Deliver Us From Evil Read online

  Deliver Us From Evil

  Conrad Jones

  Contents

  Also by Conrad Jones

  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

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  A Note From Bloodhound Books

  Epilogue

  Also by Conrad Jones

  Inspector Braddick Series

  Brick ( Book 1)

  Shadows ( book 2)

  Guilty …until proven innocent ( Book 3)

  The Inspector Braddock Series Boxset

  The Journey

  Copyright © Conrad Jone

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

  First published 2019 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

  Chapter 1

  The whirring sound of a power saw woke him from his sleep. He couldn’t tell where it was coming from – above or below. The flats were well soundproofed, but the high-pitched sound of the saw travelled through the structure, grating on his nerves. He checked his watch: it was three o’clock in the morning. What type of idiot would use a power tool at that time? One without a job, that’s who. A lot of the flats were occupied by wasters now. It hadn’t been like that when he’d moved in. The landlords had since dropped their standards and allowed the unemployed to rent apartments next to hard-working residents. Some of the newer families were African and Eastern European, and they all seemed to work hard. It was like the United Nations in the lifts but they all had jobs. The jobless were the problem. He didn’t think of himself as a snob, but the unemployed had lowered the standards in the tower block; it was noisier, dirtier and more dangerous. No one had used power tools in the middle of the night until the landlords allowed the unemployed to move in. The sound pierced the night again, louder this time. He tried to pinpoint where it was coming from. Below him, someone shouted angrily in a foreign language. A baby started crying, followed by more shouting. The saw whirred again, provoking more angry protests from below. He swore beneath his breath and threw the quilt off. He couldn’t sleep through that nonsense. Enough was enough.

  Paul Skelton was angry. He was angry most of the time. Life was one monotonous pile of bullshit. Stupid people made him mad, and most of the people he met were very stupid. People who used power tools at night were incredibly stupid. He switched on the light and swung his legs out of bed. The saw had stopped, momentarily. He paused and listened; the baby downstairs had settled down and the angry voices were muffled and less frequent. He thought about climbing back into bed when a sudden thud on the ceiling made him jump; it was followed by the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor. It wasn’t directly above his bedroom, but it was close. His heart quickened and he held his breath. Another thump rattled him.

  ‘You’re taking the piss, stupid idiot,’ Paul muttered. ‘That’s enough.’

  He struggled into his tracksuit pants and pulled a vest over his head. The dragging sound began again. Then another thump. He stuffed his feet into his trainers and padded over to the door, muttering to himself about what he was going to do with that saw and where he was going to shove it. Then the lights went out.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ he said, searching for the door handle.

  His hands touched the cold metal and he opened the door, feeling his way through the darkness while his eyes adjusted. A yellow glow filtered through the blinds from the streetlights below. The power cut was localised to the tower block – it happened in the building quite a lot. Too often. The last time it had happened, it was off for over an hour. He reached the kitchen and fumbled his way to the bits-and-pieces drawer. There was a torch in there, somewhere amongst the adapters and old phone chargers. The baby started crying again, joined quickly by another. A man and woman started arguing on the floor below in a language he didn’t recognise. Getting to sleep tonight was going to be difficult. He found the torch and switched it on. The beam cut through the night and he aimed it at the ceiling. A circle of light shimmered. The knife block caught his eye and he thought about taking one, just in case, but dismissed the idea just as quick. A blade glinted in the light, its edge cold and sharp. Taking a blade to a noisy neighbour was a touch over the top. He would ask them politely to be quiet. If that didn’t work, he would give them a slap. Nothing too heavy, just a jab on the nose. Make their eyes water and they would think twice about building an extension in the middle of the night. Another heavy thump from above steeled him on. The idiots were not giving up on whatever project they had started.

  Paul walked to his front door and unlocked it. He opened it and the cold night air rushed in, touching his exposed flesh with icy fingers. Goosebumps appeared on his arms and he felt a sense of dread growing inside him. He looked across the landing at the city below. The lights twinkled like yellow jewels on a sea of black ink. A gust of wind whistled along the landing, blowing a polystyrene cup towards the stone stairwell. It tumbled over and over before disappearing into the dark. He listened as it clattered down the steps. A deep chill made him shiver, his mind searching for excuses not to step out of the warmth into the darkness.

  It occurred to him that the power cut would silence the saw. He thought about not going upstairs, about going back to bed and trying to sleep despite the noise. The saw whirred again and the hairs on his neck bristled. Obviously they had a battery-powered tool. That was it. The final straw. He shone his torch towards the stairs and tried to close the door quietly behind him but the wind caught it, slamming it loudly. The noise echoed through the building and he froze to the spot, waiting for a torrent of abuse to be shouted from the neighbours below. None came. He took a deep breath and moved down the landing.

  The stairwell was pitch black and looked like the entrance to the underworld. He shone the torch up the stairs and the beam of light illuminated the concrete steps. Black blobs of chewing gum stained them and there were dark patches in the corners. The reek of urine drifted to him. He whispered a curse that was carried away on the wind. The e
ntire block was turning into a giant toilet. He was going to make a complaint to the estate managers directly. There were so many landlords in the building that nothing got done unless they were bypassed. Another gust of wind urged him up the first tier of steps; the cold made the task more pressing. He turned on the landing and took the steps two at a time. The wind was stronger as he climbed, funnelled along the balcony by the angle of the roof. The stench grew stronger and it was darker on the top floor – the power of the streetlights became diluted as he climbed.

  He moved quickly from the stairwell along the landing using the torch to light the way. The windows in the first flat were boarded up. Scorch marks reached from the top of the lintels to the roof. The flat had caught fire in suspicious circumstances months ago. Paul heard the wind whistling through the handrails. It was then that he caught the smell of cooking: garlic, onions, pork. He glanced at his watch again. Three fifteen. What was wrong with these people?

  Paul marched past two more empty properties and stopped outside the door of number ninety. The curtains were clean and tidy and drawn. Everything was quiet. He wasn’t sure where the noise had been coming from but he knew it was above his flat somewhere. That meant it was either ninety or ninety-one. He walked to the flat next door and looked in through the window. The kitchen inside was stripped, only the sink remained. Electric wires hung from empty sockets and a pile of copper pipes were leaning in the corner. Tins of contract paint were stacked near the door. Paul could see it was being renovated and ruled it out as the source of the noise. The flats beyond were all boarded up. That meant that the occupants of number ninety were the culprits. He walked back and listened outside the door. Someone was gently humming. He recognised the tune but the name of it eluded him. The sound of the saw whirring made him jump.

  ‘Shit!’ he hissed. He knocked on the door and waited. Nothing happened. He knocked again, louder this time. Nothing. ‘Don’t pretend you’re not in,’ he muttered as he knocked again. There was no response.

  Paul moved from the door and looked in through the windows. He aimed his torch through the cracks in the curtains, but he couldn’t see anything – the light was reflecting on the glass. He went back to the front door and opened the letter box. The odours of cooking drifted to him, making his mouth water. His hunger added insult to injury. He pointed the torch through the narrow gap and searched the hallway. There was no sign of life. He noticed some dark spots on the door near the kitchen that looked like fingerprints.

  ‘Hello!’ he shouted through the letter box. A clatter from the kitchen echoed up the hallway. Then it was still again. ‘Hello?’ he shouted again. He heard footsteps but it was impossible to make out where they were coming from. ‘I’ve come to ask you to keep the noise down,’ he shouted. ‘Using power tools at this time of night is ridiculous, mate!’ Paul looked through the letter box again. The beam of light scanned the walls but nothing moved. ‘I know you can hear me,’ he shouted. Another clatter came from the back of the flat. ‘You can talk to me, mate, or you can talk to the police. Make your mind up.’

  There was no reply. Paul went back to the window and tried to penetrate the blackness inside with the torch. It was impossible. The glare on the glass was blinding. He heard the front door open and he turned around.

  ‘About time,’ Paul said, angrily. The man stepped out and looked around. ‘You’ve woke up the whole building, mate. What do you think you’re playing at, using tools at this time of night?’

  The man looked at him blankly. His eyes looked as black as the night. Paul felt uneasy. The man smiled and Paul saw dark smudges on his teeth. He was about to take a step backwards when, too late, a flash of dull metal registered. The hammer hit him upside the temple. He felt his knees buckle as the man swung again. A strong arm came from behind him, choking him. He felt himself being dragged inside the flat but he couldn’t shout for help. There were two attackers. One of his shoes became snagged on the sill and he kicked out to free it. The front door slammed closed and Paul knew he was in dire trouble. He struggled desperately to release the grip on his throat but his attacker was too strong. The first man raised the hammer again and brought it down on the top of Paul’s skull; there was a blinding flash. White-hot bolts of pain shot through his brain. This time, the lights went out completely.

  Chapter 2

  Detective Superintendent Braddick reached the top of the stairs and caught a whiff of garlic on the breeze – garlic tainted with something rotten. It was a familiar smell: burnt flesh. He had attended enough fatal fires to recognise the odour in an instant. Braddick nodded to the uniformed officers on the cordon and was handed a white forensic suit by his detective sergeant, Laurel Stewart. Her ginger hair was blowing behind her, a mass of curls. She pulled up her hood to stop it flapping in the wind and smiled at him.

  ‘Welcome back,’ Braddick said. ‘I thought you would be as big as a house. You look well.’

  ‘I was pregnant, not fat,’ she said, frowning. ‘But thank you anyway. It’s nice to see you.’

  ‘It’s nice to have you back on the team. How is little Aimee?’ Braddick asked.

  ‘Not so little. She’s growing every day,’ Laurel said. ‘Leaving her this morning was such a struggle. Rob was very supportive, bless him, but I felt like crying.’

  ‘How is he?’ Braddick asked.

  ‘He’s amazing.’

  ‘Amazing?’ Braddick said, raising his eyebrows. ‘You used to call him a knob. Has motherhood made you soppy?’

  ‘He is a knob sometimes, but he’s my knob. Today he was amazing,’ Laurel laughed.

  ‘Don’t stress. It will all be over in the blink of an eye. She’ll be grown up, spending your money at university and having your grandchildren before you know it.’

  ‘How would you know?’ Laurel said, frowning. ‘You don’t even have a goldfish.’

  ‘Just a thought, that’s all.’

  ‘Thanks for that thought.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Is this as bad as I’m being told?’ Braddick asked, putting on his overshoes. His black skin looked darker still in contrast to the white plastic suit.

  ‘Worse,’ Laurel said. She grimaced. ‘Much worse. I don’t think I’ve seen Dr Libby so quiet.’

  ‘Dr Libby is quiet? It must be bad,’ Braddick said. ‘Who called it in?’

  ‘It was an anonymous call from a mobile phone with a withheld number. They reported that a homeless woman had been seen going into the flat on Tuesday and she hadn’t been seen since.’ Laurel leaned towards the balcony and gestured to a huddle of onlookers. Some of them were clearly unkempt and living on the streets. ‘There seems to be a small community sleeping rough in the stairwells.’

  ‘It looks like it,’ Braddick agreed.

  ‘Uniform sent a unit to the flat to make enquiries and the smell made them suspicious. They called it in and forced entry was made at one o’clock.’

  ‘Okay, let’s have a look,’ Braddick said. He noticed DS Barlow approaching. ‘Ian, I’m glad you’re here. I need you to supervise the door to door. Start on the floor below and work down.’

  ‘No worries, guv,’ Ian said. He took out his mobile and headed down the stairs.

  ‘Good man, thank you.’

  Braddick glanced over the balcony. It was a long way down and he wasn’t comfortable with heights. The crowd of onlookers was growing and a raft of mobile phones were being pointed at the police activity. The residents of each floor were gathering and gossiping. Camera flashes blinked from every landing. Braddick knew the images would be posted to Facebook and Instagram already. It was a panoramic view from the ninth floor. He looked south, towards the river. A mile away, the St John’s Tower was silhouetted against the grey waters of the Mersey, and both cathedrals dominated the skyline. He walked to the front door of number ninety and sniffed the air. The stench of decay drifted to him. All the garlic in the world couldn’t mask the smell of a rotting human. Laurel handed him a small jar of tiger balm and he smeared some beneath his nostri
ls – it made his eyes water a little. He stepped inside and saw bloody fingerprints on the kitchen doorframe. Someone had put up a fight, trying not to be dragged inside. As he looked around he tried to imagine what had happened.

  The hallway was tastefully decorated and well-kept. He peered into the first doorway on the left. Two CSIs were on their knees, working, in the living room. A plasma television was fixed to the wall and a leather corner sofa dominated the room. It looked expensive. The CSIs were dusting a coffee table and a soup bowl for prints. There were no personal touches or clues about the person who lived there; no pictures or photographs. Braddick stepped into the room and watched the forensic officers working. The bowl held the remnants of a congealed amber liquid and a spoon. A rotten smell radiated from it. He could see prints on the metal handle, highlighted by the dust. There were also prints on an empty glass that looked like it had contained milk.

  ‘You’ve found plenty of prints?’ Braddick asked.

  ‘Yes,’ one of the forensic officers said, without turning around. His attention was on the bowl. ‘“Plenty” is an understatement.’