The Time Detective: Book 1 - Discovery

The author is a 57-year-old, first-time author, retired in December 2014 after 12 years working in security. He started work in 1976, beginning a career in IT that ended in 1991. Further work stints included as a truck driver and cable TV/telephony installer until 2002.

He has been married for 33 years and has five children and one grandchild. Retirement has given him the time to pursue his long-time dream of writing and becoming a published author.

Mark Carnelley

The Time Detective

– Discovery

Copyright © Mark Carnelley (2017)

The right of Mark Carnelley to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781786934321 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781786934338 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781784558888 (E-Book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2017)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Acknowledgements

The sermon quoted within these pages was taken from an actual sermon by the Reverend Richard J. Fairchild (Richard Fairchild is a Pastor of St. Andrew's United Church in Golden, British Columbia), given at the funeral for a sudden infant death. It has been modified by myself to fit in with the occurrences in this novel.

Chapter 1

June 18, 2016

Abby Holmes had just finished her 9am-4pm shift at Mothercare in the Guildhall Shopping Centre. She was tired and pissed off. She had been run off her feet all day and that last bloody customer, as she so succinctly put it had been so rude, I could have slapped her fat face. She recounted this to her BFF Joanne Cartwright on her new iPhone 6s that she had got last week for her nineteenth birthday, from her mum, Julie, and stepdad, Brian.

Honestly, I was so mad and I think she saw my expression, she continued, chattering excitedly to Joanne as she walked out of the shopping centre and made her way along High Street.

She was heading to her normal bus stop that would take her to Pinhoe. From there it was only a five-minute walk to her home. I hope the bitch doesn’t dob me in to the manager, she told Joanne. The minute she saw my expression, she pouted those fat lips of hers and, get this, she actually said, ‘I hope that I’m not keeping you, MISS.’ She almost shouted that word at me … I’m not serving her again, stupid fat slut, she continued as she picked up her pace to get to the bus stop.

She had six minutes before the bus was due but the stress of today made her feel rushed and uncertain. She made the perfect target. The street was quiet and she wasn’t watching her surroundings; after all, why should she? She had travelled this route hundreds of times before.

She never noticed the black Ford van that was pulled up to the kerb, only 20 metres away, its engine still running and only a mere two meters from the footpath. She never noticed that the side door was open and that there was a man there, nonchalantly picking up some newspapers next to the van and placing them inside. She never saw that the man had a bandage on his left hand that looked bloody and dirty.

As she came adjacent to the van, still talking on her phone, she never heard the man say, Excuse me, miss, could you help me? My hand doesn’t let me do much. She then suddenly felt herself grabbed by the right arm and slung with perfect precision into the van. She had dropped her phone as soon as she was slung and then her world went black as her head hit the other side of the van.

The man quickly closed the side door, walked calmly around to the driver’s side, got in and slowly drove away. No one saw anything.

Joanne, who had been saying very little during her mostly one-sided conversation with Abby, except for the occasional uh huh … yep … I know, noticed after five seconds that there was no one talking on the other end. Abs? Abs, are you there? … ABS, what’s going on? ABSSSSSSSSSSS! she yelled. Abs, stop fucking around, you’re scaring me.

Julie Holmes called Joanne at 6pm when Abby wasn’t home by then. She had thought the two of them had met up for a couple of drinks. Joanne told her of the conversation and then the sudden cessation. At 6:10pm she called the police.

She was told that there was nothing that could be done right now, that it was only a couple of hours, and that she would probably be walking in the door any minute now. Her phone had probably died. She might have met up with someone, one of her friends. If there was still no sign of her, or call, by 10pm, they would send a van out along her route home and check around the bus stop where she would have been heading to.

At 10pm, with nothing heard, Julie, frantic now and in tears, called again. As promised, two police officers, on their way back to headquarters, would stop and take a quick look around the bus stop area.

At 10:45pm, there was a knock on Julie’s front door. She rushed to open it, already with the scolding words ready to pour out of her trembling mouth. She stopped dead in her tracks; her mouth hung open as the two constables stood there on her doorstep, both with worried looks.

No … no … don’t tell me, she wailed, almost collapsing with shock. The two police officers, Senior Constable Eric Barnes and Constable Bernadette (Bernie) Crowther, each took hold of one of Julie’s arms and led her to the couch.

Ma’am, Eric said, we don’t have much news, we found Abby’s phone on the nature strip, but other than that nothing. Have you been in contact with her friends? You know she might’ve gone off with one of them.

No, Julie sobbed. I spoke to Jo, that’s Joanne Cartwright, her best ffffriend. She told me that one minute she was talking and then nothing, absolutely bloody nothing. What’s being done? Oh … please excuse my rudeness, can I offer you a cuppa? Both declined but Bernie said that a cuppa might do Julie a world of good.

Has she ever done anything like this before? asked Constable Crowther. Did you have any arguments this morning? … How did she seem?

No, said Julie, Abby has never done anything like this before. She’s so responsible, even when she’s out with her friends, she calls me just before she’s ready to leave.

And her stepdad, um, Brian Hughes … no problems there? asked Eric. Is her biological father still around, could she have gone to visit him?

Brian died 13 years ago, Julie replied, when Abby was six. She really never knew her dad and Brian has been terrific, really … they get on so well together.

We’re sorry, ma’am, that we don’t have any more news to tell you. We will pass this up the chain to our Super – he’ll start the ball rolling with canvassing the area and checking all CCTV cameras. We’ll keep you informed all the way. But, please, if you hear from your daughter, let us know immediately.

We’ll let ourselves out, ma’am. When is your husband due home? asked Eric.

Brian is overseas at the moment, replied Julie. He’s a dentist and there is a seminar in New York that he was to speak at. I’ve contacted him and he’s trying to arrange an emergency flight home. But that could well be tomorrow at the earliest. I’ve rung my sister – she’s a local too, and is on her way. She just had to wait for her husband to come home. They have two kiddies, young’uns, so she couldn’t leave until he got there.

That’s fine, ma’am, said Eric. I wouldn’t worry too much yet. I know that’s not very comforting, but when this happens, there is a cause that makes the kids run off. They are generally home within a day or two.

But Abby would never leave her phone behind. She only just got it last week for her birthday, it was her pride and joy. And why would she suddenly stop talking to Jo? It doesn’t make any sense, said Julie, rambling on and sniffing back the tears that were threatening to burst out.

I don’t know yet, said Bernie, but we’ll let you know.

The two constables let themselves out and walked down the small garden path, between what looked like professionally trimmed rose bushes. Don’t worry? ... What did you say that to her for? Bernie remonstrated with Eric. If I heard someone tell me that, I’d worry all the bloody more.

What did you expect me to say? retorted Eric. That there appears to be foul play? Don’t be an idiot, Bernie, you have to give them reassurance.

Anyhow, continued Eric, we’ll type up the report, well, you will anyway. And then we’ll hand it over to Biggins. Biggins was Chief Superintendent Lionel Biggins, who headed up the Force Crime Department as the Force Crime Manager. There’s not much else we can do.

They drove back to their station, the Exeter ‘Heavitree Road’ Police station. They finished their report and left in on the desk of their Super, who in turn would more than likely pass on the file to the Major Crime Investigating Team.

Chapter 2

June 19, 2016

Abby woke the next morning to complete darkness. Her head and right arm were sore and she was sure her shoulder was dislocated again. She found that she couldn’t move, something was bound around her legs, chest and arms, though she couldn’t tell what. She felt a gag in her mouth, the tightness of which didn’t lend to anything more than muffled noises. There was also something that held her head still, like a strap of some sort.

She felt a chill and somehow knew that, apart from her bikini-bottoms underwear, she was naked. She also felt nauseous and had the start of a monstrous headache, worse than any hangover she had had.

James Brampton sat in the corner of the room. He liked to wait with his girls, listening for them to slowly wake up, the sounds they made, the scared noises. He slowly rose out of his chair, careful not to make any noise and walked the three steps to the table that sat in the middle of the basement room.

He stopped at the edge, trembling with excitement as he ran his hands about two inches over Abby’s body, anticipating his next moves.

He pulled a small chain that turned on a light directly overhead and heard her intake of breath as, at first, the light startled her and then, as her eyes focused she saw him standing over her, scalpel in hand.

He felt the first thrills of excitement building within as he looked at the vibrant body in front of him. The flesh awaiting his hands, goosebumps prickling the girl’s untouched white virgin flesh as the chill of the air washed over it. She was there for his brilliance to be displayed, her body a mere blank canvas or an unmoulded lump of clay, awaiting to be transformed. His scalpel was to him as was a paint brush to the great masters, with whom his works would soon be counted among theirs.

He remembered number two, upon which he had discovered a small tattoo of a butterfly just below the lining of her panties on her left buttock, and the disgust that he had felt upon seeing his canvas violated by this common piece of filth that seemed to mock him. As much as he tried to create his work, after excising that slutty filth, as he called it, he couldn’t get that image out of his head and the finished work was the first of his failures.

The pictures he took could not be shown. The people would know that he had worked on a flawed and thus common piece of material. He kept the pictures but they could never be shown’ to the mindless minions as they would never understand his feelings, could never appreciate his innermost and vulnerable emotions.

He closed his eyes and breathed in her scent. He needed to clear his mind of these dark thoughts or his masterpiece would be ruined.

Her muted screams meant nothing to him as he bent over her. The strap that secured her head had a hole in it that let him have access to her forehead. Already written on it was the single number four. He had written that when she was unconscious on the table and before the strap