Waking Broken (32 page)

‘Fuck!’ The blood drained from Glasgow’s face. He closed his eyes. His brain was tired but connections were still being made.

‘Rob? You all right?’

Glasgow nodded. ‘I’m fine. You said you found some hair.’

‘That’s right. There was some on the wheel.’

‘Was it red?’

‘Yeah.’ Stanley looked surprised. ‘It was.’

‘Long?’

Stanley blinked. ‘How did you know?’

Glasgow sighed. ‘I think I know who the victim was.’

‘Who?’

‘Stacey Cole. Went missing about three weeks ago.’

Glasgow turned around. Something was stirring in his brain, an instinct he did not often ignore. It was right too often for that. ‘Look, I’m going to have to go.’

‘What is it, Rob?’

‘I’ve got a feeling I know where we’ll find Isaiah Van Hulle.’

The discrete workman’s tent that had covered the entrance to the Smith Street sewer last time was nowhere to be seen when Glasgow arrived. With him he had one uniformed officer to keep guard, two detective constables and a worried-looking official from the council’s environmental health department. He had no scenes-of-crime officers; all the SOCOs were already committed at the Kavanaugh Centre, the Caledonia Barracks or the Pine Mill Warehouses.

As they approached the manhole cover, the man from the council shook his head. ‘We really ought to wait for someone from the water company.’

Glasgow laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I know where I’m going. And if I find what I’m expecting down there it won’t be rats or sewage.’

He stood at the bottom of the metal ladder a few minutes later. The small concrete chamber was as cold and damp as Glasgow remembered it. He sighed as he saw the grime on his shoes. He hated the kind of heavy boots most plods wore but there were times when he could see the sense in them.

Shrugging his shoulders, the DI stepped through into the brick-lined sewer. Last time there were electric lamps positioned at intervals down the tunnel. Today all they had to light their way were torches. Glasgow gave a shiver as he looked into the darkness. It felt much more ominous than his previous visit.

With his three companions behind him, Glasgow led the way. He remembered the route, turning left as he reached the fork in the sewer. At the next junction, he paused before turning the corner.

Glasgow drew in a short breath as he lifted his torch.

‘Oh fuck!’ The exclamation came from the DC immediately behind him.

They made their way slowly towards the wall that sealed off the short section of redundant sewer. The silence was broken again by a loud splashing. This time it was the man from the council vomiting his breakfast into the sewer.

Glasgow felt his own gorge rise as he drew closer. Official confirmation would come later but it did not look like there was any rush to call an ambulance. He focussed his torch on the figure against the wall.

The face was a mess of injuries, as if someone had released a torrent of anger. But despite the blood and the bruises, the body was clearly that of Van Hulle.

Stanley’s team had removed the manacles but the developer had been crucified in a more Biblical fashion. It looked as if nails - more than a few - had been driven through Van Hulle’s hands and wrists to pin them to the concrete wall.

That wasn’t the cause of death though. It looked as if the developer had been shot in the stomach and left to bleed to death.

Glasgow winced as he methodically moved his torch beam down the body’s torso. A lot of Van Hulle’s clothes had been ripped off. For a moment, he also thought a shotgun had also been used to remove the man’s genitals. Then he blinked. There was a lot of gore but the blood had flowed from above. He looked again. Then raised his light for a second look at the person’s chest. He blinked again.

It was Isaiah Van Hulle but Isaiah Van Hulle had never been a man. Scars were all that remained of the woman’s breasts but there was no doubting the genitalia were female.

Glasgow stepped back.

Part of him wished he had ignored the hunch. Isaiah Van Hulle was certainly dead but in many ways it might have been easier if the killer’s body was never found. The sewer was a good final resting place. If it had not been for Glasgow remembering a conversation from the previous day, he might never have thought of looking here.

Glasgow had a very good idea who had taken vengeance for the death of Stacey Cole and the other women taken by Van Hulle. He sighed. He was unsure, though, if it were a case he would ever be able to prove — or one he even wanted to prove. He also had a suspicion that few jurors would be willing to convict Nelson Cole of murder when they knew what Isaiah Van Hulle had done.

‘Boss?’

Glasgow glanced over his shoulder. ‘Yeah. In a minute.’

He considered the situation. It looked like they had two missing women alive: Louise Brent and the runaway Latvian who was snatched after getting off the train. With Vigil Security as a link, there was also a fair chance of finding out who else Van Hulle had taken and their fates.

It was a pity the journalist had got caught in the middle. Glasgow had not trusted Danny Harper when he saw him at Cole’s gym. Something about his story just had not rung true. It was a shame, though: paying a bit more attention to the man might have given him a lead on Van Hulle in time to stop last night’s madness. But at least Van Hulle had been stopped. Harper might not have managed to lead the police to the killer in time but someone had been clearly been paying attention.

Glasgow knew he would have to speak to Nelson Cole in due course. Probably on the record as well as off the record. But there was no rush. There was plenty to keep every policeman in the city busy for quite a while. Time enough for Cole to make sure his sister got a decent burial.

And to perfect his alibi.

‘Come on,’ said Glasgow. ‘Not much we can do here for now. We’ll call it in. Then… well, I don’t know about you guys but I could really do with some breakfast.’

Saturday, 9.12am:

Rebecca walked slowly out of the hospital room. The corridor outside seemed like an alien land and she made her way along cautiously. She felt shattered, light-headed and overwhelmed by emotion.

A couple of passing nurses gave her sympathetic glances but kept moving, intent on their own missions. At the swing doors through into the visitors’ area she paused, still absorbed in her cocoon of barely-controlled emotions, briefly lost and not quite able to believe.

But then she gave the doors a push and went through. At her entrance, several pairs of equally tired eyes looked up but Rebecca could not meet their inquiry now. She headed straight for the small, white-haired woman curled on a chair not designed for long-term comfort.

Crouching beside the older woman, Rebecca reached under her coat and found one of the thin, liver-spotted hands. She took it in hers and stroked it, part of her not wanting to wake the sleeper.

It only took a few seconds, though, before the older woman twitched awake from her uneasy slumber. She shuffled and made to sit up. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, dear, I must have dropped off. I only meant to close my eyes for a few seconds but…’

She smoothed her skirt and looked around, worried by what others might think about her sleeping in such a situation. ‘I really didn’t mean to go to sleep. I didn’t think I could. It’s just…’

‘May.’ Rebecca interrupted gently. ‘May.’

‘I’m sorry, dear. Would you like me…’

‘May!’ Rebecca gave a short, fragile laugh.

‘What is it?’ The older woman looked startled by the sound. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

Rebecca shook her head, unable to speak for a moment, tears forcing their way out of the corners of her eyes and gathering into a flood. It had been five days since the accident. Five nightmare days since Danny came off his bike. Five days of barely leaving the side of his hospital bed. Five days of being able to do little more than hold his hand, talk to him and pray to any gods that would listen.

She paused for a moment then rubbed her eyes dry. She touched the backs of her fingers to her nose and sniffed as she fought to control her emotions. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of the engagement ring on her finger and was unable to stop herself smiling.

But May Harper saw only the tears. ‘What is it?’ There was alarm in the older woman’s voice now, her attention suddenly focussed.

‘May!’ Rebecca spoke in gulps. ‘He… squeezed… my hand. Danny… he squeezed it!’

‘What!’

‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘Just a while ago. He squeezed it. Not just once. Three times!’

The older woman began to get up. ‘I’ve got to see him.’

Rebecca nodded. ‘You can but…’

‘But?’

‘He’s sleeping! They said he’s not in a coma anymore. He’s just sleeping, just normal sleep.’ She laughed again. ‘He even said something in his sleep and then he started snoring.’

She clutched her prospective mother-in-law’s hands in hers. ‘Danny’s going to be okay, May. He’s going to be okay.’

# # #

I hope you enjoyed
Waking Broken.

This book was first published under the title
Thin Ice
in 2012. However, some readers found the original ending too abrupt and were a little confused by what had happened.

In autumn 2013 I decided to take another look at the ending. I haven’t changed what happens but have added an extra chapter that - hopefully - explains things a bit more clearly and allows the reader to draw all the threads together and understand what happened to Danny Harper. Both of him.

While revising the ending, I also took the opportunity to revise the rest of the text. Partly picking up a few typos and grammatical errors that had slipped through but also trimming some unnecessary words and sentences in order to let the action flow even better. (Well, that was my intention.)

Please note: I am a British author and write using British English spellings not American English. Having said that, I take full responsibility for any typos, grammatical errors and other mistakes of fact or continuity that have escaped the editing process.

If you did like the book, please consider posting a review on Amazon as this really helps independent authors like me get noticed by other readers.

You can also contact me via my blog at
http://hdthomas.wordpress.com/
or through my
Facebook
page.

I’m also delighted to have a new cover to go with the new title, courtesy of talented photographer Teija Härmäaho of Moodphoto. If you want to see more of her work, Teija’s blog is at
http://moodphototeija.wordpress.com/

Born in a small town in Southern England in 1965, Huw Thomas has worked as a journalist, PR consultant, gardener and teacher.

As well as being a writer, he’s a keen cyclist. In 2011, Huw and his wife Carolyn completed a 10,000-mile tandem ride in aid of the charity ShelterBox.

Other Books

The Tale Of Findo Gask —
winner of the UK Undiscovered Authors prize 2005

The Vault —
published in aid of ShelterBox

Fractured Lives
(short stories)

Writing as William Webster:

Pagan’s Sphinx

Turn the page for more information about the books above:

Also By

Huw Thomas

Winner of the UK’s Undiscovered Authors Prize 2005 — the story of an extraordinary thief who will capture your heart as he strives to make sure an uncaring world never forgets his name.

‘a close look at the feral side of mankind… yet… a curiously tender work’

From stealing cigarettes to saving drowning dogs and snatching an opera diva’s tiara,
Findo Gask
tells the story of a rollercoaster life in the underbelly of modern Britain. It’s also the story of a lonely boy trying to find love and earn respect.

Findo Gask is born into poverty. His mother is a drug addict and he grows up surrounded by the worst kind of underworld lowlifes.

Growing up an unregistered child with no official identity, Findo soon learns how to keep his head down, slip in and out of places unobserved, and run from trouble — perfect talents for a thief.

Initially, Findo steals to survive but — as he gets older and his exploits more audacious — theft becomes a way of asserting his identity and shouting out his name to anyone who will listen… including Abby McGee, the girl who steals his heart.

The Tale Of Findo Gask
is a story about a boy with no official identity but a burning desire to prove himself; someone who does what others would love to do if they had no morals… or weren’t frightened of getting caught.