Read Online Cry for Help by Steve Mosby - Free Book Online
Authors: Steve Mosby
Tags: 03 Thriller/Mistery
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the outside wall.
He thought about nothing. Nothing at all.
A week was a long time for a man to lie undiscovered. When he allowed himself to drink, which was less often now than it had been, Currie thought a great deal about that week. In his mind, Neil was alive during that time: dead, obviously, but still somehow capable of being saved, waiting for a man who stubbornly refused to arrive. A man who had priorities, just as he always had. Every second of that refusal added to the sorrow Currie felt as he stared at whatever wall happened to be in front of him at the time.
He pictured his son as he'd been in the old photographs - a little boy - lost, alone and crying. Death did that. With precious few exceptions, it froze people as victims for ever. Question marks at the end of blank sentences they left you to fill in for yourself.
Now, two years later, Currie scanned the houses to the left as they drove into the estate. Neil's old flat was out of sight, but he still felt it there, or at least imagined he could.
Swann was driving. 'You okay?'
'Sure,' Currie said.
'Checking for an ambush?'
Currie smiled grimly.
There were poorer areas, but the Grindleas were notorious by name: a dirty little pocket of poverty and crime nestling between two affluent suburbs. Only one proper road in. Some police said that, if they wanted to, the residents could man a barricade at the bottom of the hill and keep them out for a good few days. There were probably fifty or sixty men living in this postcode who'd happily join it, many of them with guns. Charlie Drake made his home in here, as did most of his crew.
And a man named Frank Carroll.
'I'm just tired,' Currie said.
Swann raised his eyebrows. Oh yes.
The time since the discovery of Alison Wilcox's body had been full of both work and frustration. The forensics had given them little to go on, and the majority of Alison's friends and relatives had been able to tell them nothing.
Instead, a familiar picture was emerging. Alison had been a bright, attractive student - popular too, although recently she'd slipped from several radars in the way that people did. As far as anyone had known, she was okay, and so, without consciously thinking about it, they'd put her on 'standby' in their heads: all fine; check again at some point soon, whenever I remember. A few of her closer friends had texted or emailed over the past week. They'd all received replies, worded in exactly the same way. But the last time anyone had seen her in the flesh or spoken to her on the phone had been over a fortnight before her death.
The texts and emails offered a horrific insight into what had transpired in that time. They meant Alison's killer had gained access to her mobile phone - her accounts and passwords - and that while she lay slowly dying, he'd been pretending to be her: keeping in touch where necessary; allaying any concerns.
It was an awful thought for the people who'd received those messages to contemplate, but it was made even worse by what happened afterwards. Alison's death hadn't signalled the end of the contact. Six of her friends had received a message from her mobile phone on the morning the body was found. Each said simply: You let her die.
Of course, they'd all been traced. As with the previous murders, the killer had sent his emails from the victim's house, and his texts from anonymous, crowded streets, carefully avoiding any CCTV. He knew exactly what he was doing. For the third time, Currie suspected he was going to get away with it.
Swann approached the roundabout at the top of the hill. In front, there was a post office, an off-licence and a squat, vicious-looking pub called the Cockerel. Beyond the roundabout, the Plug: three tower blocks, with towels draped out of windows, and clothes strung on lines across the pockmark alcoves. Graffiti curled up from the base of the buildings like overgrown weeds. Swann took the car round, drove a little further, and then pulled in on the
He thought about nothing. Nothing at all.
A week was a long time for a man to lie undiscovered. When he allowed himself to drink, which was less often now than it had been, Currie thought a great deal about that week. In his mind, Neil was alive during that time: dead, obviously, but still somehow capable of being saved, waiting for a man who stubbornly refused to arrive. A man who had priorities, just as he always had. Every second of that refusal added to the sorrow Currie felt as he stared at whatever wall happened to be in front of him at the time.
He pictured his son as he'd been in the old photographs - a little boy - lost, alone and crying. Death did that. With precious few exceptions, it froze people as victims for ever. Question marks at the end of blank sentences they left you to fill in for yourself.
Now, two years later, Currie scanned the houses to the left as they drove into the estate. Neil's old flat was out of sight, but he still felt it there, or at least imagined he could.
Swann was driving. 'You okay?'
'Sure,' Currie said.
'Checking for an ambush?'
Currie smiled grimly.
There were poorer areas, but the Grindleas were notorious by name: a dirty little pocket of poverty and crime nestling between two affluent suburbs. Only one proper road in. Some police said that, if they wanted to, the residents could man a barricade at the bottom of the hill and keep them out for a good few days. There were probably fifty or sixty men living in this postcode who'd happily join it, many of them with guns. Charlie Drake made his home in here, as did most of his crew.
And a man named Frank Carroll.
'I'm just tired,' Currie said.
Swann raised his eyebrows. Oh yes.
The time since the discovery of Alison Wilcox's body had been full of both work and frustration. The forensics had given them little to go on, and the majority of Alison's friends and relatives had been able to tell them nothing.
Instead, a familiar picture was emerging. Alison had been a bright, attractive student - popular too, although recently she'd slipped from several radars in the way that people did. As far as anyone had known, she was okay, and so, without consciously thinking about it, they'd put her on 'standby' in their heads: all fine; check again at some point soon, whenever I remember. A few of her closer friends had texted or emailed over the past week. They'd all received replies, worded in exactly the same way. But the last time anyone had seen her in the flesh or spoken to her on the phone had been over a fortnight before her death.
The texts and emails offered a horrific insight into what had transpired in that time. They meant Alison's killer had gained access to her mobile phone - her accounts and passwords - and that while she lay slowly dying, he'd been pretending to be her: keeping in touch where necessary; allaying any concerns.
It was an awful thought for the people who'd received those messages to contemplate, but it was made even worse by what happened afterwards. Alison's death hadn't signalled the end of the contact. Six of her friends had received a message from her mobile phone on the morning the body was found. Each said simply: You let her die.
Of course, they'd all been traced. As with the previous murders, the killer had sent his emails from the victim's house, and his texts from anonymous, crowded streets, carefully avoiding any CCTV. He knew exactly what he was doing. For the third time, Currie suspected he was going to get away with it.
Swann approached the roundabout at the top of the hill. In front, there was a post office, an off-licence and a squat, vicious-looking pub called the Cockerel. Beyond the roundabout, the Plug: three tower blocks, with towels draped out of windows, and clothes strung on lines across the pockmark alcoves. Graffiti curled up from the base of the buildings like overgrown weeds. Swann took the car round, drove a little further, and then pulled in on the
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