Red is the Colour Read online

  Red Is The Colour

  Mark L Fowler

  Copyright © 2017 Mark L Fowler

  The right of Mark L Fowler to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2017 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

  For Joe and Fiona, with love

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  A Note from Bloodhound Books:

  Acknowledgments

  1

  Nobody had noticed the bone sticking out of the ground. The yellow diggers remained silent and the workers had left the site for the weekend, absolved of all guilt for what they had done; exposing a thirty-year-old evil to the fading summer light.

  Josh Smith was walking his black retriever, Stan, along the canal towpath on a warm Sunday evening in June. With an air of resignation, the boy snapped the clip of the lead onto the dog’s collar, and headed through the gate from the towpath down towards the subway entrance. The weekend was all but over. It was time to go home and get that homework done.

  The two friends scurried through the empty subway that ran like a labyrinth beneath the giant roundabout. They emerged at the Wall of Death, the notorious accident black-spot, a monolithic curving structure segregating the main traffic artery from the adjacent foot path. From there they began the short climb up towards the ancient village where they lived.

  At the top of the first climb was a plateau, a no-man’s land that the villagers refused to lay claim to; a place of shadow that to outsiders marked the outer limits of the village itself. On the site where the old factory had stood, the process of demolition was almost complete. In a few months’ time a splendid new visitors’ centre would herald another exciting chapter in the regeneration of the city.

  That’s what the local politicians were promising, according to Josh Smith’s dad. But for now, the place was one more graveyard housing the spirits of a great industrial past.

  The usual shortcut, the un-named track leading from the plateau towards a rough and weary tarmac path known locally as The Stumps, had been temporarily fenced off. Undeterred, Josh and Stan slipped beneath the barricade.

  Moving carefully between the giant mounds of freshly dug earth, the two adventurers made good progress, crossing the forbidden site towards The Stumps, where the second barricade had been erected. As they edged around the base of the larger mound, Stan yanked fiercely on the lead, the sudden movement taking Josh by surprise and tearing the lead out of his hand.

  The dog was sniffing around the base of the mound, and as Josh got closer he could see that his friend was licking at an object poking out of the excavated earth.

  Nothing more than a rotten old stick, thought the boy. But the retriever was pulling on the ‘stick’, tugging at it for all he was worth and issuing a low growl as he did so. Didn’t he realise there was maths and history to be done and parents already checking watches?

  Stan seemed determined to have the treat and he was growling now with uncharacteristic menace as he wrestled with the dark thing that the ground refused to yield up.

  Josh felt the first sickly tug of panic. They should not be in this place, stranded between the barriers festooned with warning signs proclaiming unspecified danger.

  Darkness was closing in around them.

  Josh picked up the lead and snatched hard enough to feel the leather cut into his hands. In an urgent, shouted whisper, he urged Stan to, ‘Come on!’

  Still the retriever’s fangs clenched tenaciously around the new find, while his master stopped to ease the pressure on his burning fingers.

  The earth started moving.

  The mysterious object was still clinging to some hidden thing inside the mound, something as yet invisible to the eye. Stan was swinging his head from side to side, determined to prise the find loose. His growl becoming savage.

  Josh could see that the thing in the ground was not a stick, rather a bone, blackened no doubt by age and burial. More of the earth was sliding. Josh wanted to cry. At any moment, the hill might collapse and bury the pair of them forever.

  Renewing his efforts, he hauled on the lead, his hands ready to burst into flames. But Stan was still not giving up the struggle. More of the bone was emerging, bringing with it whatever was holding it back and keeping it partially submerged beneath the dirt and rubble of a bygone age.

  Josh let go of the lead and placed his hands under his armpits, squeezing away at the pain. ‘Stan, damn you,’ he shouted, his eyes stinging with tears.

  As more of the bone began to come loose, the boy could see that it was connected to something larger, something hideous. He wanted to look away, but found himself unable to do so. Instead, he stood transfixed, awaiting the extent of the revelation.

  The scream was forming in the pit of his stomach. He could feel it rising into his throat with the realisation that Stan was holding triumphantly between his teeth the blackened skeleton of a human arm.

  The dog was momentarily frozen by his master’s guttural scream, though he still wouldn’t let go of the arm.

  In the awful silence that followed, as the scream died in echoes across the darkening city, Josh Smith watched the lower part of the mound collapse, allowing enough of the skull to break free of the earth to leave him in no doubt that the world was full of dark intentions and evil deeds.

  All time went to the moon until sirens and flashing lights filled the summer night, the cavalry arriving on the scene thirty years late.

  In fact, as Detective Sergeant Danny Mills was to observe, almost thirty years to the day too late.

  2

  DCI Jim Tyler picked up the phone.

  ‘Jim,’ said the voice on the other end of the line, ‘I’m ringing to tell you that your fate has been decided.’

  Tyler didn’t respond. He listened and waited.

  ‘Now, don’t shoot the messenger. We’ve decided to let things simmer down for a while. You put that application in, good man. Staffordshire can use a guy like you, and they’re a decent bunch.’

  ‘I’ve arranged my own exile, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘I wouldn’t quite put it like that. You’ve made contingency plans, and very good ones. They’ve got Alton Towers. Your life could be complete.’

  ‘Are you trying to be funny?’

  ‘I’m telling you the way it is. The chief s
uperintendent there is basically a good man. Graham’s still crawling his way up the ladder but not forgetting where he came from. I did some training up that way in my previous life. I taught him practically everything he knows.’

  ‘Graham Berkins knows the circumstances?’

  ‘He’s knows as much as he needs to. He knows exactly what he’s getting and he’s more than happy. Personally, I’m gutted to see you go, but sometimes politics prevail. You know the score. Stay off the sauce, Jim, control that temper of yours and that love – or should that be loathing – of authority—’

  ‘And I just might fit in?’

  ‘You might at that. Stranger things happen. Graham’s having a tough time of it, what with staffing issues and regeneration blues. Detectives like you, Jim, with your experience and integrity are like gold dust. The city fathers in Stoke are getting precious – city on the cusp of change, millions pouring in, you know the story – imagining the rest of the world could care less what happens up there.’

  ‘You sound well informed.’

  ‘I’m fond of the place and fond of Graham. We go back a long way.’

  ‘You should apply to move there yourself.’

  ‘I’m too busy sorting out the mess down here. Move on, Jim, while you still can. If you can get past the moustache, you’ll do alright with Berkins. He’s awaiting your call.’

  ‘Got a case to discuss already, has he?’

  ‘You’ll hit the ground running, there’s no question of that. Too much time on your hands doesn’t suit you, it never has. Keep busy and out of mischief.’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  Male laughter issued down the phone.

  ‘I’m not expecting you to play by the rules, Jim. That’s not the way you were made.’

  3

  DS Mills was still mourning the end of the football season. That and the fact that his wife’s dream of country living had taken him out of the city, and miles from any decent boozers. If he was to kill the pain of the new mortgage, a good local was going to be – ah, what was the point?

  He’d been putting in the hours when the call came. Not many murders on the patch and no reason to expect one now. Still, whatever it amounted to, this case had time-and-a-half written all over it. It might take his mind off the countryside, and make a start on that mound of debt that he could see stretching all the way to old age.

  It didn’t take Mills long to establish that the only wrong-doing for which Josh Smith and his dog could reasonably be held accountable was ignoring the warning signs at the barricades. ‘A simple act of trespass punishable by nightmares of the recurring kind,’ he told the constable guarding the newly erected cordon.

  He looked at the boy with pity born of memory. Shivering on a warm night, huddled in a regulation blanket, back turned against the grisly discovery already screened off from the prying eyes of the curious public. Mills remembered that scene only too well.

  Not many miles from there, in his own adolescence, he had once encountered a gruesome sight of his own. Mates playing on waste ground in the dying light, kicking a ball around until it flew into the adjacent bushes. The young Danny Mills, still holding on to a fading dream of playing for Stoke City, searching for the ball; his mates shouting after him, wanting to know what the hell he was playing at.

  And then he had seen it. On the other side of a clump of stinging nettles; a dark shape lying next to the football.

  Taking a stick to bash away the worst of the triffids, he had found himself suddenly staring into the unblinking eyes of a dead man.

  A tramp, it turned out; a down-and-out, frozen to death. The police, that long-ago evening, had come charging across the waste ground with flashing lights, but also compassion. A blanket and a warm drink back at the police station, and a future career forming out of the haunting memory: that those uniformed heroes alone knew how to deal with terror and mortality.

  Mills hadn’t screamed that day, and at last his mates had come over to see what was so interesting. Josh Smith, on the other hand, had screamed loud enough to wake the dead, as well as the living; stopping Stan in his tracks, and giving the animal even now an attitude of nervousness not entirely explained by the plethora of flashing lights.

  Mr and Mrs Smith had listened with alternating pride and embarrassment as DS Mills gently coerced their son to recount his grisly adventures. And when the story had been told to his satisfaction, Mills, momentarily feeling better about life, wrapped things up with what he thought to be a simple act of kindness.

  ‘You shouldn’t have crossed that barricade, you know that, don’t you, son?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And you’re not going to do anything like that again, are you?’

  Josh Smith swore that he wouldn’t, and then swore on behalf of Stan, too.

  ‘You must be a Stoke City fan, calling him Stan,’ said Mills.

  The boy’s face brightened. ‘We both are. Hey – did you ever see Stanley Matthews play?’

  Mills grimaced, and it wasn’t entirely a stage-grimace either. ‘How old do you think I am, son? On second thoughts, don’t answer that. And anyway, show some respect: it’s Sir Stanley Matthews. And now I’m going to let you into a little secret.’

  He watched three heads crane forward, and even Stan appeared to cock an ear while keeping a nose and eye trained in the direction of the screened-off mound of dirt containing those interesting bones. ‘Sometimes,’ said Mills, ‘a person does the wrong thing and, just the once, it turns out to be the right thing.’ He took a moment to savour three baffled expressions. ‘You see, something very similar happened to me, a long time ago. And do you know what?’

  Three pairs of ears twitched expectantly, though Stan was at the same time giving his attention to the figures dressed in white, coming and going in the general vicinity of the bones. The dog let out a long growl, causing DS Mills to grin. ‘He probably thinks it’s finders-keepers.’

  Nobody even smiled.

  ‘Where was I?’ said Mills.

  They didn’t have a clue, any of them.

  ‘Yes, as I was saying, I learned my lesson, same as you. And, remarkable as it might seem, something good came out of it.’

  Josh Smith’s eyes widened. ‘Do you mean I’m going to get a reward?’

  ‘Don’t push it, son.’

  The moment was gone, and Mills quietly sighed, packing the recruitment talk away for another day before authorising a car to take the Smith family on the short ride home.

  The constable manning the cordon was pleased to see Mills approaching, glad of the company and the chance to share some of his homespun wisdom about what a bad business this looked like.

  Then he got on to the staffing crisis. ‘I mean, with Dodds off long-term, and Jackson gone and what’s-her-name – DC Clarke – still not sure if she’s a flag or a balloon – we’re in a right pickle.’

  ‘That’s not even the half of it,’ said Mills.

  ‘So, what are they going to do?’

  ‘They’re busing them in from all over the place.’

  ‘What about the DCI post?’

  ‘Filled. He’s on his way.’

  ‘Anyone we know?’

  Mills told him.

  ‘Jim Tyler? Not heard of him. From the capital, you say?’

  ‘We’re so bloody short up here,’ said Mills.

  ‘What a state we’re in.’

  ‘But the show must go on, regardless.’

  ‘Trouble with the big city types, if you don’t mind me saying so, is …’

  The constable let his thoughts splutter out, scratching his neck as he did so.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Mills, ‘we get what we are given.’

  ‘Well, I suppose so. But we both know that you have to live here to understand this place. There’s nowhere like it, or the people, for that matter. It takes a lifetime and it’s never going to come out of books, no matter how many of ’em you get through.’

  ‘That’s a fine speech. Been working on it
long?’

  ‘Thank you. Actually—’

  ‘I was being sarcastic, you dick.’

  For a moment the officer appeared hurt, but he quickly recovered. ‘I suppose he’s highly qualified, this Tyler. Wonder why he wants to leave London to come here? Still, the question I always ask is – is he any bloody good?’

  DS Mills looked at the constable and for a few moments saw himself reflected. The urge to denounce the outsider, the stranger; the redneck impulse that ran deep through the city. In that instant of dull recognition, he recognised the facts of the matter: Tyler had the gig, and none of them had any choice but to make the best of it. In subordination was of no use to a man with a family and a mortgage, not in the city and not in the country either.

  Mills’ tone hardened. ‘Ours is not to question why, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Sounds about right.’

  ‘Let’s give the man a chance, for God’s sake.’

  From a higher place, a statement had already been issued to the fast-descending media. The statement was aimed at keeping the hounds at bay while prodding the memory of someone who, for whatever reason, had failed to realise that a loved one hadn’t returned home sometime in the last three decades.

  But the media had its own agenda. Statement or no statement, the city and the nation would wake up to a new horror story to enjoy over breakfast.

  4