Cut The Threads
Cut The Threads
DS Marnie Hammond Book 2
Robin Roughley
Copyright © 2018 Robin Roughley
The right of Robin Roughley to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Many thanks to Val and Dan for all the help.
Contents
Also By Robin Roughley
Praise For Robin Roughley
Prologue
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
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
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
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
A Note from Bloodhound Books:
Keep You Near
Also By Robin Roughley
DS Marnie Hammond Series
Keep You Near ( Book 1)
Praise For Robin Roughley
"Lots of threads all tangled together each a gripping or heart breaking story in its own right but put together it is my top story for this year so far. Pure brilliance!" Susan Hampson - Books From Dusk Till Dawn
"Such a thrilling backstory to kick off a new series with. That right there already kept me hooked. Throw in a disturbed serial killer and you have the makings of a compelling story." Eva Merckx - Novel Deelights
"If you looking for a fast paced thriller then look no further. What a start to a new series that is, simply brilliant." Shell Baker - Chelle's Book Reviews
"WOW!! What a book!! This rarely happens to me but as soon as I started reading the first few pages of 'Keep You Near' I felt immediately sure that this was going to be a fantastic book... and it was!" Joseph Calleja - Relax And Read Book Reviews
"Robin has done it again. A richly described book that endears you to the characters and keeps you on your toes about the crime." Misfits Farm - Goodreads Reviewer
"The novel is extremely well written & builds & builds to the final battle which left me emotionally drained." Carole Benson - Goodreads Reviewer
Prologue
Tam Whitlow blinked into the gloom, his head throbbed like a bitch, his mouth redolent with the sour taste of stale cigarettes and the bitter tang of bile. He tried to focus on the here and now but the pain rattling around his skull was too intense.
Sweat trickled down his brow, the sting making him squeeze his eyes shut, his head thumping in protest. He tried to wipe it away but his arms wouldn’t obey his misfiring brain. Tam struggled and writhed, finally the realisation hit him. He was tied to a chair.
Disjointed memories came flooding back; he’d been heading across the car park of the Bull after having his usual Saturday bevvies with the lads. Car keys in hand, swagger in his stride as he beeped off the alarm on his Jaguar. He remembered flicking the cigarette into the bushes, then-bang-some fucker had clubbed him from behind. Lights out.
Tam grunted and strained to break the ties, muscles bulging, eyes screwed shut, but whoever had tied his hands had done a professional job. He felt anger rise through the pain as realisation hit. The thought was preposterous. Didn’t they realise who they were dealing with? He was Tam Whitlow not some fucking bag-head loser.
‘Awake at last,’ the voice drifted out of the semi-darkness.
Tam stopped struggling against the bonds, his teeth clamped, the fury building.
Dragging his head up, he blinked into the gloom. The derelict room was about fifteen-feet square, the floor strewn with chunks of plaster and tiles that had fallen from the walls and ceiling of the old office. His captor was perched on the edge of a desk: arms folded, his face hidden in the shadows.
Tam blinked several times in an effort to focus on the figure. ‘You’re fucking dead!’ he snarled, the rope continuing to bite into his wrists and chest.
The man didn’t move and then Tam heard a heavy sigh of disappointment.
‘I don’t know who you are, pal, or who you’re working for but I’m warning you now, if you don’t let me go then I’ll hunt you down and cut your fucking stupid head off!’ Spittle flew from Tam’s contorted mouth, the rage inside boiling over.
He waited for a reaction but all he got was the flare of a match, then a plume of smoke drifted across the room, the red tip of the cigarette glowing as the shadowed man took a long pull.
‘You think I’m working for someone?’ he replied easily.
Tam’s scowl grew deeper, darker. ‘You think because I’m tied to this chair that I’m going to fucking squeal, well …’
‘Oh, you’ll squeal all right.’
Tam couldn’t believe what he was hearing, he thrashed in the chair, every fibre of his being hell bent on getting free; then he could tear this dickhead a new arsehole.
> After thirty seconds, he spat out in anger as his hands remained locked behind his back. When he opened his eyes, he blinked in surprise, the man had moved from the desk and was now standing in front of him; black hair cut close, pale eyes glaring out of a hard, unflinching face, his right hand casually holding the machete, the cigarette clamped between white teeth.
For the first time, Tam Whitlow felt the thrum of real fear, it was an emotion new to him and he took a few seconds to acknowledge its existence, sweat continued to ooze from his pores, his eyes kept flitting from the man’s face to the heavy blade in his hand.
It took more effort than Tam would ever had admitted to-keeping hold of the anger - as the man looked down at him with disdain.
‘If you’re after cash then forget it, I don’t do deals with twats like you,’ Tam snarled.
Plucking the cigarette from his mouth, the man smiled. ‘Everything and everyone has a price, Tam.’
At the use of his name, Tam felt the breath hitch in his throat. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, collapsing against the chair back.
‘That’s unimportant …’
‘It’s fucking important to me!’ Tam strained again, though he knew it was hopeless, he wasn’t going anywhere.
The man watched him with head tilted. ‘I have a few questions for you – nothing too taxing.’
‘Questions, what questions?’
‘I want to know all about Jimmy Rae?’ the man asked easily.
Despite the rising fear, Tam tried to act nonchalantly. ‘Never heard of him, I …’
Tam didn’t even have time to blink, the man lashed out and cracked a hand across his face.
Surprisingly, there was little weight behind the blow. ‘Jesus, you slap like a fucking girl!’ Tam threw his head back and laughed.
A second later, his roar of laughter turned to one of agony as the man jabbed out his right hand, the glowing end of the cigarette stabbed into Tam’s closed right eye.
He writhed, bellowing out the pain, his eyes screwed shut, the faint whiff of burnt tissue rose into the air as tears coursed down his face.
Studying the tip of the cigarette, the man grimaced before walking across the room and tossing it through the broken window.
Tam Whitlow was used to pain, after all, he’d been in enough fights over the years -broken ribs and spilled blood had been the norm, he’d even suffered a fractured skull after some bastard had smashed a bottle over his head in a pub brawl – but he had never felt pain like this.
It filled his senses until all he knew was pain, sweat poured down, the sting blinding his other eye, his body shook; his right eye swelling grotesquely until he was convinced it would burst from its socket if he so much as opened his eyelid.
The man watched from the window as Tam thrashed back and forth, fighting his personal battle with the agony. Pulling out another cigarette, he sparked up before moving back to the desk and leaning against it.
Tam roared, the chair rocked from side to side… and then he slumped forward as his mind blanked out.
‘Not as tough as you like to think are you, Mr Whitlow?’ the man whispered.
The seconds ticked into minutes and still the man waited, as if he had all the time in the world. Eventually, he reached down and lifted the two-litre bottle of water from the rucksack at his feet, unscrewing the lid he took a sip from the bottle, walked across the room and emptied the contents over Tam’s head.
Whitlow coughed and spluttered as the freezing water dragged him out of the darkness, the liquid washing away the blood that leaked from his right eye.
‘Now, let’s start again,’ the man said, the empty bottle following the spent cigarette through the window.
Slowly, Tam dragged his head up, he squinted through his good eye and gasped, the heavy blade was inching closer towards his terrified face.
‘Please!’ Tam begged.
When he felt the light touch on his shoulders he jerked in shock and tried to twist around to see who was standing behind him but the ropes anchoring him to the chair wouldn’t allow it.
‘Listen to me, Mr Whitlow, you are going to die in this room, the question is how much you want to suffer before the end?’
Tam felt his mind crack as the voice whispered in his right ear, he could feel the breath on his neck bringing his flesh up in a shiver of fear.
‘I don’t want to die,’ Tam whispered, stunned at the sound of terror in his voice.
The hands on his shoulders moved slightly, the pressure increased, he could feel slender fingers closing like talons. ‘It isn’t about what you want, Mr Whitlow, it’s what I want that counts.’
‘But …’
‘Look on it as a game. A game where I make all the rules, all you have to do is tell me everything I want to know. And your reward? My friend here will simply cut off your head, giving you a swift-if somewhat gruesome-end.’
Tam started to shiver in the chair, the softly-spoken words smashed through his defences, all the years of strutting around Kirkhead with his shoulders thrown back, confident that his name alone was enough to instil fear into the scrotes he dealt with, now meant nothing. He thought of Jimmy Rae by his side, the two of them ruling the roost with an iron fist, taking what they wanted; building their empire of drugs and prostitution that had taken them from a shitty two up, two down to a life they had only dreamt of.
Only now, as he jittered in the chair, he realised that sometimes it was better to live a quiet life, a life devoid of machetes and soft voices that whispered in your ear talking about your death as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
The man with the blade smiled down at Tam and then raised his eyebrow. ‘Don’t blame me, Tam, I’m just the hired help,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders.
‘Cut off his left foot,’ the voice behind him said.
Before Tam even had the chance to scream, the blade swept through the air and he heard the thud as his foot hit the floor. He blinked in confusion and then the pain hit, a huge wave of agony that swept through his body. Tam could feel the blood spewing from the wound and at last he found his voice, his scream echoed around the room before blasting out through the broken windows.
‘Now the right one,’ the voice said nonchalantly.
‘He won’t survive and then you’ll end up with nothing,’ the man said.
When he saw the blue eyes shining at him through the gloom, he felt the thrum of fear ripple along his spine.
‘Like you said, Mr Williams, you are the hired help, so please don’t make me repeat myself.’
In the chair, Tam writhed, his mouth opening and closing, the agony muting any sound as he simply tried to breathe, his chest rose and fell, his heart trying to compensate for the blood that continued to pour from the wound.
Williams shrugged his heavy shoulders and swung the blade; Tam Whitlow screamed once before his head fell forward and his right foot joined the left on the bloodstained floor. Both legs dripped blood out of Tam’s limp body, pooling around his severed feet.
‘I can leave you to sort the rest,’ the voice said. ‘Head and hands-but leave the body here, sooner or later someone will find it.’
Williams watched the figure blend back into the shadows, he could hear the light footfall and caught a glimpse of the woman making her way to the door.
As soon as she vanished into the corridor, Williams hissed out a tension-filled breath.
‘Mad bitch,’ he mumbled.
‘I heard that, Mr Williams,’ the voice drifted back into the room and he snapped his head up in disbelief.
He waited but there was no further sounds to be heard apart from the patter of blood that continued to drip to the floor.
With a snarl, Williams raised the blade and lashed out, the sound of laughter coincided with the thud of Tam Whitlow’s head bouncing on the dirt-ground carpet tiles.
‘Temper, temper,’ the voice shouted before more laughter drifted back along the corridor.
Williams dragged his arm across his sweating
brow, his balls tightened with fear as he heard the laugh; then silence descended once more.
1
The view from the car revealed a patchwork of fields stretching out into the distance, golden wheat swaying in the breeze, dark clouds gathering on the horizon promising more rain. Marnie leaned over, opened the glove compartment and pulled out the crumpled pack of cigarettes. It had been several months since she’d escaped from the horrors of the burning house and every night since she had woken with the stench of scorched flesh clogging her nostrils, her heart rearing, the duvet wrapped around her thrashing legs. Her mind replaying the mad dash through the roaring flames and cloying smoke, the terrifying moment with the intense heat at her back when she had been forced to drop the child from the second-floor window into the waiting arms of Luke Croft.