such circumstances, especially in one so young.
The end, when it comes, is not so much an anti-climax, as a confirmation of expectation. He has seen it coming, pictured it in his mind, from the moment he saw the noose. His own experiences of many months before helps in this regard, and he is far from unaffected. In this case, familiarity does not lead to immunity, the reverse in fact. Having seen it before, experienced it, he is uniquely placed to empathise with the girl's terror, to feel her pain. And though he closes his eyes, tight, towards the end, it does not lessen in any way the overall impact. The shaking that began in his arms early on before spreading through the rest of his body, continues throughout. And when, after a period of silence, he opens his eyes and sees the blank screen signalling the clip has ended, he knows that he does not have to wait until he can steel himself to watch it all the way through, to know how it ends. The same for its significance.
To this point, he has been comfortable responding to queries about his evening activities by referring to it as, 'research'. He has done so in the belief that the case that almost cost him his life - others were not so lucky - is now closed, that the matters he is 'researching' are historical. He knows now he was wrong.
The case is not closed.
In reality, it never was.
It merely continues.
And it is all going to happen again.
2
'I'm Xena,' the dark-haired girl says.
'I see,' the man says. Zeena? What the Hell sort of a name is Zeena?
'And I'm Gabrielle,' her blond companion says, giggling.
'Of course.' I'm missing something.
"Xena" steps back to give the man to whom she is talking a better look. 'Is this okay?'
His eyes slide down to her boots and back again. You've got to be joking. But when he sees the hopeful look in her eyes, he chickens out. 'It's er… very original.'
Gerald Hawthorn has a vague notion that the girls' outfits - all gold bracelets and dangling fronds of leather and suede - are inspired by an old TV series. One that achieved cult status way back. Some swords-and-sandals romp about a mythical warrior-princess. But he and Barbara have never really done TV, and he doesn't like to ask, in case the girls think their attempts to comply with the club's strict dress-code aren't up to scratch. It was why he opted for a polite-but-neutral, 'Interesting outfits, ladies,' when he'd approached to introduce himself and welcome them to, Josephine's.
In truth, Gerald thinks the pair have missed the mark. Whilst his carefully-worded guidance allows for some interpretation, it doesn't run to any form of 'fancy dress'. Especially as the range of interests catered for at the venue he and Barbara have worked hard to establish as the foremost of its kind outside London, are quite narrow.
But it is the girls' first visit, and so he doesn't say anything. They will see for themselves as the evening wears on. And if they become regulars, they will soon pick things up. So he keeps conversation light and, whilst the older couple they came with chat to friends at the bar, he goes about making sure they don't have any wrong ideas, as he likes to do with first-timers.
Eventually, conscious he is nearing the point at which a couple of twenty-somethings may start to misconstrue the attentions of a man old enough to be their father - grandfather? - he decides it is time to move on. He hasn't sought to discover what they are into, other than themselves, but he suspects he'll know before the night is over. Wishing them a pleasant evening, he excuses himself.
As he moves away, they huddle into each other. And before passing out of ear-shot, he just catches the word, 'cutey', which brings on a smile. Gerald Hawthorn knows he is wearing well for fifty-five, and that women half Barbara's age still admire his combination of boyish good-looks, healthy tan and still thick, steel-grey hair. But he never tries to capitalise on his good fortune. He learned that lesson years ago. Nevertheless, as he heads off, the girls' murmurings lend his saunter an easy confidence that falls just the right side of arrogant swagger.
As he nears the club's newest feature, a faithful reproduction of the stocks on display in the Tower of London's Black Museum - it cost an absolute fortune - Gerald's nose tells him the evening is starting to get underway and that it is time to check for, 'spoilers'. Many years in the club business, Gerald lets his sense of smell, as much as his other senses, tell him when things are livening up. Usually an hour or so after opening, it is when the lingering odours of furniture polish, disinfectant and Carpet Fresh give way to a heady cocktail of perfume, alcohol and pheromones. Loitering next to the stocks, he lets his practised gaze roam the room, seeking out anyone who looks like they don't belong. A lesser man may have difficulty completing the task. But though Gerald isn't blind to the sights on offer, he is professional enough not to let himself be distracted -an immunity built up during their Soho years.
It being a second Friday – Intermediates' Night - he takes his time. With so many new faces, the chances of someone out to cause trouble, or worse, a reporter working on an exposé, are raised. But they have several journalists on the books now, and they assure him that these days, the tabloids won't look twice at a place like Josephine's, not unless it involves a 'celeb', and he and Barbara are always careful about those.
As he completes his sweep, he relaxes. Apart from some new couples gathered in the middle of the room, already sharing excited introductions, he recognises most of the faces. And those he doesn't, seem sufficiently at ease to suggest it is not their first visit.
It is a good crowd for a Friday. In fact, the place is as full as it has been since Christmas. People finally seem to be getting over the brooh-ha of, The Trial, and all that followed. He hasn't heard Her name mentioned for months. Tonight there is even something of the old buzz in the air. It is mixed with outraged and, in some cases, embarrassed laughter as people compare outfits, or out themselves for the first time. As usual, the majority are second, or even third-timers testing things out one last time before graduating up to first and third Saturdays - 'Seniors' Nights.' He glances across at the bar where Greg and Nichole are only just coping. A couple of minibuses have arrived together, and for several minutes the reception area is chaos as everyone seeks to get in out of the cold. Most of the women's outfits - some of the men's also – do not lend themselves to standing outside on wintry February evenings while the door staff check IDs. It makes Gerald think about the design for the new reception area laying on his desk. Barbara could be right, maybe it should be bigger. Across the room, Carmen, their accomplished Meeter-And-Greeter, is doing her thing. A willowy red-head, she looks stunning, as always, in her green bustier. About to join her, a touch on his elbow stays him. He turns.
A blond woman, hair coiffured and back-combed into a golden mane, is at his shoulder. She is wearing a white halter-neck dress, the front and sides of which plunge over her still-ample cleavage to her waist, where they are nipped by a thin, gold belt. Below it, the dress flares open from just below her crotch, allowing glimpses of well-toned leg sheathed in glossy, white hose. In her strappy-heels she stands an inch or so above him - a Goddess - and he feels the familiar stirrings. She kisses him, lightly, on the cheek before draping a tanned arm over his shoulder. Her gold bangle sparkles under the lights, and the five-diamond ring he bought for their tenth anniversary twinkles blues and yellows.
'How're things looking?' she says, as she casts her gaze over the assembling guests, as he had been doing.
'Should be in for a good night,' he says. 'Or we will be, once Alison shows up.' He checks the bar again where Greg and Nicole, are earning their pay. 'This is the third time this month she's been late. I'm going to have to have words with her when she gets here.'
Barbara Hawthorn gives her husband a sideways glance. 'I'll do it,' she says. 'You'll have her in tears.'
Staring into the lively blue eyes, he feigns surprise. 'Who? Me?' But he cannot keep it up. She knows him too well.
'I see Arthur's back,' she says. 'We've not seen him in a long time. Who's the girl?'
'Where?' He turns in the direction she is looking, which is when he sees her.
Leaning with her back against the far wall, near to the entrance to the Theme Rooms, she is talking to the sixty-plus corporate accountant they haven't seen since the scandal broke. He wonders how he missed her. He'd seen Arthur earlier as he'd circulated, and spoken to him, though only briefly. She must have been in the ladies. Wearing a shiny black dress which seems moulded to her, she is tall, even allowing for her heels. And the glossy, sandy bob looks real, rather than a wig, as many like to wear. As she and Arthur lean in to each other, conspiratorially, her gaze sweeps the room, falling on groups of guests, drinking them in, before moving on. Her undisguised surveillance, coupled with her confident manner - she looks as at home as a Saturday-Nighter - sparks Gerald's interest.
'I don't know her,' he says, staring across. 'He must have found himself someone new. Looks interesting, wouldn't you say?'
The hand on his shoulder flicks his cheek. 'Down Rover. You go help Carmen. I'll say hello to Arthur.'
She sets off across the room, exchanging nods of recognition and words of greeting with those she passes. As heads turn to follow her progress, Gerald takes pleasure from witnessing the effect she has on people - of all ages. At fifty-three, Barbara is even better preserved than he is.
As he joins Carmen and the newbies, now arranged on the sofas in the middle of the lounge, some of Gerald's attention stays on the trio across the room. Arthur's partner smiles as Barbara says something to her, then passes comment to Arthur, at which he laughs, heartily. Barbara turns, seeking him out, and points. The girl sights along the outstretched arm and for a split second there is eye contact. Gerald's pulse quickens. But then he hears Carmen saying, 'And this is Gerald,' and he turns to give his guests his full attention. There will be time for eye-games later.
