Nails In A Coffin (Demi Reynolds Book 1) (10 page)

Demi could feel the anger rising through her. It was making her shake. She had never felt this angry before. She’d come close once. She remembered it well. She was seven, and her father was beating her mother. She could hear it from her bedroom. The muffled sounds of her mother’s screams. The contented laughter that he was sounding off every time he hit her mum. It drove her insane. She wanted to get out of bed and find a sharp object. Any object, as long as it was pointed. She imagined going into her parents’ bedroom and sticking the sharp object in her father’s jugular. She could practically feel the arterial blood gushing over her as she stuck him repeatedly.

But that was all in her head. She never stuck him with anything. In fact, the bastard died of lung cancer ten years later. Demi was a young woman by then. She’d grown apart from her mother, but she still felt some sort of victory over his death. Especially since he’d never smoked, so dying from the smoker’s disease was a bonus.

But the anger she was feeling now was rampant. And if she had a sharp object at hand, she would be prepared to use it. The anger was coming from deep within her stomach. It was bubbling, like a raging inferno, ready to explode and decimate everything it touched.

The source of her anger was the laughter coming from the walkie-talkie she had in her hands. The pitch blackness that engulfed her was now dimly lit by the LCD display on the radio. She held the talkie in her hands and stared at the speaker. She was mesmerized by the little black dots that formed the speaker. She caught her gaze going deep into the holes, as if she could go through them and appear on the other side, where the voice was tormenting her. She imagined dispatching her captors with sharp objects. Maybe garotting their throats. Watching their faces go purple and their tongues swell. Maybe take an eye out, shove it down their throat as they choked. She was that type of person, you see. A violent person.

A vengeful person.

“You there, sweetie?” the voice said, menacing in its tone, disrespectful in its delivery.

“I’m here, you prick,” she answered, gripping the walkie-talkie with such force she thought she was going to crack the plastic that encased it.

“Good. I thought you’d passed out on us. I don’t want you to die too quickly, if you get what I’m saying. It wouldn’t be fun if you just choked on the stale air that surrounds you. I want you to feel the sensation of me lowering the coffin into the ground. I want you to hear me rev up the JCB’s engine. I want you to hear me scoop up the dirt with its bucket and release it into the hole. The sound of the soil hitting the coffin’s wooden surface will make you panic. By then you’ll probably be clawing at the wood, attempting to escape, but you won’t. And I’ll continue to bury you until there is no dirt left. You’ll probably hear us kill the engine on the JCB and say a few words. I’ll do a couple of Hail Marys for you. Maybe read from the Book of Revelations for effect. Then you’ll hear us walk away. The sound of the car doors opening. The suspension flexing as we get in. Then the engine firing up. And then finally us driving away. Those will be the last things you hear. The last time anybody will see you alive.”
 

Demi remained quiet for a long while. The sound of the radio crackling as a little interference came through made Demi wince. Whatever her boss was trying to do, it was working. She was scared. Possibly for the first time in her life. She could feel her palms getting sweaty. The walkie-talkie was sliding out of her grip. The air in the coffin was getting thicker and thicker. The wood was splintering against her bare skin. The vehicle she was being driven around in was speeding and slowing all at once. She was dizzy.

And then she vomited.

“Ah, good girl. Let it all out. That’s right,” the voice on the walkie-talkie said.

She wiped her mouth with her sleeve. The smell of vomit was pungent. It made her gag.

“I bet it pongs bad in there now!” the voice said, the sound of laughter crackling through the speakers.

Demi opened her eyes and raised the walkie-talkie closer to her mouth. “Donny, when I get out of here, I’m going to gut you like a fish. I’m going to open you up and pour battery acid all over your organs. You’ll be alive for it. But not for long. Your body will go into shock. But I’ll hit you with some adrenaline. Wake you up right before you die, just to see the look of pain in your eyes. And then I’ll rip out your intestines and wrap them around your throat. Maybe choke you to death. But I don’t know if you’ll last that long. Knowing you, you’ll pass out long before I get to have any fun.”

She smiled, still gripping the walkie-talkie with all her might. She could feel the plastic flexing as she held it.

“I’ve always admired your fighting spirit, Demi. I can’t take that away from you. But I can take everything else away. And believe me when I say this: I’m taking it all.”

The walkie-talkie went dead, and Demi screamed, “Fuck you, Donny! I’m going to kill you!”

Donny put the walkie-talkie down on the dash and looked at his two associates. One was driving, and the other was staring at him.

“Rattled her some, didn’t I?” he said, sounding a little uncertain.

“You sure did, boss,” the non-driving associate said.

Donny nodded and broke into a grin. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a little tinfoil square. He unwrapped the square and poured the white contents into his palm. He buried his face in his hand and snorted it all up. He raised his head and tilted it back. His eyes went red, and his face flushed.

“Fuck! Now that’s some good Charlie!” he bellowed, looking out of the windshield at the motorway.

“You going to do all those things that you said to her, boss?” the driver asked, momentarily taking his eyes off the road and looking at Donny.

“Of course I am. What do you take me for? A cunt?”

No one said anything. They just stared out of the windshield in silence, thinking about the woman in the coffin and the way she was going to die at their hands.

Hamish stood there staring at Johnson, who was wiping some blood off his lip. Hamish felt bad about punching the bloke, but he did call him stupid, and that insulted Hamish to the point that he wanted to break his legs. The guy was lucky he didn’t, because Hamish knew it wouldn’t have been hard. He’d done it before. Some guy who called him a “retard.” An American fellow by the name of Dexter.

Dexter was all mouth and no action. Hamish broke his fingers and his legs. Apparently the guy eats out of a straw now. So Hamish felt that Johnson got off lucky, and if he had taken it that one step further, Johnson wouldn’t be breathing.

“So sit down, Hamish. I have something important to tell you,” Johnson said, signalling Hamish to a barstool on the other side. They were still around the back of the bar where all the drinks and crisps were kept. After a few seconds of prolonged silence, Hamish obliged, and the two men walked to the other side of the bar. They sat down on the stools as if they were patrons. But the whole place was empty. It was dark and windowless. Donny had wanted it that way. Keep all the peepers out, as he used to say.

“What’s so important, then?” Hamish asked, reaching into a bowl of peanuts that sat next to him on the bar.

“It’s about Donny and why I’m here.”

“Okay, go on,” Hamish said, shovelling peanuts into his mouth.

Johnson stared at the big man while he chewed with his mouth open. He could see all the food debris flying around the inside of his mouth, coating his tongue, hanging off his teeth. It angered Johnson. He swatted the bowl of peanuts off the table, and they landed on the floor on the other side of the bar. Hamish looked at him in shock. At first his face was placid, but then he turned angry.

“I was eating them, you prick!” Hamish screamed, standing up as if he was ready to hit Johnson again.

“Calm the fuck down!” Johnson said, also standing up and facing Hamish. He wasn’t scared. Hamish could see that.

“Now you listen here, you big pile of shit. I may have let you hit me once, but I deserved it then. I was rude, and my daddy always told me to expect a hiding when you’re rude. But right now, you’re being rude. And I don’t take too kindly to people being rude. I let you hit me once, sonny, but don’t think I won’t slap the taste of peanuts out of your mouth if you don’t sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up!”

Hamish stood there silently for a few seconds. His fists were balled up, and he was ready to wring the guy’s neck out. But he didn’t. He decided to be diplomatic and sat down. His weight made the stool creak, but he remained stern and his face was emotionless. He was just staring at Johnson, who was still standing. Johnson had a lot of emotion running through his face. It was red and angry. He was shaking as if he was low on sugar and needed a chocolate bar before he collapsed. But after three or four seconds, Johnson sat down and composed himself.

“Excuse my outburst. It’s been a tough day,” Johnson said.

“No problem,” Hamish replied.

“Good. Now listen up, Hamish. I have some news. Donny found the person who murdered his brother last week. That’s why he hasn’t been around. He’s been too busy trying to sort the cunt out.”

Hamish sat there and nodded. It was all he could do. He didn’t really care about Donny that much. The fact that his brother was killed last week was of no interest to Hamish. As far as he was concerned, Donny and his whole family were bastards and deserved everything they had coming to them. But Hamish was sure to not seem indifferent and tried to act pleased that they had found Donny’s brother’s killer.

“Oh, that’s good. I hope Donny guts the prick,” Hamish said in his best London gangster twang.

“Yes. So do I. But I heard he’s having trouble trying to figure out a way to kill her.”

Hamish scrunched his face in surprise. “Her?” he repeated.

“Yes, it’s a woman. Some bitch named Demi killed his brother. Real evil mare, apparently. Some killer slag from the council estate up the road. Her and Donny used to be real tight. But now he wants the cunt dead, and I don’t blame him.”

Hamish was shocked. He knew Demi very well and liked her awfully so. But he didn’t want to give Johnson the impression he cared for her well-being. That was the last thing a person in his position wanted to do. If Donny found out that Hamish was good friends with her, he knew Donny would flip out and possibly kill him, too. He was a paranoid guy, and the fact that she’d offed his brother would make him even more so.

“What is he going to do to her?” Hamish asked, trying not to make his voice crack under the lump that was forming in his throat.

“Fuck knows. But whatever it is, I know he’ll do it slowly. He had her locked up in a room down the abandoned warehouse we use to store the heaters. I heard he was thinking of burying her alive. Timmy Fingers told me that he went into his dad’s funeral parlour and ordered a coffin.”

Hamish’s eyes lit up. Johnson noticed.

“Something I say?” he asked, tapping his fingers on the surface of the bar impatiently.

Hamish had to react fast. “Yeah. He contacted me today and had me guarding a coffin as he went off to buy some shovels.”

Johnson smiled and said, “Well, that must be it, then.”

Hamish nodded. He was being flooded with all sorts of emotions. He couldn’t tell what all of them were, but he knew that one of them was love. Love for Demi. He cared for her dearly. Like a big brother cares for his little sister. Only in this situation, he felt a little bit more for her than brotherly love. Not that he would ever tell her so. She was too sweet for that. Always so nice to him. Never spoke down to him because of his ogreish appearance or stupidity at times.

It was safe to say that Hamish loved Demi more than he cared for Donny. So it was an easy decision when it came to him. It came out of the blue, much like most great ideas. But the thing with this idea was that it wasn’t a great one. It was a stupid one. But Hamish knew that he had to do it.

He had to kill Donny.

DCI Amy Francis and DI Lionel Craig were still examining the muddy footprints in Demi Reynolds’ apartment. They were both on their knees, up close and personal with the floor. Francis was practically on her chest, trying to get a good look at the different tread marks. Her partner, DI Craig, had a smirk on his face. She couldn’t see it all that well because she was too engrossed in the suspected crime scene.

“Looking closely isn’t going to help you decipher what shoes those tread marks belong to,” Craig said, watching her as he steadied himself, and got to his feet and stretched. “Unless of course you have a database linked up to your brain, and you’re able to distinguish what make those shoes are from sight alone,” he added.

DCI Francis shrugged, as if to say at least she was trying. “You never know — we might strike it lucky,” she said, also getting up to her feet and standing next to her partner.

“There’s luck, and there’s lightning luck. One of them hardly strikes, while the other never strikes twice,” Craig said as he looked at his watch and sighed.

“They’ll be here soon. Don’t worry about it,” Amy offered.

“They’d better be. I don’t want to be waiting hand and foot for the CSI people, only to find out that it’s too late. Every second counts in a case like this.”

“Why do you think we’re too late?” DCI Francis asked, a look of curiosity on her face.

DI Lionel Craig stretched his arms out wide and did a 180-degree turn on his heels. “Look at this place!” he said, coming to a stop facing his partner. “Uniforms come over here and threaten our lead suspect with a warrant. They leave to get the warrant, and when they approach the judge for the papers, he says that it will take a week to finalize. Seems a bit odd, doesn’t it?”

Francis nodded and caught herself looking at their surroundings.

“It does strike me as odd, now that you put it like that,” she said.

Craig had a massive smile on his face. Out of nowhere he felt somebody tap him on the shoulder.

“Exactly!” a voice said from behind him.

Suddenly, both of them turned around to see a man standing in the doorway. He was holding a leather bag that resembled a doctor’s carry case and was wearing a lab coat. He stood there for a second as if he was looking straight through them but then he smiled and stretched out his arm, going in for a handshake.

“I’m Mort. Old Bailey sent me down to do some fact finding and whatnot,” the man in the lab coat said, still holding his hand out for a shake, but neither of the two officers obliged.

“We’re actually waiting for the CSI people to come. So if you don’t mind, you’ll have to wait until they’re finished,” Francis said.

The man nodded his head and said, “I am the CSI guy.”

Francis and Craig found themselves giving each other a look of distrust. Neither of them wanted to be the one to ask, but someone had to.

“You have any ID on you?” Craig asked.

The man fished in his jacket and pulled out a pristine ID card. Everything matched and held up to scrutiny. Francis and Craig immediately felt like assholes, but procedure was procedure.

“Make yourself at home,” Francis said, stepping aside and letting the man in the lab coat through. He didn’t waste any time, and began to take pictures of everything. He walked over the tread marks without giving them as much as a second thought. He disappeared around the corner and could be heard snapping pictures every two seconds.

DI Craig was staring off into space when DCI Francis punched him in the arm.

“Hey!” he whined.

“Did you see that?” she asked.

“See what?” DI Lionel Craig said, still holding on to his arm.

“He missed the tread marks on the floor. What kind of CSI guy misses tread marks?”

“A bad one?” Craig replied.

“Or a fake one….” Amy said in a near-whisper.

“What makes you think that?”

“This whole case is making me think that,” she said, looking around as if to check if anyone was earwigging their conversation. “First they come over here with uniformed officers. Then they go off to a judge to get a warrant, but it takes a whole week for the warrant to be signed. Then they get us to come over here and execute the warrant. We find the door broken down, and we call it in. They tell us to hang tight and don’t send us any backup. Then this guy shows up and misses evidence like a blind man misses sight. It just doesn’t add up. Either the Met have no faith in this case, or they don’t care.”

DI Craig nodded and added, “Or they don’t want us to know what happened in here.”