Creatures of Dust Read online

  Creatures of Dust

  Title Page

  Prologue

  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

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Creatures of Dust

  Scott Hunter was born in Romford, Essex in 1956 and educated at Douai School in Woolhampton, Berkshire. His writing career was kick-started after he won first prize in the Sunday Express short story competition in 1996. Scott’s fantasy novel for children, The Ley Lines of Lushbury, was long-listed for the Times/Chicken House Children’s Fiction competition in 2010. His adult thriller, The Trespass, is a Kindle top twenty bestseller. Scott has recently retired from a long career in IT but he continues to work as a semi-professional drummer with the Steve Summers Band (UK) and Italian prog rockers Analogy. Where he finds the time to write is anyone’s guess. Scott lives in Berkshire with his wife and two youngest children.

  Scott can be contacted via his website at

  www.scott-hunter.net

  Creatures of Dust

  Scott Hunter

  Creatures of Dust

  A Myrtle Villa Book

  Originally published in Great Britain by Myrtle Villa Publishing

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © Scott Hunter, Anno Domini 2013

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

  The moral right of Scott Hunter to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

  In this work of fiction, the characters, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or they are used entirely fictitiously.

  ASIN - B00CRN2MWM

  For Kathy, Claire, Tom and Emily, and my dear friends from days gone by, living and dead

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to JK for his invaluable insight into the organisation of the Thames Valley Police, and also to Louise Maskill, my five star editor

  Cover design:

  Andrew Brown

  [email protected]

  ‘And I thought the dead ... more fortunate than the living ... but better than both is the one who has not yet been, and has not seen the evil deeds that are done under the sun.’

  (Ecclesiastes 4:2–3)

  Author’s note

  Creatures of Dust is the sequel to Black December, but it can still be read as a stand-alone novel, so don’t worry too much if you haven’t read BD.

  I hope you enjoy Inspector Moran’s latest outing.

  SH, March 2013

  Prologue

  The dirty water gurgled its way through the city centre, carrying the odd beer can and other remnants of a more personal nature along with it. Simon Peters paid little heed to the canal’s floating detritus. Oblivious to his surroundings he was lost in thought, struggling in vain to make sense of everything that had happened.

  As he crossed the bridge the intensity of his feelings stopped him in his tracks. He leaned on the railing and rested his gloved hands lightly on the peeling metal. Physical pain he could learn to live with but emotional pain, he was beginning to realise, was infinitely worse. The latter was exacerbated by the knowledge that his yearning would never be satisfied. She was his deepest need, and he would never have her. Worse still, she loved him too. That was why it was all so wrong. What did it matter that she was a Muslim? To him, that was an irrelevance. To them, it was vital, and as a Westerner he was the ultimate persona non grata. To them, it was unthinkable that Jaseena should associate herself, romantically or otherwise, with an unbeliever. And that was why they’d taken her away.

  He stepped off the bridge onto the canal path and stopped. Something wasn’t right. He had a sudden conviction that he was being followed. There – by the street lamp at the entrance to the multi-storey. Male, female? He had a fleeting impression of short, blonde hair and a slender athletic build before the figure disappeared into shadow. He walked on. The light was beginning to fade and few people were about; only the occasional car headlight was reflected in the scummy water.

  He stopped again. Was that a scuffle of trainers? He spun on his heels. Now he saw his pursuers clearly and his heart lurched. He’d been so caught up in his bitter reverie that he’d forgotten his number one rule: stick with the crowds. Ever since Jaseena’s brothers had made a direct threat he’d taken great care not to expose himself to what he believed was a very real danger.

  He quickened his pace as best he could, aware of movement in his peripheral vision. Fear tightened his stomach. They’d promised to ‘fix him properly’ if he ever went near Jaseena again. Ahead, the canal path telescoped into the distance. There were footfalls behind him now, the slap of rubber on the paving. He threw his bag away and tried to run. After thirty seconds he knew it was hopeless; of course they were faster.

  They caught him eventually by the rusted struts of the next bridge and waded in – dark faces, fists, a blow to the side of his head. He felt well-aimed kicks find their targets in his rib, his groin. Sickening, agonising pain, and then he was being pushed, rolled, shoved towards the canal. The last thing he felt was the sudden shock of water closing over his head.

  It was over.

  But he was wrong. He regained consciousness in a blaze of sensation. Bright lights, a needle in his arm, blankets covering him; waves of nausea as the pain intensified. Water and vomit pouring from his mouth. Muted voices, a siren nearby.

  “All right, matey, take it easy. You’re going to be fine.” The paramedic’s face loomed over him, wavering and distorted. Before the darkness took him again a burning certainty overrode the sedation just long enough to raise the corners of his mouth in a defiant smile. It was the certainty that, one day, he would have his revenge.

  He sipped the lukewarm hospital squash and swallowed with a grimace. After the first three or four days the discomfort of his injuries had lessened to the extent that he was able to focus his mind on his next steps. He had to admit the doctors had been efficient. He had apparently sidestepped the dangerous possibility of pneumonia, and apart from the severe bruising on and around his ribcage he felt almost human again.

  “You’ve taken quite a knock on the head, Mr Peters,” the consultant had told him. “Probably banged it on the canal wall. You’ve really been in the wars recently, haven’t you? Jolly bad luck all round.” He met Simon’s eye and looked away quickly. “Anyway, you mustn’t be surprised if you feel a little distracted for a while. It’ll get better.”

  In fact Simon Peters’ brain was crystal clear, and
very busy. The planning was therapeutic, carrying the added benefit of distracting him from thoughts of Jaseena. There was no point living in the past. He knew what he was going to do. It was time they were taught a lesson. All of them, one by one. His sole regret was that he hadn’t thought of it before; he could have saved himself a lot of trouble.

  The last week in hospital had dragged interminably. He smiled at the nurses and exchanged pleasantries with the other patients, but inside he was boiling with excitement.

  He was impatient to begin.

  Chapter 1

  Detective Chief Inspector Brendan Moran of the Thames Valley Police was concentrating hard. He frowned at the seven irritatingly blank squares glaring up at him from the newspaper like empty accusations. Nine letters. Also a man’s role in medical discipline. A something D something – Moran threw down his pencil in frustration as the door opened and Detective Sergeant Robert Phelps’ head appeared, followed by the rest of his considerable bulk.

  “What is it, Phelps? Don’t people knock any more?”

  “Sorry, guv – thought you were on your tea break.” Phelps squinted at the newspaper. “Crossword?”

  “Got it in one.”

  Phelps grinned. “Can’t get the last clue, eh? Let’s have a butcher’s – hmm…”

  Moran drummed his fingers.

  “Andrology.”

  “What?”

  “Andrology, guv. You know, the study of male medical conditions. Waterworks and all that.”

  Moran eased his chair back and studied his Sergeant. Phelps was a huge man, East End raised, solid as a rock, faultless intuition, but as far as Moran was aware, crosswords were well outside his areas of interest. He regarded Phelps with a new curiosity.

  “Have you imbibed a dictionary, Phelps?”

  “What’s that, guv?” The broad features cracked into a smile. “Oh, right. No, it’s not that. Just – well, I’m studying a bit. Part-time, you know.” Phelps broke off sheepishly.

  “Are you? Are you really?” Moran nodded appreciatively. “Good for you, Phelps. What is it – a degree in obscure medical terminology?”

  “No, guv. English Lit. Open University. Bloomin’ hard work. I’m enjoying it, though –so far, anyway.”

  “And who, might I enquire, are you reading?”

  Phelps scratched his chin. Even though he shaved twice a day his blue shadow was rarely absent. “Conrad, Chaucer, some bloke called Shakespeare...”

  Moran studied Phelps with rekindled fascination. “I’m impressed, Phelps. And not a little envious.”

  “You could do the same, guv.”

  Moran shook his head. “You’re kidding. I wish I had the time. Come to think of it, when do you squeeze in time for study? With a wife and kids to look after?”

  Phelps winked. “The midnight oil, guv.”

  “Ah.” Moran nodded. “The insomniac academic.”

  “Has a certain ring to it, guv.” Phelps looked pleased. “Don’t you think?”

  “I do.” Moran shifted his leg with a grimace. Following the explosion at Charnford Abbey and his discharge from hospital he was gradually coming to terms with the fact that he would always walk with a stick. After a car crash that had almost killed him, bouts of narcolepsy, and a mild stroke followed by a near-fatal explosion, Phelps had remarked that with his track record Moran should have been born a cat, not an Irishman.

  As if guessing Moran’s thoughts Phelps narrowed his eyes. “How are you, guv? I mean, how are you really?”

  Moran scraped his chair back and stood up. “Surprisingly well, Phelps, thank you.” He walked stiffly to the kettle, found two chipped mugs and rummaged in the filing cabinet for coffee. When he looked up Phelps’ eyebrows were raised in a disbelieving arc.

  “I’m all right, Robert, really I am. Thanks for your concern.” Moran unscrewed the coffee jar lid and was hunting for a teaspoon amongst the debris when the office shook as if it had been hit by a truck. Both Moran and Phelps spun on their heels, ducking their heads automatically as they zeroed in on the cause of the disturbance.

  “Ah.” Phelps said, straightening up. “Neads. That’s what I came to tell you, guv. He’s in to clear his desk. And he’s not happy.”

  Moran looked through his office window at the tall young man, whose face was contorted in hatred, hands pressed onto the clear surface. In the centre of his palms they could clearly see the angry scars of crucifixion.

  “Uh huh.” Moran went quickly to the door. “It doesn’t give him an excuse to behave like an animal, though.”

  The former Detective Sergeant Gregory Neads was at the other side of the door as Moran opened it. Behind him the inhabitants of the open-plan office were silent, heads craning, mouths gaping.

  “Inside.” Moran spoke quietly but firmly, squaring up to the taller man.

  “I’ll leave you two to chat.” Phelps squeezed through the gap, giving Neads a warning nod on his way past.

  “You apologise?” Neads snarled. “Is that it?”

  Moran cleared his throat. Neads had got himself into trouble during the Charnford Abbey episode, falling prey to the unhinged former abbot. The DS had been impaled through hands and feet, strung up as some kind of warped atonement sacrifice for the murder of a former kitchen porter. Months in hospital had followed. Since that time Moran’s nights had been tormented by the sickening image of the crucifixion, but he knew that for Neads the fallout would be much, much worse. The boy would need some serious counselling.

  “What’s left for me now?” Neads’ nose was an inch from Moran’s. “I’m a cripple. Pensioned off. I’m twenty-four. And I’m finished...”

  “Gregory–”

  “Don’t bloody patronise me!” Neads hissed. He waved his forefinger in Moran’s face, grabbing the desk for support as his balance was compromised. “You were supposed to watch out for me. And did you? No! You sent me off on a wild goose chase and left me with that...” he took a harsh, gulping breath, “... that crazy lunatic who ... who–” Neads’ facial muscles twitched as he fought to control himself.

  Moran put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Gregory. I’m truly sorry. Listen, have you contacted the Police Rehabilitation Centre? It’s in Goring. I think it would be helpful. If there’s anything–”

  Neads shrugged Moran’s hand away and limped to the door. He turned and raised his finger again. “You watch your back, Moran. I’m warning you. You just watch your back...”

  The door slammed behind him. Moran slumped in his chair and buried his head in his hands. Well, that went swimmingly, Brendan. Nicely handled...

  Later Moran eased himself into his car. Since the incident at the abbey he knew he was lucky to be alive. So was Neads – but then, Moran reflected, his own injuries were caused by an explosion, something remote, almost random in its destructive power. Neads’ wounds were caused by the premeditation of a very sick mind. There had been ample time for Neads to anticipate his injuries, to listen to the preparatory carpentry work before the first nail was driven into his flesh. Moran felt his skin crawl with the familiar remembered horror of that December night. Neads had an uphill psychological battle ahead of him, that much was certain. What was more uncertain was the effect that his experiences would have on the young DS. Ex DS, Moran reminded himself. He sighed. If today’s encounter was anything to go by, the signs were not good. Not good at all.

  As for you, Moran, he thought, it’s all about physical rehab from now on. As if to confirm his self-diagnosis his leg shot him a bolt of pain as he engaged the clutch and steered the car out of the police station car park. A small price to pay, Brendan, all things considered. Yes, he was definitely on the mend. His head felt clear; the narcolepsy that had plagued him over the past eighteen months seemed to have vanished without trace. Dr Purewal had been right. A little R and R, plus the odd crossword to keep the grey matter ticking over, had done the trick.

  Apart from the Neads episode, his first day back had passed without incident. Mike Airey, the new S
uperintendent, seemed supportive – unlike his late predecessor. All in all, things were looking up. Moran conceded that he wouldn’t be too discontented if, just to ease him in, his return to work turned out to be routine, and – dare he think it? Dull...

  And for the first month, much to Moran’s surprise, it was.

  Chapter 2

  Simon Peters moved purposefully, every nerve in his body tingling. Rain began to fall – gently at first, but it quickly intensified, hammering the pavement and provoking a mass unfurling of umbrellas. He tilted his face, allowing the water to pound his skin and trickle deliciously down his neck. It felt cleansing and invigorating. He slid his hand into his pocket. The knife was hard against his fingers; he felt the circulating blood surging beneath his skin and his excitement grew.

  It was getting dark; rush hour would soon be over and only the stragglers would remain. The town centre was emptying fast as tired workers caught buses or returned to car parks for the drive home to their TV dinners, bawling babies or dysfunctional marriages. Sad little lives ... pointless, pathetic existences...

  But he – he had a purpose. A mission. All he needed now was a target...

  Moran turned the key in the lock after another uneventful day. He was, he admitted to himself, getting restless. Not that he wished for trouble, but something fresh to stimulate his mind would not go amiss. He thought he might ask Mike Airey for clearance to work on one or two of the cold cases they’d discussed the week before. For the time being, Moran had had his fill of the mundane.