Bird of Prey
BIRD OF PREY
DC BROCKWELL
Copyright © 2020 DC Brockwell
The right of DC Brockwell to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2020 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
Print ISBN 978-1-913419-77-6
CONTENTS
Love crime, thriller and mystery books?
Also by DC Brockwell
Day 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Day 2
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Day 4
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
Day 5
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
Day 8
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
Day 9
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
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Day 10
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Day 11
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Chapter 143
Chapter 144
Chapter 145
Chapter 146
Chapter 147
Chapter 148
Chapter 149
Chapter 150
Chapter 151
Chapter 152
Chapter 153
Chapter 154
Chapter 155
Chapter 156
Chapter 157
Five Weeks Later
Chapter 158
Acknowledgements
A note from the publisher
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ALSO BY DC BROCKWELL
No Way Out
To my long-suffering wife, Beks, (only half-joking) without whom I wouldn’t have started writing. I love you more than you know. xxxxx
DAY 1
TUESDAY, 20TH MARCH
1
“That’ll be eight-fifty, mate,” the Turkish taxi driver said through the plastic safety glass.
Cara Mooney went to open her bag, put her hand inside and felt the plastic handle of her blade. It was calling her; it was nearly time. She was so excited, she could barely contain it. Feeling a hand on her wrist, she looked over at Ryan, her pickup for the night.
“Oh no you don’t.” Ryan pulled out a wad of notes rolled into a ball. “I’m getting this.” He unfurled a tenner and passed it through the glass. “Keep the change, mate.”
What a poser! she thought, closing her bag, before he saw what was inside. He was tall, about six-two, good looking – if you liked that kind of thing – with short dark hair, which accentuated his high cheekbones and prominent chin. Cara couldn’t wait to get him inside; she’d endured him all night, his initial pickup banter – which wanted to make her puke – and his clutching at her every five minutes. If he told her she was gorgeous once more, she thought she might actually vomit over him, and that would put an end to the night sharpish.
“Come on, let’s go inside so I can get you out of that,” he said, looking at her dress. He took her hand and pulled her out of the black cab. He said it loud enough for the taxi driver to hear, who gave her a little knowing smile as she stepped onto the pavement. “It’s not far; you don’t mind a bit of a walk in those heels, do you?”
“I don’t mind the exercise.” She held his hand and walked next to him past a row of terraced houses. “Do you live in one of these?” The air was biting her. Cara chose the red dress she was wearing for a reason: she looked hot in it, and it showed off maximum cleavage.
“Are you shivering?” Ryan placed an arm around her shoulder, like it would warm her up. “It’s one of these a bit further along; it’s not far now.”
Cara wondered why he hadn’t asked the driver to stop outside his house. It seemed daft, given the fat wad he’d just shown her – he was showing off, that’s what it was, she thought, as he walked her up to a door. About bloody time; her legs were turning blue. “This it?” He nodded. “And you live alone?”
“Yep.” Ryan slid his key in the door to the end of terrace house. “All mine.”
Once inside, she felt the warmth of central heating. It was a bachelor pad, she noticed, as Ryan walked her through the lounge, which had the biggest flat-screen TV she’d ever seen hanging on the main wall, where a lovely picture should be hanging. In the dining room, she saw a fully stocked bar – such a guy thing to have to impress the ladies. He clearly hooked up with girls regularly, living in a place like this, wearing a suit like he was.
“I can make you a cocktail, if you want,” he said, opening the cabinet and showing off his extensive collection of spirits.
Itching to get upstairs, hearing it calling her, Cara replied, “Erm, no thanks. I had enough at the bar. If I have another I might fall asleep on you.” Every hint of her West Yorkshire accent was gone, replaced with the southern fairy drawl of living for years in the city.
“And we can’t have that, can we?” He sidled up to her, putting his hands on her waist, leaning in and kissing her. After he let her breathe, he said, “Tell you what, let’s forget drinks and go upstairs, yeah?”
“Can’t wait!” She meant it, only not for the reason he thought. Cara took his hand, again, and followed him upstairs to the landing. He showed her the bathroom, which was a man’s bathroom,
the spare bedroom, and finally the master bedroom. “You’ve got a lovely place here, I have to say.” She slid her bag off her shoulder and placed it on the chair by his desk. “Have you lived here long?” Not that she cared.
“About a year.” He stepped up to her and grabbed her tiny waist again; he seemed infatuated with it. Then he pulled her towards the bed and started kissing her.
When she couldn’t bear it anymore, Cara broke the kiss and pushed him onto the bed. She delighted in the shock on his face. “Tell you what, how about I tie you up, and we have a night to remember, you and I?” When he nodded, giddy as a schoolboy on Christmas morning, she smiled down at him. “Have you got anything I can use?”
“In my wardrobe over there.” He removed his shirt, then pushed himself up the bed, resting his head on a pillow, his arms up, ready to be bound to his bedposts. “You know, I had a feeling you’d be into this kinky shit the minute I saw you.”
Cara opened the wardrobe and took out two ties; they were his posh work ones. “Will these do?” She held them up in front of her face, noticing he’d taken his shirt off. He nodded with vigour, excited. She walked over to his bed and climbed on, hovering over him while she secured his hands to the posts, making sure she triple knotted them. “There! Now you’re all mine.” She was sat on top of him, looking down at his eager face.
“What now, gorgeous?”
“Now,” she replied, leaning over and pulling out the top drawer of his bedside cabinet, “we do this.” She took out a pair of his socks and stuffed them in his mouth. He said something, not that she could understand it. “You’ve got to be the dumbest prick I’ve ever met. Don’t let strange women you’ve never met before tie you up like this, you dickhead.”
His eyes went dark, the blood drained from his face. It was the same expression Chris had had, just before she’d begun hacking him to pieces. How she longed for the elation she felt that morning; she had to get it back, even if it meant having to seduce pricks like this in order to do so. The freedom she felt that morning was a drug, far more powerful than alcohol, drugs and sex. “Now we’re gonna have some fun.” She got off the bed and walked over to her bag.
The blade in her hand, she turned to him, hearing him whimper; it only made her feel more powerful. “I just want you to know it’s nothing personal, Ryan,” she said, back on the bed, sat on top of him, looking down at his fear-filled eyes. “You just remind me of someone, is all. And I really fucking hate him, I mean, really hate him. He was a lot like you; he was all lovely to me at one time, and then…” She let it trail off.
John Wood, her ex-dealer. She’d seen the look on his face, the look of pure joy, as he’d raped her for six hours with two of his friends in his flat. Remembering how helpless she felt, Cara looked down at Ryan. “You’d do that too, wouldn’t you? If I’d come up here, and changed my mind at the last minute, you’d rape me too, wouldn’t you?” Without knowing it, her voice was filled with rage.
And as her arm lifted, the knife pointing down, her heart leapt, as she brought it down, digging into Ryan’s belly. Up it came, and down, making deep puncture marks, blood dripping over her face as she brought it up again.
Beneath her, Ryan was screaming into his gag. Cara couldn’t hear him; she was too busy stabbing him. Without realising it – everything seemed slow – she was moving up his body with her blows, stabbing him in the chest, neck and face, blood pouring onto the duvet. Yet, he was still alive. He was still screaming.
The killer blow tore through his eye, the blade embedding itself in the back of his skull. Cara sat on top of him, looking down at his distorted face, the handle of her knife sticking out of his right eye socket. She had to catch her breath. It was working; the endorphins were coursing through her veins, making her feel so powerful, she thought she could take on the world single-handed. It wasn’t the same as with Chris; it was even better. Cara was out in the real world now; she didn’t have Beattie’s guards to help dispose of Ryan’s body. She didn’t have the bunker’s furnace to make his body disappear. No, she was on her own, and it felt fantastic, the best she’d ever felt. Cara was now a Bird of Prey.
2
Nasreen Maqsood leaned on the basin. She felt the scar on her cheek when she splashed water over her face. The scar was angry and red; it was too visible, and in the worst place.
In the month since she’d helped destroy the Harrisons’ brothel and torture house under their farm – where she’d received the cut to her cheek, courtesy of Beatrice Harrison – she’d felt very self-conscious of her scar. Everyone stared at it. Even friends and family members, who knew how she felt about it, stared at her cheek. She hated it. Now, every time she looked in the mirror, she was reminded of Beatrice Harrison, the one person she wanted to forget.
“He’s ready for you, Nas,” Detective Sergeant Hilary Farmer said.
“Thanks,” she replied, throwing water on her face. Walking over to the paper towel dispenser, she ripped three pieces out, wiped her face dry and threw them in the bin. She was so nervous.
“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re back. The testosterone level here’s been in overdrive.”
Nasreen turned to her friend. “I’m not sure the super’s going to feel the same.”
Hilary Farmer was forty-eight and a veteran police officer, although a relative newcomer to CID, having joined only two years earlier. She had short dark hair, a pleasant face and a wily athletic physique with very small breasts. Nasreen hadn’t asked, but assumed Hilary was gay. When they occasionally did talk socially, she never mentioned a boyfriend or girlfriend, or even a partner. It wouldn’t bother her if Hilary was gay. Each to their own was her motto, though some of her Muslim friends would have something to say about that.
“Don’t worry about Adams. We’re all on your side, and God knows the press is too. Just go in there and get it over with; it might not be as bad as you think.”
Nasreen sighed. “Maybe. Well, here I go.”
Taking a deep breath, she walked to the door, pulled it open and stopped, turning back. “Thanks.” Nasreen took one last look in the mirror. She looked really smart in her dark grey pinstripe suit and white blouse, the colours really complimenting her light brown skin.
“You’re welcome! Now get going, you don’t want to keep him waiting. He won’t like that.”
Out in the corridor, Nasreen passed her colleagues Simon Watts and Elliott O’Hara, who both gave discreet “good luck” thumbs up. She smiled and carried on along the corridor to her pending lecture from DCS Adams. Taking another deep breath as she approached Adams’ closed office door, she breathed out, trying to steady her nerves.
Stood outside the door for what felt like an age, Nasreen knocked and heard him shout, “Come in!” With hesitation, she opened the door and stepped inside.
“Detective Maqsood, please, take a seat.” Adams motioned towards a seat in front of his desk. “Close the door, please.”
Taking yet another deep breath, she did as she was told, closed the door and walked over to her chair. Sitting down, she folded her right leg over her left and placed her hands in her lap, clasped.
Nasreen studied Adams. She thought his ears had grown, if that was possible? He had unusually long ears; they were the first thing she noticed about him when he’d met her. Maybe it was her imagination? Now, looking at him, she remembered the conversation she overheard him having in the stairwell. Before she heard it, she thought Adams was a good man, one of the good guys. Not anymore. Now, she knew he was bent; she was going to start looking into him. She’d vowed it when she found Danny alive in the bunker.
“So, tell me, how are you feeling? How’s your wound? Is it healing properly?” Adams sounded genuinely concerned.
“All fine, sir. I had the stitches out about a month ago. The doctor says it’s healing well, and he said the scar will fade in time.”
Adams nodded. “Good. And how are you feeling about coming back to work? You’ve been seeing a counsellor, I believe?”
“Yes, sir. A force-appointed therapist. She specialises in PTSD; it’s going very well, I think. I don’t know, you’ll have to see her notes, I guess.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Counsellor sessions are sealed. Nothing gets past patient-doctor confidentiality. And believe me, I’d look at your notes if I could.”
“Sir?” She was confused by his tone; this was supposed to be a formal back to work interview. It wasn’t that she was expecting to be welcomed back with open arms, far from it. She hadn’t expected this tone either. “What do you mean by that?”