No Going Back

Recent Titles by Lyndon Stacey

CUT THROAT

BLINDFOLD

DEADFALL

OUTSIDE CHANCE

SIX TO ONE AGAINST

MURDER IN MIND

No Going Back

Lyndon Stacey

This First world edition published 2010

in Great Britain and in the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2010 by Lyndon Stacey.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Stacey, Lyndon.

No Going Back.

1. Ex-police officers – England – Fiction. 2. Runaway

children – England – Dartmoor – Fiction. 3. Detective and

mystery stories.

I. Title

823.9′2-dc22

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-193-4 (ePub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6883-1 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-219-2 (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This one's for my agent, Dorothy Lumley,

for all her hard work on my behalf

over the past few years. Thanks.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A big thank you to the real Hilary McEwen-Smith, who generously bid in a charity auction for the chance to appear in this book. I hope I've done you justice!

Also to Dave McIver, Glyn Jones and police dog, Jerry, of the Avon and Somerset Police Dog Unit for their invaluable help and for the joy of a day spent watching them work.

For finding the time to answer my questions, thanks to my vet, Sophie Darling, and, as always, thanks to Mark Randle of the Wiltshire force for always being on hand to answer queries.

PROLOGUE

S
omewhere a dog was barking, fretfully, without hope. In the distance, a siren sounded, the mournful rise and fall signalling misery for someone.

On the Jubilee Park estate in Bristol, the hard edges of the flat roofs were black against a night sky streaked with scudding clouds. Few of the windows along the balconied walkways were lit. At twelve fifteen a.m. in this neighbourhood, most people chose to stay inside, their doors double-locked and barred, and makeshift grilles on many of the windows.

On the third-floor walkway nothing moved except the windblown detritus of estate life: a couple of empty cigarette boxes, a condom wrapper and several empty crisp packets. Against one graffiti-covered door the pages of a newspaper fanned open and flopped shut unread, over and over, as if turned in boredom by some unseen hand. The disembodied head of a cheap doll lay close to the spent carcase of a red plastic lighter, and a few feet away, a curl of charred tinfoil skittered over the filthy concrete against the wall of number 231.

Moments later, the door opened, light spilling through the aperture to frame the tall figure of the man who stepped out. It seemed as though he would have walked away without pausing, but a slim, brown hand caught at the sleeve of his leather coat.

‘When will I see you?' The thin face with its large, heavily made-up blue eyes was pathetically eager. Bottle-blonde and petite, the woman was wrapped in a red satin housecoat, its crossover front revealing a deeply tanned cleavage and a neck that had seen better days.

‘In a day or two, maybe.' The reply was casual, his accent Eastern European. Strong, olive-skinned fingers unhooked the woman's clutching hand, the light catching the pale, puckered skin of an old scar. His dark eyes flickered dispassionately over her upturned face. ‘I have to go.'

‘But what about the smack? Did you bring it? You said you would . . .'

The man shook his head and clicked his tongue. ‘Shelley, Shelley, you know it's bad for you,' he said, mocking.

‘Just one more fix. You promised, Anghel! Please. I won't ask again.' Her eyes pleaded with him.

‘And how are you going to pay for it? You don't work any more. Why should Yousef support your habit?'

‘But I
could
work if he'd let me! I don't understand why I have to be here. What am I going to do? There's no one to talk to. I miss the girls. I miss Molly.' Tears filled her eyes and she clutched at the doorpost as if she needed its support. ‘Please, Anghel – I just want to see my little girl.'

‘You'll see her soon. You just be a good girl and everything will be taken care of. OK?' He put a finger under her chin and turned her face towards him. ‘OK?'

Reluctantly Shelley nodded. She pulled the housecoat closer about her and shivered.

After a moment, Anghel took something from an inside pocket and dropped it in her palm. ‘Here. Don't tell Yousef.'

Shelley's eyes lit up. Her fingers clamped shut on the sachet of greyish powder he'd given her, and she took a swift step backwards into the bedsit as if fearing he'd change his mind.

The door clicked shut, and with a shake of his head, the man turned up his collar against the chill wind and walked away, his footsteps echoing grittily and his broad shoulders throwing a moon-shadow on the wall. He descended to ground level, passing a group of drunken teenagers in the stairwell, his nose wrinkling as it was assailed by the stench of stale urine around the overflowing bins.

Leaving the building behind, he took a mobile phone from his pocket and flipped it open. Seconds later, he had a connection.

‘Yes, it's me. It's all taken care of . . . No, no problems. See you later.'

Shelley leaned back against the black vinyl cushions of the sofa, her indrawn breath hissing through her teeth as the rush hit her. She hated that first shocking sensation, but yearned for the comforting glow that would follow. Soon everything would be all right; even the desperate longing for her daughter would fade into the golden haze. Anghel would look after her. Hadn't he promised he would? Anghel had always been kind to her – well, as kind as anyone . . .

She sighed deeply as her body and mind began to float, euphoria lifting her out of the squalid bedsit to a halcyon world where depression couldn't follow.

Briefly her eyes flickered open in alarm as her muscles were gripped by a powerful spasm; then it passed and her head lolled back, pupils narrowing to pinpoints as her heartbeat slowed and her breathing became shallow. Darkness crowded in.

As the first grey light of the winter dawn seeped along the concrete walkways of the estate, the city began to stir. Lights came on, cars started to fill the streets, and the pavements swarmed with jostling, chattering kids on their way to school.

At number 231 Jubilee Park, the only sound was the TV; the efforts of the cheerful breakfast presenters went unheard by the woman in the red satin housecoat, their images reflecting in her half-open eyes.

She lay sprawled across the faux-leather sofa surrounded by the tools of her addiction, one sleeve pushed back, the arm bruised and speckled with a lifetime of needle scars.

Only one man knew she was there and he wouldn't be telling. It could be weeks before her body was found.

ONE

‘
T
rucker's Dog Saves Toddler,' the headline halfway down the front page of the
Western Post
declared.

The paper was nearly a week old, saved for Daniel by the owner of the roadside burger van where he'd bought his breakfast. He was parked not 20 yards from it now, in a lorry park on the side of the A386 between Tavistock and Okehampton. It was a designated picnic spot, but at this hour of the morning, there were more trucks than cars.

Pulling a wry face and shaking his head, Daniel Whelan took a sip of his latte-to-go and read on, his booted feet propped up on the dashboard of the lorry.

Daniel had to smile at the last line. The article was illustrated by a picture of Taz sitting dutifully with the child's arms wrapped round the thick fur of his neck, but to Daniel, who knew him better than anyone, the expression on the dog's face was one of slightly pained resignation rather than pleasure.

He held up the paper, turning to where Taz sat at the other end of the bench seat.

‘Look, Taz, you're famous.'

The German shepherd thumped his tail on the seat a time or two and edged nearer, but his attention was firmly fixed on the dashboard, where a paper bag sat, containing a bacon and egg roll.

‘If you're gonna start drooling, you can sit outside!' Daniel warned severely, but the dog wasn't fooled. He moved even closer, his gaze never wavering, knowing from experience that the last bite of bread and bacon would be his.

Moments later, the butty was forgotten as Taz threw himself at the passenger window of the cab, barking furiously. A sharp word from Daniel calmed him a little, but he remained on edge, growling ominously and hackles up, while he watched a small black Staffordshire bull terrier trot jauntily in front of the lorry and away at the heels of his cab driver owner.

‘What? That scutty little thing?' Daniel teased. ‘You'd make mincemeat of him. Here, have a bit of bacon.'