Playing With Fire (2019 Reissue) Read online

  PLAYING WITH FIRE

  An absolutely addictive crime thriller with a huge twist

  BILL KITSON

  (DI MIKE NASH BOOK 3)

  THIS IS A REVISED EDITION OF A BOOK FIRST PUBLISHED AS “MINDS THAT HATE”

  Revised edition 2019

  Joffe Books, London

  First published as “MINDS THAT HATE” in 2010

  © Bill Kitson

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Bill Kitson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  www.joffebooks.com

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty-one

  chapter twenty-two

  chapter twenty-three

  Chapter twenty-four

  The D.I. Mike Nash Series

  A Selection Of Books You May Enjoy

  Glossary of English Slang for US readers

  For Val

  Wife, lover, best friend, critic and editor

  Acknowledgements

  A lot of people helped to turn my error-strewn manuscript into the volume you are holding. For their input, however great or small, I am truly grateful.

  I’d like to thank Pat Almond and Cath Brockhill, for reading the original unedited work and giving their opinion.

  To my wife Val, for her patient reading, proof-reading, continuity and copy-editing.

  And to author, Zoë Sharpe, for her timely advice on copyright.

  chapter one

  The moorland road was little used. Grass had encroached onto the middle of the tarmac as it meandered between scrubby banks of heather and gorse. Sheep strayed across, unfettered by walls, unthreatened by vehicles. The scenery was spectacular, savage and untamed. The only sign of human influence was a stationary car. Inside the vehicle, the encounter was over. The couple struggled to dress. As they wrestled with recalcitrant clothing, they talked.

  ‘I’ve had news from Felling.’

  She didn’t need to ask who or what Felling was. She knew, only too well. ‘And?’

  ‘Three months from now.’

  ‘God, that’s soon. Why isn’t it longer?’

  ‘That’s how it works.’

  ‘It doesn’t give us much time.’

  ‘There’s worse. He’s coming here.’

  She stared, disbelieving. ‘I thought that wasn’t allowed?’

  ‘They can’t stop him.’

  ‘Aren’t there rules?’

  ‘They can’t enforce them. He still owns the house.’

  ‘There’ll be trouble.’

  The man drew a sharp breath. ‘If not, we’re going to have to cause some.’

  ‘That won’t be difficult.’

  ‘We should start immediately.’

  Her eyes were cold as she stated flatly, ‘He ought to be dead.’

  ‘He soon will be. He’ll be easier to get at outside.’

  ‘Will this interfere with your plans?’

  ‘On the contrary. We can kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.’

  She shivered, but it was a shiver neither of cold nor fear. It was the thrill she got from the power he exuded. She wriggled closer. ‘Tell me what you have in mind.’

  DI Mike Nash woke early. Last night had been a hell of a party. Maria had wanted Gino’s birthday celebrated properly. Not a problem for the owners of a restaurant.

  Nash had drunk too much. Discomfort in his bladder told him so. That he could deal with; the hangover wouldn’t be as simple.

  He tried to recall how the evening had ended. Gino had introduced him to someone; he’d been talking to them. Who was it?

  This thought disturbed him. He moved his leg. It brushed against something. Flesh! Nash panicked momentarily. As if alarm was contagious, the person alongside him moved slightly. Again he felt their skin against his leg.

  He eased himself out of bed and groped his way to the shower room, switched the light on and looked back.

  She was lying face down. The sheet did little to cover her. Nash admired her figure, the warm tones of her skin, her lustrous long dark hair across the pillow. He fought against his rising excitement.

  She was undoubtedly young, appeared to be good-looking. She’d obviously come home with him. Equally obviously, they’d gone to bed together. The next question was far trickier. Who was she?

  He returned to the bedroom. His earlier guess had been inaccurate. She wasn’t good-looking. She was stunning. An image flashed through his brain. She’d been standing next to the bar, tall, elegantly dressed, laughing at some remark of Gino’s. As she turned, she’d made eye contact with Nash.

  He stretched out alongside her. The touch of her skin completed his arousal.

  ‘Hello, Michael,’ her voice, heavy with drowsiness, was husky with passion.

  He put his hand on her waist and began to caress her. Even as they made love, one problem remained. He couldn’t remember her name.

  It was late when he woke again. There was a note on the pillow. ‘Michael, had to go to work. Thanks for a wonderful night. Will call you. X.’

  He appreciated the note, but her name would have been helpful. His glance strayed to the clock. 9.05. Nash groaned: he’d a meeting at ten. Where was Clara? As if in answer, the doorbell rang. He staggered out of bed and stubbed his toe. Swearing loudly, he struggled into his dressing gown and hobbled to the door.

  ‘Christ, Mike! You alright? You look like death warmed up.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant Mironova, and good morning to you. Come in. You make coffee, whilst I grab a shower.’

  ‘I’d better make it black, to match your eyes.’

  ‘Don’t be bloody cheeky,’ he snapped.

  Minutes later, Clara was seated at the kitchen table. Nash had showered, but still looked terrible. ‘I hope you haven’t been having nightmares again,’ she asked.

  ‘No, thank God. The doctor reckoned they were caused by mixing my medication with alcohol. One of the two had to go.’

  ‘It’s obvious which you chose.’ Mironova glanced at the clock. ‘We’d better go or we’ll be late. Any idea why we’re wanted?’

  ‘None, but Tom implied it might be serious.’

  Clara drove them to Netherdale, where Superintendent Tom Pratt was based. During the journey she continued her interrogation.

  ‘What was it? A late session at The Horse and Jockey or have you been on the nest? If I’d to guess, I’d say you’ve been at it all night. You look shagged out.’

  ‘I like the delicate, polite way you express yourself.’

  Clara grinned. ‘Who is it? Anyone I know?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘You’re not sure whether I know her, or you’re not sure who she is?’ There was a long silence. She laughed. ‘You’re the last of the great romantics. You mean to tell me you picked a girl up, took her home, and you don’t even know her name?’

  ‘I’m not aware that I told you anything,’ Nash muttered. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t like that.’

  Clara bit her lip. ‘Go on, Mike, tell me what it was like.’

  Despite severe provocation, Nash remained silent for the rest of the journey.

  ‘Morning, Mike. You look a bit rough. Are you okay?’

  ‘Tom, don’t! I’d enough problems with Clara. Any more lip from her and I’ll be tempted to send her back to Belarus.’

  Mironova grinned unrepentantly.

  ‘What’s the panic about?’ Nash asked.

  ‘I had a call from the governor of Felling Prison. They’ve a prisoner coming up for release and it could mean trouble.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘His name’s Vickers. I’ve read the case notes: very nasty.’

  ‘What’s he in for?’

  ‘He raped and murdered the daughter of his live-in lover. He got life, but he’ll be out in three months.’

  ‘Was it round here?’

  ‘Yes, they lived in Helmsdale. Her body was found in the woods by the banks of the Helm.’

  ‘They’ll not let him come back here, surely?’ Mironova interjected.

  ‘He insists on coming back.’

  ‘I thought they could block that?’

  ‘The trouble is, Vickers isn’t dependant on housing or social services. He’s got money and he owns a house.’ Pratt paused before adding, ‘On Grove Road.’

  ‘Grove Road? That’s on the edge of the Westlea.’

&n
bsp; Nash knew there was more. ‘You’d better tell us the rest,’ he prompted.

  ‘The girl Vickers murdered….’ Pratt cleared his throat. ‘She was Jake and Ronnie Fletcher’s niece.’

  ‘Oh hell, they’ll fillet the bastard!’ Mironova muttered.

  ‘There’ve already been death threats. The governor told me they’re all postmarked from round here. He was attacked several times. The worst was a stabbing that nearly finished him off. The governor suspects someone might have bribed inmates to have a go. Strangely, they stopped after a few months.’

  ‘I wonder why he insists on returning? If he’d any sense, he’d stay well clear,’ Nash said.

  ‘We’ve got three months to dream up a strategy to keep him alive. Vickers always maintained he didn’t kill the girl. Complete nonsense of course, the forensic evidence puts it beyond doubt. He didn’t defend himself at his trial; in fact, he didn’t say anything. I want you to study the file. Maybe go to Felling as well.’ He looked across at Nash. ‘Persuade Vickers to think again. Suggest he goes elsewhere. Tell him if he returns to Helmsdale we don’t give much for his chance of survival.’

  The Wagon and Horses was built during the 1960s. It was ugly, and looked dated before the paint dried. Time frequently softens the harsh lines of a building: here, time failed miserably. Not that the regulars cared. Had the beer been sour or the lager flat, that would have been different. The room was busy, as befitted a Friday night. The atmosphere was heavy with cigarette smoke and other more exotic aromas, despite the government ban on smoking.

  The corner seat was occupied by a well-known trio. Well-known and feared. There were a few hard men in the bar, yet Jake and Ronnie Fletcher were of a different calibre. If Gemma Fletcher wasn’t feared like her brothers, she was equally respected.

  Gemma outlined her problem. Ronnie was all for direct action. That was typical. His rash nature had landed him in trouble several times, one resulting in a custodial sentence. Gemma wasn’t prepared to risk that. ‘You can’t, Ronnie,’ she objected. ‘I’m not having you sent down over that pillock.’

  Jake represented a more chilling threat. Hatred quivered through his voice. ‘No, Gem, we’ve got to finish him. If the law won’t, it’s up to us. We’ll make him suffer. When I think of our Stacey—’

  ‘Leave me alone with the twat,’ Ronnie growled. ‘I’ll deliver his bollocks on a platter.’

  ‘Listen,’ Gemma insisted, ‘I’m not risking either of you going inside. We need another way. And I think I know one.’

  ‘It’d better be good, Gem,’ Jake muttered angrily.

  ‘We’re all agreed as to what we want, right?’

  The brothers nodded.

  ‘Anything happens to him, they’ll automatically suspect us.’ She didn’t have to explain who ‘they’ were. ‘Here’s what I suggest.’

  Jake and Ronnie listened with admiration. There was no doubt it would work. But then, Gemma had always been the brightest. That’s why she’d made a successful career in advertising, whilst they sweated and toiled as jobbing builders.

  ‘That’s brilliant, Gem, but who’s going to do it?’ Ronnie was keen to know.

  ‘I thought Danny and the Juniors might be up for it.’

  Jake whistled. ‘Christ, Gem, that’s genius. With Danny on our side, think what his brother Billy might do.’

  Ronnie agreed. ‘Given half a chance, Billy’d have the whole town in ashes.’

  ‘I’ll buy him the petrol and matches,’ Jake agreed. ‘When do you want to start?’

  ‘Straightaway.’

  ‘But you said he wasn’t due out for three months.’

  ‘If we start now, there’s a chance our incident will be passed over as part of it. “Oh dear, what a bleeding shame. Not to worry, he won’t be missed”.’

  ‘If Danny and the Juniors get going, there’ll be bloody riots.’

  ‘Don’t you see? That’s what we’re after.’

  When Gemma left, she was satisfied her brothers would already be implementing the plan. She climbed into her car, and reached for her mobile.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘Can you talk?’

  ‘Yes. How did it go?’

  ‘Fine. I told you it would. What about your end?’

  ‘I’ve a meeting tomorrow. I’ll know better after that. I’ll ring you when I’m sure.

  chapter two

  JT Tucker’s work was read wider than the circulation of the Netherdale Gazette: syndication took it throughout the north of England. Tucker was in the graveyard, the basement where old copies were stored. Computerization hadn’t reached the repository of the newspaper. Researchers still had to wade through files of back numbers.

  Although Tucker churned out weekly articles of general interest, he occasionally produced excellent pieces of investigative journalism. He’d a keen nose for impropriety. This, combined with his contacts, a good memory, and hours of research, led him to uncover misdeeds which many would have preferred to remain unearthed.

  His articles had caused ripples within local politics, business and even the church. Tucker was on the scent of another such scandal. So far the aroma was faint but to Tucker, unmistakable. Time and patient probing could cause the stench to ripen.

  On the desk were back numbers of the Gazette, folded to reveal two articles on the same topic.

  Thursday 12 August 1993

  Police confirmed today that the body discovered in remote woodland was that of missing photography student, Stacey Fletcher. Forensic examination would be needed to establish how she died.

  Tuesday 8 March 1994

  A jury at Netherdale Crown Court today convicted Gary Vickers; a twenty-five-year-old graphic artist, of the rape and murder of his lover’s daughter. The body of twenty-year-old Stacey Fletcher was found in Helm Woods last August. She had been sexually assaulted and strangled. Traces of Vickers’ DNA were found on the dead girl’s clothing and body. The judge, approving the verdict, warned Vickers that he would be facing the maximum sentence for this crime. Sentencing will take place next week.

  Tucker was unaware that the official version of these events was being studied a few miles away.

  Clara was examining a photograph of Vickers when she heard Nash muttering. ‘Sorry, what was that, Mike?’

  ‘There’s something odd here. The evidence is overwhelming. Vickers’ semen was removed from inside the dead girl’s vagina and on her pubic hair. And from the sheets on her bed as well. Considerable quantities, not just traces. They also recovered his pubic hair. If that’s not the clearest possible proof, I don’t know what is. So why has Vickers consistently denied raping her? He’d have to be stupid to go against that evidence, and from what we know about Vickers, he isn’t stupid.’

  ‘Maybe he thought by admitting to rape, he’d be confessing to murder as well?’

  ‘What mileage was there in not pleading guilty? He might have caught the judge in a lenient mood. He could have claimed provocation, suggest the girl seduced him or something. Plenty of others have tried that. Some have got away with it.’

  ‘You’ve just read the evidence out loud. There’s no way Vickers isn’t guilty.’

  ‘You’re probably right, Clara, but the more I read this file, the more questions it throws up.’

  Clara sighed. She knew Nash well enough to realize if he got his teeth into something he wouldn’t let go. She’d also enough experience of his insight to be cautious about contradicting him. He’d been proved right too often. ‘Okay, what don’t you understand?’

  ‘Imagine you’re Vickers, and, for the sake of argument, pretend you didn’t rape or kill the girl. Beyond entering a plea of not guilty, he didn’t say anything in his defence. All his counsel did was question the arresting officers and the forensic experts. He didn’t call any witnesses or put forward an alternative story. So, why not plead guilty? If Vickers truly was innocent, why not say so? Why wait until after he’d been tried and sentenced? And why kick up such a fuss later?’

  ‘Perhaps he was bored. He was banged up alone in a cell for twenty-three hours a day.’

  ‘As a reason for the campaign he waged, I find that a bit thin.’