Definitely Dead by Kate Bendelow (howl and other poems TXT) 📕

nodded. ‘Yeah, do what you need to do and make sure she knows I’m behind it too. It’s payback time for her.’

‘Oh, it certainly is,’ Nowak said sinisterly. ‘By the time we’ve finished with her, she’s going to wish she’d never been born.’

‘Well, that makes two of us, I wish she’d never been fuckin’ born. I’d have rammed a knitting needle up her mother myself if I knew what trouble she was going to cause.’

Even Nowak was shocked with the look of pure hatred on his cellmate’s face.

61

‘Lurch, where the fuck are you? You’re late. Don’t piss me off today, mate, I’m not in the mood.’ Donnelly swore to himself as he left yet another voicemail message for Lurch. He wasn’t used to the great big lump not coming running when he clicked his fingers. It was early and he was tired, which was adding to his mounting irritation. He’d already done a little favour for Nowak and was now preparing for the second stage of their plan.

He sighed as he hauled the last few items of scrap metal out of the shipping container, so it was completely empty. This was Lurch’s job. He shouldn’t have to get his hands dirty. He had used this container for years; it had proved useful for storing stolen goods, including cars. It was situated at the back of an associate’s scrapyard on the edge of a large, dilapidated industrial park outside town. The location ensured he and Nowak could come and go without arousing suspicion. Their privacy was guaranteed.

Now the container was empty, Donnelly could set about preparing it for his guest. He had secured a large metal chain to the back wall of the container along with some cable ties, a gym mat and bottles of water. It may not be five-star luxury, but it was going to provide several nights’ accommodation for a special visitor very soon.

As he bent forward to unfurl the gym mat which would be used as a makeshift bed, Donnelly heard a sound. Just as he turned to see what it was, he felt a huge blow to the back of his head that sent him sprawling across the floor of the container. Crying out in shock, he scrambled to his feet, ready to turn and face his attacker, when yet another blow sent him reeling. The ground raced up to meet him and everything dissolved into blackness.

62

Dominique Barton stretched and yawned as she walked into her kitchen. She hadn’t slept well because of the continuing heatwave and needed a strong coffee. She poured herself some cereal and decided she’d eat breakfast on the patio. She reached for the cat’s bowl and poured out some food before setting it back on the kitchen floor. Jet was a creature of habit and would come careening through the cat flap for her breakfast anytime now. She was surprised the animal wasn’t already posturing along the worktops, impatient for food.

Outside, she flopped into the garden chair. She lifted her face to the sun, revelling in its buttery warmth. She rested for several moments before taking a large sip of coffee and eating her cereal. Sated, she sat back and surveyed her garden. The geraniums were doing well, and her petunias looked stunning in the hanging baskets.

Her attention was drawn to the far corner of the garden. Jet was curled up on her side, sleeping in the shade. Although it was early, it was already hot. She smiled to herself. This weather was obviously too much for the poor furball.

‘Jet, tchh, tchh, tchh,’ Dominique called as she strode down the garden. ‘Come on, puss, breakfast.’

The smile on her face faded as she got closer to the cat. She wasn’t just still, she was rigid. She was curled unnaturally on her side, her back to Dominique.

‘Jet,’ she called again, her voice faltering. She sank to her knees and extended her hand to her precious pet. Beneath the velvet-soft fur, the body was like stone. She gently rolled her onto her back and then jumped back in sheer horror.

The cat’s mouth was open unnaturally wide. Some sick fuck had wrenched the poor animal’s jaws apart so violently it hinged like a crocodile. Its eyes were bulging, and a trail of blood tainted her shining fur. Dominique cried out in distress, unable to tear her eyes from the horrific sight.

As she stared down, numb with shock, she noticed something else. Something was protruding from the animal’s throat. She knelt tentatively to look closer. It looked like some kind of paper tube. Keening, she slowly extended her hand and reached carefully into Jet’s mouth. With a small tug, she removed the object from her throat. Bewildered, she sat back on her heels as she studied it. She unfurled it slowly. The paper was thick and strangely waxen.

As she unrolled it, she realised it was a photograph. She opened it up and smoothed the creases out. The picture was more terrifying than the sight of her beloved cat. She threw it from her as if it might explode, then let out a scream that brought the neighbours running.

A summer breeze tickled the photograph, causing it to skip across the dew-covered grass. The yellowing print saw a young couple beaming at the camera arm in arm. Back then, Dominique Barton and Marcus Naylor had been very much in love.

63

Maya lay in bed wide awake but reluctant to get up. Getting up meant facing the world and she really didn’t want to. She still felt uncomfortable being alone in the flat. She was becoming increasingly unpopular at work and she was now screening her calls, reluctant to speak to Spence. Once released from custody he had rang her to plead his innocence. And he had sounded genuine. But she was unsure as to whether she could really trust him.

DI Mitton was right, on paper he was an Operation Chrysalis nominal. He had also been arrested for a Section 18 assault. A stabbing for God’s sake.