Outside Looking In Read online

  OUTSIDE LOOKING IN

  MICHAEL WOOD

  an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

  Killer Reads

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

  Copyright © Michael Wood 2016

  Michael Wood asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

  Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

  Ebook Edition © MAY 2016 ISBN: 9780008190460

  Version 2016-06-21

  To Jonas Alexander.

  For the friendship, the laughter, and the coffee.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Keep Reading

  About the Author

  Also by Michael Wood

  About the Publisher

  ONE

  George and Mary Rainsford had the same night-time routine for over thirty years. As soon as the music marking the end of the ten o’clock news began it was time to go to bed. Mary would go straight upstairs while George put the kettle on. Waiting for the kettle to boil George would go around the ground floor of the cottage making sure all the windows and doors were locked, the cushions were neat on the sofa, plugs turned off, and say goodnight to his guppies in their tank. He made two cups of tea and headed for the stairs. Tonight, their routine would be shattered beyond repair. Tomorrow, there would be no routine. There would be no half an hour of reading before turning the light out, no goodnight kiss, nothing. Just a void where their previous life was replaced by an empty feeling of fear.

  As George made the tea he listened to the sounds from the outside: a few sheep bleating from a nearby farm, a dog barking, and a car horn beeping. It was comforting; everyday life still going on outside the confines of their small cosy cottage.

  He walked up the stairs carefully, a mug of tea in each hand.

  ‘Can you hear that?’ he asked upon entering the bedroom.

  ‘What?’ Mary was already in bed, a closed Colin Dexter paperback on her lap. She was rubbing cream vigorously into her hands. She took her usual mug from George and cupped her hands around it. ‘Blimey George, you’ve squeezed the bag a bit too hard. I’m not a builder.’

  ‘There’s a car beeping outside.’

  ‘Well, there would be.’

  ‘It’s been going on for a while.’

  ‘Maybe it’s an impatient taxi driver waiting for a fare. You know what they’re like.’

  George placed his mug on his bedside table and went to the window. He parted the thick blackout curtains and poked his head through the gap.

  ‘Can you see anything?’ Mary asked, only half interested.

  ‘No. Those new solar powered lamp-posts are bloody useless aren’t they?’

  ‘Ignore it and come to bed.’

  ‘I can’t ignore it. It’s in my head now.’

  ‘Put Radio 4 on low. That’ll cover it.’

  ‘Wait. Listen.’ He was silent for a moment. He pulled his head out of the gap in the curtains and looked at his wife. ‘Do you hear that?’

  ‘I hear the beeping, yes. That’s because you’ve drawn my attention to it.’

  ‘No. Listen. It’s rhythmic.’

  ‘It’s what?’

  ‘Rhythmic. There’s a pattern to the noise. That’s not just beeping. Someone’s signalling. It’s Morse.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Morse code. Listen. The beeps are dots and the silences are dashes. Sshh, listen.’

  A long minute of silence passed while they both concentrated on the sound of the car horn in the distance.

  ‘I can just hear beeping.’

  ‘No. It’s SOS.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘SOS in Morse code: three dots, three dashes, and three dots. Listen, beep, beep, beep, quiet, beep, beep, beep. Then a gap, then it starts again. Someone’s in trouble.’

  George turned on his heels and headed for the bedroom door.

  ‘George, where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘To have a look. Someone could be injured.’

  ‘Then call the police.’ She followed him down the stairs, struggling into her dressing gown.

  ‘You don’t call the police over a car beeping.’

  ‘Call the non-emergency number. What is it, 111?’

  ‘101. Anyway, it’s always busy. You can never get through. I may as well go and have a look myself.’

  Fear was growing in Mary’s voice. It was already etched on her face. ‘George, don’t go. It’s dark. You said yourself those lamp-posts are no good. You won’t be able to see anything.’

 
He opened a drawer in the hall table and took out a torch. He flicked it on and off to check it worked. It did.

  ‘You don’t know who’s out there, George. It could be a trap.’ Her voice had risen an octave. She was scared.

  ‘I can’t just ignore it, Mary.’

  ‘Yes you can. It’s nothing to do with us.’

  ‘It’s people saying things like that why this country’s in the state it’s in. People don’t take an interest in others anymore.’

  ‘It’s called being safe.’

  ‘It’s called being ignorant. Where are my walking boots?’

  ‘Oh God, George. Please don’t go.’

  ‘I won’t be long. I promise.’

  ‘Then put your heavy coat on, at least. It’s cold. Wait.’ She ran upstairs and quickly came back down. She was out of breath. It was years since she had run anywhere. ‘Take your mobile. You see anything you don’t like the look of call 999 straightaway. Do you hear me, George Rainsford?’

  ‘Loud and clear.’

  He unbolted the door, took the chain off, and unlocked it. ‘Lock this door behind me. Don’t open it until I come back.’

  ‘I love you George, you silly sod.’

  ‘I’ll be right back.’

  As George reached the end of the garden path he turned around. Mary was watching through a gap in the living room curtains. He gave her a little wave and she waved back. He hated seeing her frightened, but he couldn’t stand by and leave a distress call go unanswered.

  The beeping was louder outside, and George was more convinced than ever that it was Morse code for SOS.

  From the end of the garden path he looked left and right wondering which direction the noise was coming from. He opted for left but only went a few paces before he changed his mind and headed right.

  Quiet Lane didn’t have any pavements. It was a steep winding road where drivers should travel with caution, but the national speed limit signs did not promote a safety-first action.

  He zipped his coat up fully. The sky was clear and the moon full; an infinite number of stars helped to brighten the dark sky. It was cold. George could see his breath forming as his breathing became more erratic with nerves. With each step, the beeping grew louder. He was heading in the right direction.

  Where Quiet Lane turned into Wood Cliffe Cottage Lane there was a junction. Clough Lane was a very narrow road full of cavernous potholes and broken tarmac. The beeping was coming from down this road.

  Surrounded by empty fields and leafless trees, Clough Lane was in complete darkness. He took the small torch from the pocket of his coat and turned it on. Pointing it at the ground, he edged along the road into the unknown.

  The sound of the car horn was definitely coming from down here. He rounded a bend and aimed the torch upwards. The weak beam hit something; a car, a silver car. He knew the make straightaway, a Citroen Xsara. His son had one in white. This was the offending car whose horn was shattering the silence.

  He picked up the pace and was about to call out a greeting when he stopped dead in his tracks. The torch beam had picked up something from the side of the road. Slumped against a tree was a man; or a close approximation of a man. It was difficult to make out any features as he had been severely beaten; the nose had erupted at some point, the left eye was swollen shut, and the right side of his face was a mangled mess from where a bullet had exploded in him.

  George put a shaking cold hand to his mouth. He could smell the metallic tang of blood. He could taste it. The sight was shocking, yet he could not tear his eyes away from it. This was once a person, a living human being, and someone had inflicted an unimaginable amount of pain and torture upon his body.

  The loud beeping brought George out of his reverie. He pointed the torch to the side of the car. It was covered in smeared blood. The passenger door window was shattered. Slowly, he walked around the front of the car towards the driver’s side. He could see the door was open but could not see anyone in the driver’s seat; yet the SOS beeping continued.

  ‘Oh, dear God.’ He gasped.

  Half hanging out of the car was the stricken body of a woman. Her face was a mess of sticky drying blood; her long hair was tangled and matted. She was naked from the waist down and was literally drenched in blood. One hand held on to her stomach where blood pumped out between her fingers. The other hand was rhythmically banging on the horn. She was half in, half out of the car, her body at an uncomfortable angle. She looked up and saw George through swollen eyes. She stopped the beeping and slumped to the ground. There was a brief smile on her face before her body gave up and she lost consciousness.

  George dug the phone out of his coat pocket and dialled 999. He gave his location and tried to say what had happened but he couldn’t find the words. After he ended the call he phoned his wife. He told her she would soon see the flashing lights of the police but not to panic as everything was all right. It was the first time he had ever lied to his wife.

  TWO

  CARL MEAGAN: ONE YEAR ON

  By Andrea Fullerton

  Tomorrow marks the first anniversary of the disappearance of seven-year-old Carl Meagan.

  Exactly twelve months ago, Annabel Meagan, Carl’s grandmother, was looking after him at his parents’ luxury home in Dore, Sheffield, when she was bludgeoned to death. Carl was kidnapped and a ransom was demanded. However, a catalogue of errors by South Yorkshire Police led to the kidnappers breaking contact with the Meagan family and Carl has not been heard of since.

  Carl’s parents – Philip 37, and Sally, 34 – have spent the past year in limbo as they desperately search for their only child.

  ‘It’s not knowing that is the most difficult part. He could be anywhere in the world. I’m his mother. I should know exactly where he is day and night and I haven’t a clue. I’ve failed him,’ Sally said. ‘I never left him alone. I never let him out of my sight. He was my world and now I just feel empty.’

  The Meagan family believe they were being watched for several days in the run-up to the kidnapping. On the night in question, Philip and Sally were attending an award ceremony for Yorkshire Businessman of the Year in Leeds. They were not due back until the following day and Philip’s mother, Annabel, was looking after Carl.

  ‘We had nothing to worry about. We knew he was safe with his grandmother. She doted on him and he loved her to pieces. As far as we knew he was safe. They both were. When we got back the next day it was pure hell.’

  Philip Meagan, owner of Nature’s Dinner, a chain of organic restaurants in South Yorkshire, says the blame is entirely on South Yorkshire Police. ‘The whole investigation was badly handled from day one. From Carl going missing to the ransom demand it was two days. Those 48 hours were a nightmare and we had no support from the police at all. They just left us.’

  Leading the investigation was Detective Chief Inspector Matilda Darke, who, following the botched ransom drop, was suspended from the force. She has since returned to work to continue leading the Murder Investigation Team.

  ‘The ransom was for a quarter of a million pounds. It wasn’t easy but we managed to get the money together. For some reason the kidnappers kept changing the location of the drop. I think the amount of press attention was too much for them. They eventually decided on Graves Park.

  ‘It was DCI Darke who organized it all. She had the parameters covered and everything was in place. We had no reason to doubt we wouldn’t be getting our Carl home. She came back to the house an hour later saying it had all blown up. We waited and waited but we heard nothing from the kidnappers.’

  It was later revealed that the kidnappers had called DCI Darke demanding the whereabouts of the ransom money. However, they were at a different entrance to the park, and in panic, they fled. That was the last anyone heard from the kidnappers and Carl.

  ‘It is absolutely disgusting that that woman has been allowed to return to duty. She shouldn’t have been suspended, she should have been sacked. She’s not fit to do the job,’ Philip continued. />
  DCI Darke was unavailable for comment yesterday, but South Yorkshire Police issued a short statement: ‘While every effort was made to communicate with the kidnappers to ensure Carl’s safe return, events beyond our control occurred and we were unable to succeed. However, the Meagan case is still ongoing and continuously being investigated. We will keep looking for Carl until he is found.’

  Philip Meagan issued a direct plea to the people holding Carl. ‘If you still have Carl, please take very good care of him. If you’re worried about handing him back, just leave him in a public place and make an anonymous call to us telling us where he is and we will collect him. There will be no more action taken against you. We just want him back home so much.’

  Sally continued: ‘If Carl is reading this I just want you to know that your mummy and daddy love you very much and we always will. It may take us a while, but we’ll come and find you.’

  To mark the anniversary of Carl’s disappearance there will be a special service at Sheffield Cathedral. Players at Sheffield United, who the Meagan family support, will wear special messages on their shirts at this weekend’s fixture at Bramall Lane.

  Matilda Darke, having read the article for the third time, threw the newspaper onto the floor and slumped back into the sofa, releasing a heavy sigh. She hadn’t been ‘unavailable for comment’ yesterday; the reporter hadn’t even tried to contact her. To the reading public, it would look like DCI Matilda Darke had washed her hands of the whole Carl Meagan case and his family, who were, in essence, grieving for the loss of their only child.