Outside Looking In: A darkly compelling crime novel with a shocking twist

OUTSIDE LOOKING IN

MICHAEL WOOD

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

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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 2017-05-02

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.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It was at times like these when she wished she had alcohol in the house. However, after a year of heavy drinking, passing out in drunken stupors, only functioning with the aid of a bottle of vodka in her hand, she had made a promise not to touch a single drop again.

Realistically, that was never going to happen. Of course Matilda would have another drink at some point, but if she could learn to live without having to depend on alcohol then it would be an achievement.

Matilda had been saved by her close friend, Adele Kean. Adele had seen the slippery slope Matilda had been on and managed to drag her back before she descended into alcoholism. The disappearance of Carl Meagan was just the starting point in a year-long nightmare that snowballed into a cataclysm of self-destruction.

She opened her eyes, which immediately fell onto the silver framed wedding photograph on the mantelpiece. Five years ago, the happiest day of her life, she and James Darke had married. Three years later he was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour and within twelve months he was gone. His death coincided with the ransom drop for the Meagan kidnappers but Matilda’s mind was on other things. She should have handed the case over to a more competent detective, taken some time off to grieve, but she couldn’t. The devastation she left in her wake would stay with her for the rest of her life. She had to live with the consequences of her actions.

When it came to Carl Meagan, there would never be any redemption.

The picture frame was smeared with dried tears where Matilda had spent many a night curled up in bed, clutching her smiling husband and crying. Saying she loved him sounded hollow. She didn’t just love him, she ached for him, and sometimes stopped breathing when she thought of him. Her body, mind, and soul wanted to be with James more than it wanted life itself.

There was a knock on the door. She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece: 22.50. A solid knock at this time of night could only mean one thing.

‘Sorry to bother you, ma’am, there’s been a shooting.’

DC Scott Andrews stood on the doorstep in a crumpled suit. His blond hair was windswept and it was evident from his red cheeks that he had been standing out in the cold for a while. There was no greeting. Sometimes, there wasn’t time for one.

‘Where?’

‘Clough Lane. Ringinglow.’

‘I’ll get my things. Come in.’

Scott stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him. He looked down at the three bulging black bags in the corner.

‘Having a clear out? I keep meaning to do that. I buy new shirts for work and never think about getting rid of the old ones. I can hardly close my wardrobe door.’

‘Those are my dead husband’s clothes. I’m giving them to charity.’

‘Oh,’ he almost choked, his face reddening. ‘Sorry. I didn’t … well … I mean …’

Matilda smiled. ‘I love how you blush at the slightest thing, Scott. Come on, let’s go before you start trying to dig yourself out and make things worse.’

There was a strong breeze as Matilda stepped out of the house. She set the alarm and locked the door behind her. She looked up. The sky was cloudless and there was a large full moon beaming down on the steel city. It made the night brighter, bathing everything in an ethereal glow. They walked up the drive to where Scott had parked the pool car.

‘So how serious is this shooting?’

‘One dead and one critical.’

‘Jesus! I hate guns.’

‘Good evening.’

Matilda almost jumped out of her skin and quickly turned to see where the greeting was coming from.

‘Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.’ Jill Carmichael, Matilda’s next-door neighbour, was unloading her car. She was struggling under the weight of a newborn baby in one arm and trying to safely put several bags on her opposite shoulder.

‘You didn’t.’

‘How are things?’

Matilda frowned. Jill never asked that. Why, all of a sudden, was she showing an interest in … the newspaper article. She’d seen the story about Carl Meagan, read about how much of a failure Matilda was, and wanted the inside scoop. ‘Things are fine,’ she lied unconvincingly. ‘Bloody hell, what’s happened to you?’

‘Sorry?’

‘The black eye.’ It was the first time Matilda had looked up at her neighbour. Usually she wasn’t one for chatting with a neighbour but while this awkward exchange was going on she’d rather the attention be on Jill than herself.

‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ she giggled. ‘I’m having a few problems shaking off these last few pregnancy pounds so I’ve started kick-boxing again. I think I’m a bit rusty to tell the truth.’

‘I think I’d stick with the extra few pounds.’

‘You’re probably right.’

‘Jill!’ An angry shout called out to her from inside the house.

‘That’ll be Sebastian wondering where his takeaway is. I’ll chat to you some other time.’ With that, Jill kicked the car door closed and hurried into the house, struggling under the weight of the shopping, baby, and takeaway.