Authors: Chris Simms
Scratch Deeper
Table of Contents
A Selection of Titles by Chris Simms
The Detective Inspector Jon Spicer Series
KILLING THE BEASTS
SHIFTING SKIN
SAVAGE MOON
HELL'S FIRE
THE EDGE
CUT ADRIFT
Â
The Detective Constable Iona Khan Series
SCRATCH DEEPER *
Â
Â
*
available from Severn House
Chris Simms
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain 2012 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9-15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
First published in the USA 2013 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of
110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022
eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2012 by Chris Simms.
The right of Chris Simms to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Simms, Chris, 1969-
Scratch deeper.
1. PoliceâEnglandâManchesterâFiction. 2. Terrorismâ
PreventionâFiction. 3. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title
823.9'2-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-357-0 (epub)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-035-5 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-535-0 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This eBook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
â
When everyone is dead, the Great Game is finished. Not before.
'
Rudyard Kipling, 1865â1936
R
eginald Appleton grunted from behind the gag, eyes bulging with terror. In his mind, the words he was roaring were clear. I heard you! Yes, I'll tell you! Please, please, don't hurt me any more.
The pressure on the back of his neck eased, allowing him to turn his head so his face wasn't pressed into the pillow. Nostrils flaring in and out, he filled his lungs, ears still ringing from the punches to his head.
âWhat is it?' the voice repeated.
The hatred contained in the question made Appleton feel ill. He nodded as vigorously as he could. There had been the faint trace of French in the man's voice. A local, then. Probably a Creole needing money.
Rough fingers pulled the thick band of rubber away from his lips and something was thrust towards his face. The device beeped and a red light came on. âSay it.'
âEleven, thirty-three, ninety-nine, zero, four,' he gasped. âThere are dollarsâ' The gag snapped back into place, rendering the end of the sentence incomprehensible.
He felt his lower arms being yanked as the person checked his wrists were still bound tight. A hand patted the stubby Henry Moore sculpture on the bedside table.
âLie still. Don't move. If you move, I'll smash your skull in.'
Appleton jerked his head back and forth against the pillow to indicate that he understood. Footsteps quickly crossed the room and he was alone.
His heart was beating so strongly, it caused his shoulders to rock against the mattress. It's a burglary, he said to himself. Stay calm. He'll take the cash â how much is there? Ten, fifteen thousand dollars? He'll be happy with that. He'll go.
Something warm began to tickle behind his ear. Blood, he realized. My head must be bleeding. He felt it creeping under his chin and across his throat. Anais will be dismayed when she sees the sheets. Cleaning them is going to take hours.
Outside, the cicadas' grating buzz rose to a crescendo and abruptly stopped. Now came the soft, insistent sound of waves lapping the nearby beach. Something thudded in his study further down the bungalow's corridor. He recognized the sound â the door to the safe, swinging open and bumping against the wall. He'll be removing the cash. Probably my watch. Margaret's jewellery, too. The pearl necklace she always favoured when we dined out. It doesn't matter. They're only things.
The thin whine of a mosquito passed his ear and he knew how the man had got in. He lifted his head and was able to make out the neat hole cut in the screen that covered the window he'd left open. Arching his head brought into view the red button of the panic alarm mounted in the wall above his bed. He cursed himself; why on earth didn't you close the window? You grew complacent and now you're getting what you deserve.
The sound of the footsteps coming back caused the throbbing in his temples to quicken.
The shadowy form came into view. Appleton could see a small bag hanging from one hand. The person looked down at him and the old man closed his eyes so they were almost shut, like a child pretending to be asleep.
Then the figure walked over to the window. Appleton breathed out. He's going. Thank the Lord, he's going.
But the person placed the bag on the floor. The objects inside made a faint chink. He turned round and walked back to the bed. Now Appleton really did close his eyes. Please go. You've got what you want.
Hands gripped his shoulders. As he was turned on to his back, he felt the hairs of his chest pulling clear of the blood that must have pooled beneath him. His bound wrists dug painfully into the small of his back. Fringed by thick strands of long hair, the dark face looked down, all but a silhouette against the moon filling the window behind. The buzzing of the cicadas was starting up again.
âThe password for your computer.'
Appleton's breath caught in his throat.
The thick band of rubber was peeled down. âPassword.'
Appleton felt tears sting his eyes. âLucinda64.'
As he gave his daughter's name and year of birth he sent up a silent prayer. Please let me see her face again.
The gag snapped back and the man vanished from view. Appleton stared at the ceiling. The tropical heat seemed to have vanished. He wanted the password. If this is a burglary, why would he want the password? He must be after something on the computer. Why not just take the hard drive? This doesn't make sense. I'm not important any more. I've retired.
He tilted his head back to stare at the red button. Could I turn myself over and get on to my knees? Raise myself up and press it with my forehead?
Smash your skull in
. That's what he said he'd do if I move.
He lay there until the cicadas fell silent again, allowing him to hear the plastic tap of his computer's keyboard. The printer started to whirr. This isn't a burglary. Jesus Christ, this isn't a burglary. I've got to do something.
He started rocking himself from side to side, trying to build up enough momentum to turn on to his front. No strength, he thought. Not since the hip replacement last year. He thought of his daughter and grandchildren back in Britain. James and Sophie running down the drive to meet him with their arms outstretched.
By bunching his hands into fists he was able to form a fulcrum at the base of his spine. He began to rock himself again and, with a push of his hands, finally flipped himself over. He was back in the patch of blood, now cool and sticky.
The keys continued to tap as he sucked air through his nostrils. Not enough oxygen was getting in. He felt dizzy and faint. Sweat was running down his temples. Or was it blood? You can't stop, he said to himself. Not now you've moved. Bit by bit, he brought his knees under his chest. Groaning with the effort, he managed to slowly raise his shoulders up. Down the corridor, the printer continued to click and whirr. The Henry Moore sculpture caught his eye and he had to look away. Nearly there, he thought, focusing on the red button and shuffling from one knee to the other. Almost close enough, almost closeâ
Something black moved in the periphery of his vision.
Appleton swivelled his eyes to the side.
The person stood watching. When he spoke, Appleton could tell he was smiling. âI hope you've enjoyed your time on this island.' His voice dripped with contempt.
Appleton kept absolutely still, eyes full of fear.
The man shook his head as he reached for the stubby sculpture on the bedside table. His hand bounced as he measured the weight of it. âTime to pay for what you did to my people.'
He raised the chunk of stone and Appleton's cheeks puffed out as he tried to scream. The base of the sculpture thudded into the back of his skull and the old man pitched forward. He saw Margaret, waiting for him in the bluebell woods where she so loved to walk. And then the lump of rock came down again, this time causing a fleshy crunch. Appleton slumped to his side and two thin lines of blood hissed into the air, pattering against the mahogany headboard. The sculpture was brought down again and again, shattering and then pulverizing facial bones beneath it.
Eventually, the man stopped. He gazed down at the corpse, his breath undisturbed by the effort. The dripping sculpture was dropped on to the blood-spattered bed and the cord tying Appleton's wrists was loosened enough for one hand to be pulled free. Carefully, the man lifted the slack arm up, straightened Appleton's forefinger out and carefully pressed it against the panic button.
As the shrill alarm drowned out the cicadas' song, he counted to ten then strode across the room, picked up the bag and climbed back through the hole in the mosquito screen.
I
ona Khan got to the pedestrian crossing just as the little green man went out. Drat, she said to herself. Deansgate lay before her. One of Manchester's oldest roads, its lanes cut a wide swathe across the city.