The Bad Place Read online

  THE BAD PLACE

  M. K. HILL

  www.headofzeus.com

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1: The Thirteenth Day…

  Chapter 2: Twenty-Six Years Later

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5: The First Day…

  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: The Second Day…

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27: The Fifth Day…

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37: The Fifth Day…

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42: The Ninth Day…

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56: The Twelfth Day…

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59: The Thirteenth Day…

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  First published in the UK in 2019 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © M. K. Hill, 2019

  The moral right of M. K. Hill to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available fromthe British Library.

  ISBN (HB): 9781788548267

  ISBN (XTPB): 9781788548274

  ISBN (E): 9781788548298

  CoverDesignerCreditsHere

  Cover design: kid-ethic

  Images: © Shutterstock

  Author photo: Tom Watkins

  CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

  For all the Hills and Herods

  ‘Nothing but heaven itself is better than a friend who is really a friend.’

  —PLAUTUS

  1

  The Thirteenth Day…

  Peter Carrington already had a steaming headache when he got the call that those missing kids had been found safe and sound.

  ‘And we’ve got an address,’ one of his detectives said, and hesitated.

  ‘Go on, out with it.’

  ‘It’s Jerry Swann’s place, guv.’

  It took a couple of moments for the name to register above the din of the pub. Carrington wearily pressed his fingers into his eyes. ‘Are we sure it’s him?’

  ‘There’s no question, they all identified Swann as the abductor.’

  The detective inspector cursed under his breath. The timing of those kids turning up couldn’t have been any worse. Carrington had been on the lash all night. What had been intended to be a single drink after work, just one for the road, had turned into a massive sesh with some of the lads from the station.

  Minutes later, he was being driven at high speed along pitch-black twisting lanes towards the Wallasea Island wetlands, the headlights of the car carving out a narrow path between high verges. Carrington palmed a couple of dry aspirin into his mouth and wound down the window to blast his face with cold air, trying to sober up. He gripped the door handle tightly to stay upright as the vehicle flew around bends.

  The car trundled into woods, the headlights jumping, suspension juddering on rough ground, making the contents of his stomach slop and lurch and churn. Acid surged in his throat to scorch the back of his mouth. And when they finally came to a stop, he stumbled gratefully from the car into the chill night.

  Following his CID detectives through the trees beneath a silvery moon as wide as a dinner plate, Peter Carrington hoped the assembled officers wouldn’t be able to see how ill he felt. He saw lights blazing from an old farmhouse.

  ‘The kids said they ran into these woods and Swann never followed them,’ one of his team told him. ‘We think he’s still inside.’

  ‘Then let’s go pay him a visit.’

  ‘But one of the girls still hasn’t been located,’ said a voice, and Carrington turned to see a young female officer. She was barely even a woman, to his mind; she looked like she should still be at school.

  ‘Did all the children get out or not?’ he asked his men.

  ‘According to the kids at the station, they all escaped and ran together into these woods, but Becky Haskell is unaccounted for.’

  ‘So they got separated.’ Carrington nodded into the darkness. ‘Hardly surprising, it’s as black as the ace of spades. The girl is probably still wandering around somewhere.’

  ‘But, sir,’ the uniform insisted. ‘The children are in shock, their recollections of what happened are confused, what if they’re mistaken?’

  He considered the girl. ‘How long have you been on the force, dear?’

  The girl swallowed. ‘A week, sir.’

  A probationary PC, a bloody sprog! Carrington, who had been a copper since before this little girl was even born, felt his headache crank up a notch. This investigation was going to come back and bite him on the arse, he felt it in his water, and he wasn’t in the mood to be interrogated by some upstart who had been on the force for all of two seconds.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Chancellor, sir.’ She swallowed. ‘WPC Chancellor.’

  ‘I like your attitude, Dawson, very admirable.’ Carrington appraised her; she was a pretty girl, he’d give her that much. ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll climb the ladder soon enough, you being a female and the world being what it is these days, and that right now you really want to help.’

  ‘Absolutely, sir,’ said the girl.

  He stepped close, and the way she flinched when she got a rancid blast of his beery breath gave him a little bit of satisfaction.

  ‘It’s going to be a long night, sweetheart, and I could murder a nice cup of tea.’ Carrington winked at the other detectives. ‘So, be a love, pop back to the station and make us all a nice flask.’

  The guys from CID sniggered and the girl’s cheeks reddened. With embarrassment or anger, Carrington couldn’t tell – and didn’t care. He had wasted enough time and had a job to do.

  ‘Le
t’s get this over with.’ He walked towards the farmhouse. ‘I met Swann, trust me, he ain’t going to give us any trouble, the man wouldn’t say boo to a goose.’ He clapped an armed officer on the shoulder. ‘You’re with me.’

  The interior of the farmhouse was as grim and dilapidated as the exterior and he felt his shoes stick on the tacky hallway carpet. His colleagues moved quietly upstairs and into a kitchen on the left.

  ‘Jerry Swann,’ he called. ‘Are you here? It’s Detective Inspector Peter Carrington from Essex Police, Jerry. We’d like to talk to you.’

  He walked unsteadily along the narrow corridor beneath the sallow light of a single bulb, crooked shadows conspiring with his headache to give it a lopsided aspect like a Krazy House at a funfair, and tried not to brush his shoulders against the curling wallpaper covered with ancient framed photographs. The overpowering smell of damp and drains made him gag. He sensed the armed officer at his shoulder.

  ‘Jerry!’ Carrington stopped. He heard something coming from ahead. Voices.

  At the end of the corridor was an open door, with dark steps leading downwards.

  ‘Torch.’ He gestured to the officer, and a light winked on behind him, revealing a set of stone steps. Someone was crying below – it was a girl’s voice – and his stomach churned.

  Heart pounding, Carrington took the worn, slippery steps carefully, making sure to hold on to the wall. At the bottom, he signalled to the officer to stay out of sight.

  Then he walked into the cold, dismal basement, squinting into the glare of light from the naked bulb in its ceiling cage, and saw the wiry figure of Jerry Swann standing against the far wall. He was holding a knife to a teenage girl’s throat.

  ‘Jerry.’ Carrington stepped forward, toeing a dirty blanket on the concrete floor. Knowing there was an officer with a weapon outside the door, he opened his arms so Swann could see he was unarmed. ‘Come on, son, let’s talk about this.’

  The detective ran his tongue along his parched lips. He wasn’t a man who was ever lost for words – everyone knew he could talk the hind legs off a donkey – but the sight of the girl in Swann’s grasp was a shock.

  ‘And you’ll be Becky,’ he said softly. The girl’s eyes bulged with terror, please help me, as Swann’s trembling hand held the long, glinting blade to her white neck. ‘Don’t you worry, dear, we’re all going to walk out of here soon enough.’

  ‘Stay back!’ yelled Jerry Swann. ‘You keep away!’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be like this, Jerry. Let the girl go so we can discuss everything, man to man.’

  Carrington heard a flutter of fear in his own voice. His vision was blurred, sweat was pouring into his eyes despite the cold of the basement, and he wiped it away with his sleeve.

  ‘You-don-unerstan.’ Agitated, Swann moved from foot to foot, pulling the girl with him. But his words were almost unrecognizable because of the tears and snot now pouring into his mouth. ‘I-do-i-fo-er!’

  ‘Sorry, Jerry, I didn’t catch that.’ Carrington was desperately playing for time. He wished he knew the right thing to say; that his mind was clear, and he hadn’t stayed in the pub for so long. ‘Slow down, son, take all the time you need, tell me again.’

  But Swann kept crying. The girl’s petrified gaze never left Carrington’s face. Knife pressed to her throat, her body juddered, and her mouth was open wide in a silent scream.

  Carrington wanted to make her feel better, convince her she was going to be safe, but all he could do was gently wave his fingers as if to say, everything’s going to work out.

  ‘Jerry, please, put the knife down and then we can have a proper chat. You can tell me anything you like, but let’s not do it like this.’

  ‘I-doin-fo-her!’

  ‘Say again, Jerry!’

  Swann roared. ‘I’m… doing it… for… her!’

  When Carrington looked into the man’s small eyes, swivelling crazily in their sockets, he saw fear and desperation.

  ‘The girl doesn’t deserve this.’ Seeing Jerry Swann hesitate, Carrington stepped forward. ‘Put it down.’

  Swann looked in shock at the blade, as if he had realized for the first time it was in his hand, and began to lower it.

  Carrington dared to breathe. ‘That’s right, Jerry, just put it on the floor.’

  But then the armed officer stepped into the room with his weapon raised and Swann cried out in alarm. The knife flashed back in front of the girl’s face.

  And in that instant Peter Carrington felt the situation slip out of his control. ‘No, no – no!’

  He stumbled forward in a panic.

  Swann clamped a hand around Becky’s forehead and yanked it back, exposing her soft neck. He shouted across the room. ‘This is for you, my love!’

  Carrington flung out an arm—

  ‘Jerry, no!’

  —as the glinting blade jerked across the girl’s throat.

  2

  Twenty-Six Years Later

  ‘Perhaps we should eat soon, before it gets too late.’

  Karin straightened the cutlery on the table, adjusted the place mats. ‘Just give her another ten minutes.’

  ‘Nice spread as usual, Karin.’ Paul was the only person who ever made a point of thanking her. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  She tossed him a box of matches. ‘Do you mind lighting the candles?’

  All Karin had to do was get through tonight, they’d have their usual reunion dinner, and then she’d let them all drift from her life. There was no point in their meeting any more. None of them had anything in common except that one thing that happened to them. The evenings were usually tense, and no one even pretended to enjoy themselves, except for Paul, who spent the whole night vainly attempting to encourage some kind of ridiculous camaraderie.

  It was crazy that they still even had these reunions. Psychologists had suggested it when they were all too young to know better. They shared a bond, the shrinks said, nobody outside of their group would ever understand the sickening ordeal they had suffered. Coming together regularly to remember their shared trauma, to remember her, would help them heal.

  Heal, Karin thought. As if.

  The four of them would never heal – they were losers, rejects, misfits. And Lydia, when she eventually arrived, was in a worse state than any of them. Well, Karin would feed them all one last time, and then they could all finally go their own way. There was no rule to say that just because one awful thing happened to them a long time ago, they had to keep returning to it again and again, like an animal licking a festering wound.

  The evening would unfurl exactly like every other year. Michelle would look down her nose at everyone; Paul would bang on about his faith; Simon would hardly utter a word; and Lydia would take them all aside, one by one, and ask to borrow money.

  ‘It’s really not on, Lydia should be here by now.’ Michelle poured herself another glass of wine. ‘Some of us have responsibilities. I’ve a multi-million-pound business to run and can’t stay out all night. I imagine she’s probably off her face on smack or whatever and has completely forgotten.’

  ‘She doesn’t do that any more, she’s clean.’

  Michelle snorted. ‘If you believe that, you’ll believe anything. What does our chatterbox friend think, is she going to turn up?’ She waited for Simon to answer, but he just shrugged. ‘Don’t you worry about replying, darling, we don’t want your powers of conversation to peak too early.’

  ‘I’m uncomfortable being judgemental about Lydia,’ said Paul primly. ‘She needs our love, not our criticism.’

  ‘So sorry, Paul.’ Michelle smirked. ‘I must have missed that lesson in Bible class.’

  Paul ignored the jibe. ‘She won’t let us down, but maybe we should do the toast now, just in case.’

  They all gathered behind the chair that would remain empty for the evening – because it always did.

  Six places set – but only ever the five of them in attendance.

  ‘To our absent f
riend.’ Paul lifted his glass. ‘You’re in a better place, but you will always remain for ever in our hearts. God rest your soul.’

  ‘To Becky,’ they all said.

  Karin dropped her gaze to the floor, unable to look anyone in the eye. After a moment’s tense silence, Michelle reached for the wine and Paul chatted to Simon, who stood – as always – near the door. It wasn’t unusual for him to slip away early without saying goodbye.

  Pretending to arrange napkins, Karin watched these sad, broken people. They may all have survived that ordeal, but none of them had come out the other side of the experience intact. None of them, her included, had gone on to enjoy anything remotely like a normal life.

  Simon was a solitary wanderer who disappeared off the grid for weeks, sometimes months, searching for solace in distant places. Paul was a charity worker who had battled desperately to find meaning in his life, finally announcing that he had become a born-again Christian. To look at her you’d think blunt, forceful Michelle, with her expensive clothes, thick mask of make-up and towering bouffant of hair, was every inch the successful businesswoman. She lived in a big house along the coast, had a flash car, enjoyed luxury holidays. But Michelle was a three-time divorcee with a drink problem, and behind her brittle exterior she was as emotionally insecure as the rest of them.

  And Lydia was… it was difficult to know where to even begin with fragile, damaged Lydia.

  As for Karin herself, well, things hadn’t worked out the way she expected. ‘I’ll heat up the food.’

  In the kitchen, she pulled silver foil off the lasagne and placed the dish in the oven.

  ‘I don’t know how you do it.’

  She turned to see Michelle in the doorway, a large glass of wine pressed to her chest.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘I don’t know how you put up with her.’ It was still early, but Michelle was already slurring. ‘Oh, I know what you do for Lydia. Giving her money, running around after her like a headless chicken. Mark my words, darling, she’s going to bleed you dry.’

  ‘Pass me those plates.’

  Michelle picked up five plates from the counter and handed them to Karin, who placed them in the microwave to warm, and continued.