Nemesis Read online

  NEMESIS

  Roger A. Price

  © Roger A Price 2016

  Roger A Price has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  For my siblings, Chris and Martin, this one is for you.

  Table of Contents

  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

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Drip, drip, drip. The rhythmic beat of blood trickling on to the ground from the torso’s right hip mesmerised Daniel Moxley. He counted the seconds it took each drop to travel from the man’s waist to the concrete floor. Then he looked up and followed the blood-flow across the naked back to the left shoulder where the meat hook suspended the man at an unnatural angle. Curious, he watched each pulsated blood run. Some travelled around the man’s scapula, and some across it, as each line strived to follow gravity’s path.

  As the pool on the floor grew larger, it never ceased to amaze Moxley how far a little blood could go. Though in this case, the amount of blood was more than a little. The man let out a semi-conscious moan, which broke his reverie. This angered Moxley, it interrupted his enjoyment. He rose from his chair and walked around the man to face him.

  “Not long now, I should think,” said Moxley, as he noticed the man’s pallor was much greyer than the last time he’d looked. He glanced at his watch, 2 pm, that had been half an hour ago, though it had seemed only like minutes. “Has the pain eased? You’re quieter now.”

  “Numb,” the man said, spitting the word out in a pant that appeared laboured.

  “I told you it would. Now, say the word again.”

  “Sorry,” the man mumbled.

  Moxley liked to think of his guest as ‘The Man’. It dehumanised him in his mind. Referring to him by name or, worse, by his title would give him back his standing. ‘My Man’ was even better for it denoted some kind of ownership by Moxley and further empowered him. The thought aroused him slightly. He ignored it, no time for such pleasantries.

  Taking his mind off himself, he looked around the disused building, long since stripped of anything of value. Even though it was warm outside, all the windows were broken and a cool draught whistled through. It reminded him of railway station platforms; always cold.

  He considered spinning The Man around again. He knew any screams couldn’t be heard. Half would be silenced by the wind and the remainder would have too far to travel to find anyone. He decided to wait and ask The Man again.

  “Have you worked out what you’re sorry for now?” he asked in a singsong way.

  “Look,” His Man said, speaking in short bursts, “I’ve been good to you over the years … always looked out for you ... got to know your other side.”

  “I know all that, which is why you’ve only been here a few hours. If you was that other screw, then I’d be keeping you here for days.”

  “Danny, look … Bill and I were only doing our jobs.”

  “You forget I got to see your report. It’s amazing what money can buy. I was happy at Strangeways; you of all people knew that.”

  “I know,” His Man said. He paused before he continued.

  Moxley sensed he was getting weaker.

  “But you have to believe me; we had no option but to agree … after all, it was the doctors who approved your move.”

  Moxley knew this was true, he’d been shown the final report. But he still felt hugely let down by His Man, Tim Knowles. He shook the name from his mind. “Being moved was bad enough; but declared insane, I mean there’re having a laugh. Do you think I’m mad?”

  “No, no of course not,” His Man answered. “Please, let me go, I can’t take much more … I’ve told you I’m sorry … and I truly am.”

  At that very moment, Moxley was sure His Man was telling him the truth, which was why he decided to end his suffering. He’d made His Man pay his ‘fine’, time to go. “Okay,” he said, before going for his chair, an old office one he’d found lying in the rubble, which had proved very handy. He pulled it to the back of the man and looked up at the rafter exposed through the broken ceiling, from where the meat hook was tethered. He’d fastened the hook to the beam with rope, but it would be easy to cut through. His Man would drop about two feet to the concrete floor, which wasn’t far he thought.

  He stood up on the chair, and his average height took him level with the back of His Man.

  “Thank, you, thank you,” His Man said. “I really am sorry.”

  Again, Moxley didn’t doubt the honesty of His Man’s remorse as he reached behind himself for the kitchen knife tucked into the rear of his waistband. “Hang on a second,” he said as he oriented the knife in his right hand while putting his left to the back of His Man’s head to stop it jarring backwards.

  “This’ll hurt, but only for a moment,” said Moxley, and cut His Man’s throat.

  Chapter Two

  Vinnie Palmer wasn’t happy interviewing the witnesses on prison property. He’d much rather talk to them on his ground. He’d reminded the superintendent that, as on-call DI, he was the senior investigating officer and therefore set the investigation policy. The superintendent had reminded him that as the officer in charge of all policing matters in the centre of Manchester, he was in charge of strategy, and keeping the relationship good between the prison service and the police was apparently part of that strategy. First rub the wrong way. He’d record the decision in his policy log later.

  Having arrived at the main gate of the old Victorian prison, he identified himself to an officer and showed him his warrant card.

  “You look too young to be a DI,” the prison officer said.

  Vinnie smiled, while inwardly cringing. He got this all the time; he was six feet tall, average build
, but looked ten years younger than his age of thirty-five. He knew he shouldn’t complain, but when the likes of the man in front of him said it, he knew it wasn’t a compliment.

  “Can we cut the small talk; I’m really not your type. I need taking to your security office ASAP.”

  “You’ll need to hand in your radio and mobile phone,” the prison officer said, as a pair of hands from behind started to frisk him.

  “You do know I’m the SIO, don’t you?”

  “Sorry sir, but regulations are regulations. You could be the head of the prison service, and it would make no difference.”

  Vinnie somehow doubted this but knew further discussion was pointless, he radioed control to tell them where he was and then handed both devices to the tubby little man in front of him. A voice from his colleague with the hands spoke from behind, saying he should now follow him. Rub number two.

  Five minutes later, Vinnie entered a small room set off from the main security office area. Inside was one of his DCs, Rob Hill, an efficient young detective in his twenties, but his suit always looked as if he’d slept in it, he’d have a word with Rob’s skipper at some point, but now was not the time.

  Rob stood near the door, at the business side of a small grey steel desk. At the other side was Bill Johnson, the other prison officer who’d been escorting the escapee. Sat next to him was a man in his fifties in a grey suit that matched the desk.

  “This is prison officer Bill Johnson,” Rob said, nodding towards the skinny bald bloke in his thirties. Vinnie nodded an acknowledgement at him.

  “And this is his union rep …”

  That was as far as Rob got before Vinnie interrupted him. “Thanks Rob, I don’t need to know his name as he’s just leaving.”

  The union man started to complain, but Vinnie had no time for massaging organisational egos; that was his super’s job. He quickly explained the way things were and asked Rob to escort the still moaning man out of the room, before turning to face Bill Johnson. “You’re a witness and aggrieved in a serious crime. It’s my job to investigate it, and hopefully, find your mate fit and well, and recapture Moxley. This is not some internal prison service misconduct hearing. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Johnson muttered.

  Outside he could still hear the remonstrations of the union man, what he wouldn’t do and so on, but Rob was doing a good job blocking his return. He’d quit and leave in a minute or two.

  Vinnie asked the insipid looking Johnson to recount what had happened. He only needed an overview at this stage; there would be time later to nail down into Johnson, if needed. Rob returned to the office as Johnson started to tell his story. How, he and Tim Knowles were in the back of the minibus with Daniel Moxley transferring him from HMP Manchester to Broadmoor High Security Hospital in Berkshire. How they had been attacked by two armed men, and how Moxley had been taken along with Knowles who was still handcuffed to him.

  “Why weren’t you also cuffed to Moxley?” Vinnie asked.

  “I was, but they didn’t want to take three of us, they ordered me to release my cuffs and then dragged Tim and Moxley away,” Johnson said.

  “But why take your mate Tim at all?”

  “I wish I knew; it doesn’t make sense.”

  That much Vinnie agreed with Johnson on. He asked him to give Rob all the descriptions and details, which he noted tallied with what he knew the driver had said earlier.

  “How come you were moving a dangerous nutter like Moxley in a private hire taxi?”

  “Cuts, I guess. There was no other transport or officers free, and the bosses wanted shut of Moxley sooner rather than later.”

  “Cuts,” Vinnie exclaimed, “how much does it cost to take a taxi from Manchester to Berkshire?”

  Johnson shrugged. Vinnie knew that this was a matter for Johnson’s bosses, he simply found it incredulous.

  “I know this was not your decision, but didn’t you raise any concerns?”

  “I was going to, as I’ve never trusted Moxley, but Tim told me to shut up as it would be an earner. We’d be on lots of overtime going to Broadmoor and back.”

  “Never mind the dosh; what about safety?”

  “Tim said it would be sound. He was always closer to Moxley, so I reckoned he should know best.”

  Vinnie was starting to think Johnson would put everything on to Tim Knowles, as he wasn’t here to contradict him. No point in carrying on, not until he knew more; he could challenge him later if need be. He told Johnson they would see him again tomorrow, or someone from the enquiry team would take his written statement and, when they did, they would need to drill down into his and Tim Knowles’s professional relationship with Moxley. If he had taken Tim away on purpose, there had to be a reason.

  Just as there had to be a reason why he didn’t take Johnson, he thought but didn’t say. As soon as Johnson left the room, Vinnie turned to face Rob and said, “First impressions?”

  “It’s all bollocks sir, if you pardon my, you know …”

  “You’re right it is, as you say, ‘all bollocks’.”

  Vinnie sat at the table and made notes of what Johnson had said, and jotted down a few lines of enquiry to be actioned later. He wanted to know as much as he could about prison officers Tim Knowles and Bill Johnson.

  He’d just finished when the little tubby man from reception came rushing into the room all flustered and red-faced. He took a moment to calm his breathing before he spoke.

  “Your lot’s been on the radio, and you’ve got a load of missed calls,” he panted as he handed back Vinnie’s radio and mobile. Vinnie started to research his missed call log looking to see what if any messages had been left, when Tubby spoke again.

  “I can save you the trouble; I heard some of it over your radio. They have found a body; minus its head.”

  Chapter Three

  Bill Johnson couldn’t get out of the jail quick enough. He’d felt like a prisoner in that interview room. Not the aggrieved. That DI Palmer should have showed him more consideration. And all that baloney about not being an internal investigation, he knew damn well whatever he said would get back to the professional standards people.

  It was warm outside, but he felt much cooler than he had been shortly before. He sighed in relief as he left through the main gates and walked towards Southall Street. He’d have to get the Metro home today; Tim couldn’t exactly give him a lift. Then he felt guilty. Poor old Tim, God knows how he was getting on in the hands of that nutter. That DI was right about one thing though, he’d seen it on his face; none of it made any sense. Well, the bit about taking Tim with them, especially. And as to how those two armed brutes had known exactly when and which vehicle Moxley was being moved in. He’d always suspected that there were some on the staff at Manchester who should be on the other side of the bars.

  He crossed over as he walked towards Bury New Road, from where he could jump on public transport, but as he neared the main road, he had a strange feeling. ‘Someone walked across his grave’ as his mother would have said. He felt an overwhelming desire to look behind him, which he did. Better check that those cops weren’t following him; not that he’d know why they would. He simply got the impression that the DI didn’t trust or like him. He glanced backwards; nothing. He shrugged it off and carried on.

  *

  Vinnie came off the phone and looked at Rob; the DC was staring at him intently. “You got a motor?” he asked. Vinnie had been dropped off; it was always a hassle parking a car at the prison, even on official business.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Result, now let’s get out of here.”

  “Where to boss?”

  “Rochdale, up on open ground above it. That’s where the headless corpse is.”

  On the journey out of Manchester Vinnie worked the phone and the radio to obtain all the background he could. The body had been found by a dog walker in a derelict abattoir on rough ground near the border with the Lancashire Police area. They arrived thirty minutes later and parked up
by the outer cordon. Both put paper suits and overshoes on before giving their names to the officer maintaining the scene log.

  As they ducked under the police tape a CSI Vinnie recognised as Susan Hall approached. She pulled down her paper hood and face mask before she spoke.

  “Hello boss, thanks for coming so quickly. I was going to ring the on-call major investigation team rather than you, until I saw the body.”

  “What do you mean, Sue?”

  “I knew you were at the prison on the escape job, so I reckoned you’d want to be here first.”

  “How come? Have you ID-ed the body already?”

  “Not yet, there’s nothing on it; other than half a prison uniform.”

  Vinnie let out a sigh before following Susan inside the dilapidated building. A breeze he hadn’t noticed on the outside was whistling through it on the inside. On the floor lying in a pool of blood was the corpse of a white male naked to the waist, with dark uniform style trousers on and a discarded prison officer’s shirt nearby. The body was minus its head. A butcher’s hook or similar was evident through its back under one shoulder. Vinnie instinctively looked up and could see cut rope still fastened around an exposed roof beam.

  “Bastard,” he muttered, then turned to Susan. “This’ll no doubt be our missing man Tim Knowles, but let’s get a copy of his prints sharpish. And let’s also get a tent over the cadaver until we are ready to move him, before these damn flies ruin what’s left.”

  Vinnie rang the on-call detective superintendent of the major investigation team and gave him an update. He would take over the role of SIO and a time-honoured procedure would now kick in as it did with all murders, with the setting up of an incident room and predetermined roles and responsibilities issued to selected individuals. Vinnie asked to remain involved and the detective superintendent agreed to keep him and his staff attached. He’d have the responsibility of tracing Moxley.

  “One other thing, Sue,” said Vinnie as Sue busied herself photographing the body.

  “Yes?”

  “Any sign of the head?”