The Rule of Fear

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Copyright © Luke Delaney 2016

Luke Delaney asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover design by Dominic Forbes © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Cover photograph © Paul Thomas Gooney/Arcangel Images (main scene);

Shutterstock.com (back jacket and texture)

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

This is entirely 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 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.

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Source ISBN: 9780007585724

Ebook Edition © JUNE 2016 ISBN: 9780007585748

Version 2017-03-28

Dedication

I dedicate this book to all the police officers, the length and breadth of the country, regardless of rank, who work tirelessly under difficult and often dangerous circumstances so the rest of us can live our lives much as we please. Imagine a country without a strong and reliable police service and think how much that would damage the quality of all our lives – no matter how wealthy or powerful we may be.

Having done the job for many years, I know how testing – how physically and mentally hard – it can be, not just on the individual, but on their families and friends. It often demands complete commitment to the cause to the exclusion of everything else. It’s simply what’s required to get the job done, but it makes it a very demanding job indeed. We should all be very grateful there are still thousands of police officers serving their communities with such dedication and diligence, despite increasingly poor working conditions and pay. Without them there would be no society as we know it.

Some people will misunderstand this book and maybe even see it as an attack on the police, but I can assure you it is anything but. It is a warning – the character of Jack King representing an entire police service within one man. If we do not treasure and care for the things we value most, then it’s only ever a matter of time before we lose them. Not everything can be pulled back from the brink. It is a very dangerous thing indeed to give people great power, as each officer has, yet through such poor pay place them perilously close to poverty. Desperate people will sooner or later take desperate actions.

Remember the old saying – a society ultimately gets the police it deserves.

So, to every cop out there looking after all of us, I say thank you and dedicate this book to you.

LD

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Luke Delaney

About the Publisher

1

Chief Superintendent Brian Gerrard looked down at the open file on his desk and nodded approvingly before looking up and smiling at the expressionless PC Jack King who sat in front of him.

‘An excellent end of probation report,’ Gerrard beamed, his shining blue eyes magnified by his spectacles as he sat straight-backed in his chair, trying to stretch his five-foot-eight body as far as he could. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Inspector?’ he asked Inspector Joanne Johnston who was prowling around the office like a caged leopard.

‘Very impressive,’ Johnston agreed.

King forced a smile onto his handsome face and continued to wish the meeting would be over and he could be free from the two senior officers he barely knew. He’d passed them in the corridor from time to time, respectfully said hello in deference to their rank, but this was the first time either had actually spoken properly to him. He didn’t mind about that. He just wanted the meeting to be over so he could get back out on the streets. Like Johnston before him, he was on the Metropolitan Police’s accelerated promotion scheme and knew his working life would soon be dominated by endless meetings and coordinating. Whatever time he had left on the front line was already precious to him. If it hadn’t been for his parents, he may have even considered giving up his accelerated promotion to stay in the action indefinitely. Already he understood that the police was one organization that could only be truly understood by standing at the bottom looking up – not peering down at it from a glass tower.

His appearance was the opposite of Gerrard’s, who looked grey and weak, albeit slim and tidy; whereas King was almost six foot tall and muscular, his short brown hair framing deep brown eyes, high cheekbones and a square jaw, and his skin a deep olive, the colour of someone who laboured hard outside. Johnston was undeniably attractive, but she looked like a lawyer in a police uniform. As he listened to their congratulations he imagined them avoiding as much real police work as they could – spending most of their time on courses and safe attachments, keeping themselves out of harm’s way while also protecting their squeaky clean records, ensuring there would be no skeletons in their closets that could bar them from the dizzy heights of becoming Assistant Commissioners or perhaps even more. Whereas he had won the respect of his peers through hard work and a willingness to get his hands dirty – overcoming their natural mistrust of anyone on accelerated promotion.

‘Thank you,’ he answered through his forced smile. ‘I really enjoyed the work.’

‘Well that’s all behind you now,’ Gerrard spluttered a little. ‘Onwards and upwards for you, Jack. First you’ll need to complete your sergeants’ course and then you’ll have to go back to Bramshill for additional training. Then of course you’ll serve the minimum amount of time possible as a sergeant before becoming an inspector and then, so long as you pass the exams and keep away from anything controversial … who knows what heights you could reach? The key is not having any skeletons in your cupboard, if you understand what I’m saying.’

‘Doesn’t sound like I’m going to get much of a chance to do any real police work,’ he teased them.

‘As you travel through the ranks,’ Gerrard smiled, ‘you’ll realize that making policy and providing a general umbrella of supervision is the true backbone of the service. Anyone can charge around in a police car arresting people, but adhering to government targets of crime reduction and managing the borough budget is an entirely different matter. In many ways now is the time for you to put away such childish things and accept the responsibilities that come with having been selected for accelerated promotion.’

‘Of course,’ King smiled through gritted teeth. ‘I understand.’

‘Good,’ Gerrard beamed.

‘Excellent,’ Johnston added through her assassin’s smile.

‘Well if that’s everything, sir,’ King stated more than asked, rising from his chair, ‘I should be getting back to my duties.’

‘Of course,’ Gerrard agreed. ‘Of course.’

‘But I would like to say that I’m very much looking forward to returning to the borough as a sergeant,’ King added, before immediately regretting it.

‘Return?’ Gerrard asked, the smile dead on his face.

‘Here?’ Johnston added. ‘To Newham?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ King confirmed.

‘Well, that’s your choice entirely,’ Gerrard took over, ‘but there are easier boroughs in which to complete the rank of sergeant. Ones in which you could say you’re less likely to be … tarnished with anything unsavoury or unpleasant that for example the media could exploit later on in your career when you’re of a suitably high rank. These are the sorts of things that a potential future Commissioner already has to start thinking about. You take my point?’

‘Of course,’ King nodded and tried to look serious, ‘but I like it here. Newham will do me fine.’

‘Well,’ Gerrard recovered his smile, ‘maybe after a few weeks at Bramshill you’ll change your mind.’

‘Maybe,’ King lied and pointed at the door. ‘Is it all right if I …?’ he let his words trail away.

‘Keen to make the most of your last few hours as a constable, eh?’ Gerrard asked, pretending that he could understand what that might mean to someone like King.

‘Yes, sir,’ he answered, heading for the door as quickly as he could, turning the handle, only seconds from freedom before Gerrard stopped him.

‘And remember, Jack,’ he told him, ‘the likes of you and I and Inspector Johnston here have been selected to rule over this organization of ours. We carry on our shoulders the heavy burden of responsibility.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ King answered before escaping through the door, blowing through puffed-out cheeks with relief as he closed it behind him. ‘Thank fuck that’s over,’ he whispered under his breath and headed towards the station yard to hitch a lift back to his beat in an area of Newham he doubted either Gerrard or Johnston had ever seen.

Two hours later

King walked along Central Park Road in East Ham cursing the body armour and traditional-style helmet that made the intense heat of a London summer almost unbearable. He listened to every call that came out over his personal radio, determined to end his constable career with yet another decent arrest and maintain his reputation as a thief-taker, something that had surprised his peers and seniors alike, unaccustomed as they were to seeing anyone on accelerated promotion showing any street skills. But he felt born to be a street cop – his law degree nothing more than something he’d obtained to please his parents. Although they still expressed their deep displeasure at his chosen career, the accelerated promotion programme he’d been offered as a graduate had mollified them. He’d accepted the deal to keep the peace, but doubted he’d stick to it. Maybe he’d even join the CID proper – not just on an attachment as a future senior officer passing through, but as a trained and qualified detective. It would kill off his chances of ever being anything more than a detective inspector or at best a detective chief inspector, but at least he wouldn’t be permanently trapped behind a desk.

Finally a call came out over his personal radio that interested him and that he could get to on foot within the acceptable response time: suspected domestic disturbance at 15 Gillett Avenue – sounds of a disturbance in the background.

‘I’ll take that, 914 over,’ he said into his radio.

‘You sure, 914?’ the female voice from Control came back to him. ‘It’ll be your last shout as a constable. Sure you want to end on a domestic?’

‘Why not?’ he answered, knowing that domestic disputes were always good for an arrest. ‘I’m just round the corner. ETA two minutes.’

‘OK, 914,’ the female voice told him. ‘I’ll sort some back-up out and send them to your location.’

‘Fine,’ he agreed and picked up his pace, determined not to let a mobile unit beat him to the shout and any possible arrests. But as he turned into Gillett Avenue and began to walk past the rows of neat terraced houses, a feeling quite unlike anything he had experienced before began to wrap itself around him – an unpleasant feeling of something terrible happening close by. The street was deathly quiet, only the sound of the leaves in the small trees moving in the faintest of breezes disturbing the stillness. The birds had stopped singing.

When he reached number 15 his sense of dread only increased as he found the house in complete silence with none of the usual reassuring sounds of screaming and shouting coming from inside – the small house looked somehow foreboding and threatening.

He slowly reached for his radio, pressing the transmit but ton a second before speaking. ‘914 to Control.’

‘Go ahead, 914.’

‘Any informant details for the domestic at 15 Gillett Avenue?’

‘Negative. Caller was using a mobile number – declined to leave a name.’

‘Can you call them back?’ he asked. ‘It’s all quiet here.’ But before Control answered, the front door began to slowly open, the darkness from inside seemingly spilling into the light outside as an unseen malevolence chased the warmth of the sun from the street. He slowly took two steps forward – unnerved enough to carefully draw his telescopic truncheon, extending it to its full length with a flick of his wrist as the door continued to open inch by inch, but still he could see no one.

‘Police,’ he called out to reassure himself as much as anything. ‘Show yourself.’ But his command was met only with a deathly silence, as if the street had been sucked into a vacuum in time and space. He took another step forward, squinting into the darkness of the house as a faint shape began to form – small and flowing white, moving towards the light like an ethereal being. His pounding heart sent torrents of blood rushing past his ears, creating an internal deafness as his vision tunnelled towards the shape that became increasingly human as it approached him. A young girl, no more than ten, slim and pale, dressed in what appeared to be a long white nightdress with long straight blonde, almost white, hair, staggered into the light – red blood spreading through her clothing as she walked towards him trembling, arms stiff by her side before falling forward into his arms. He caught her safely and lowered her to the ground, his mind still struggling to comprehend what he was seeing.

The girl’s eyes blinked fast and hard as she used the last of her strength to whisper into his ear. ‘They’re inside.’ Her eyes rolled back inside her head as she went limp in his embrace, dead or passed out, he couldn’t tell.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he pleaded quietly as the adrenalin began to flow through his body, snapping him from the nightmare and allowing his training and experience to force his mind and body to act. But as he reached for his radio to call for an ambulance, a man came screaming from the house – his clothes and hands covered in blood, a kitchen knife held aloft above his head as he ran full pace straight towards King.

Without thinking, his instinct to save the girl made him turn his back on their screaming assailant – his own body becoming a human shield as he felt the first punch land on his shoulder. Only he knew it was more than just that – it was the knife being buried deep into his body. There was then a far more intense, violent pain as the knife was ripped from the muscle before he felt another punch, this time lower in his back, close to its centre, before once again the pain of the knife as it was torn from his body.

He screamed in pain and anger, the primeval response to fight for his life superseding all other emotions as he instinctively knew he had to react or die. He spun fast, brought the truncheon down hard on the madman’s kneecap, but it had no effect. It was as if the man hadn’t even felt it as again he plunged the knife towards him, only this time King was able to deflect it away as he pushed himself powerfully from the ground, launching his shoulder into the madman’s midriff, driving him backwards until they both lost their balance and clattered to the ground. The man took the brunt of the fall as the knife fell from his grip and skidded away across the pathway.

King didn’t hesitate in seizing the initiative, ignoring the pain and nausea sweeping through his body as he raised his metal truncheon and smashed it down over his attacker’s head, splitting his skin to the bone as blood instantly poured from the wound, but in his wildness the man didn’t even try to protect himself. Instead he clawed and grasped at King’s face until his hands found his throat and wrapped around it, constricting his breathing. Over and over again King brought the truncheon down on the man’s head and across his face until finally the man became human again and released his grip of King’s throat to use his hands to protect himself. But still King rained down the blows, all thoughts of reasonable force banished to another time until the man underneath him was nothing more than a moaning bloody pulp.

Near exhaustion, he rolled his attacker onto his belly and stretched his arms out to the nearby metal railing and handcuffed him to it. The fight for survival over, he instantly felt close to passing out, drawing in long deep breaths to steady himself, but he knew he had only minutes, if that, before his injuries overcame him and when that time came he would welcome it – a blissful escape from the pain and sickness into darkness, but not yet. He had to check the girl. He had to check the house.

He staggered to his feet, but could only manage a crouching walk as he crossed the short distance to the motionless girl, although it seemed a mammoth trek to him. He kneeled next to her and first touched the base of his own back where all he could feel was a warm oily liquid. When he looked at his hand it was soaked in the darkest red blood he could ever remember seeing. He shook the image away and pushed the fingers of his other hand firmly into the side of the girl’s neck, feeling for a pulse from her carotid artery. After a few seconds he found it – weak, but there – enough to spur him into tearing the bottom section of her dress clear and using it to press hard on the only wound he could find – a deep knife stab in her abdomen. He placed the little girl’s own hands across the desperate bandage to provide some weight and breathed a sigh of relief as the bleeding seemed to slow, although he knew that her only chance of survival was to get her to an A&E unit as fast as possible. Suddenly he remembered his radio – pressing the transmit button, he steeled himself to speak.

‘Officer needs urgent assistance and an ambulance on the hurry up at 15 Gillett Avenue.’ He waited for the response from Control.

‘All units, officer needs urgent assistance at 15 Gillett Avenue. Repeat, officer needs urgent assistance at 15 Gillett Avenue.’ The female voice was then instantly followed by a cacophony of voices and call signs accepting the call to urgent assistance before Control spoke again. ‘914, are you injured at all?’

He managed the smallest of ironic laughs as he looked at his bloodstained hand before answering. ‘Yes,’ he spoke into the radio. ‘Two, maybe more stab wounds.’

‘Where have you been stabbed?’ Control demanded.

‘In the back,’ he stuttered, his strength failing, giving him the urgency to press on. ‘I have to check the house.’

‘Wait till we get back-up to you, 914,’ Control insisted. ‘Stay out the house until we can get you some assistance.’

‘I can’t,’ he told them. ‘She said “They’re inside”. I have to know.’

‘Wait for back-up, 914. Stay clear of the house.’ But King wasn’t listening any more as he dragged himself to his feet and stumbled towards the doorway and the darkness beyond.

He steadied himself against the frame, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness, trying to blink the increasing amounts of sweat away before staggering inside, moving from room to room, quickly scanning each, but finding nothing. Somehow he knew the horror still waited for him – somewhere, until he finally, almost crawling now, made his way back to the front door and the foot of the staircase that looked like a mountain. As he reached out to grasp the bannisters he saw the bloody handprints for the first time. They reminded him of the sort of prints young children made with paint, but the marks on the wall opposite had no such childish innocence as a long trail of smeared blood led his eyes back to the summit of the carpeted cliff.

The way ahead warped, constricting and elongating as his injuries threatened to overwhelm him, forcing him to his knees as his eyes tried desperately to close and surrender his body to blissful unconsciousness, but from some depths of humanity, a spirit to help his fellow man drove him on. It forced him to breathe in deeper than he’d ever done before and steady himself against all the pain, shock and blood loss as he literally began to crawl up the stairs one by one – each effort making him grimace and call out, begging for the strength to conquer the next step until somehow he found himself at the peak – on a hallway floor covered in thick, plush carpet where he collapsed, fighting to stay in the world.

If he stopped now he knew he’d at best pass out, so he pushed himself from the floor and sat with his back supported by the wall as he panted uncontrollably, fighting the nausea, his face ashen white, his lips turning grey as the blood flowed steadily from his body. He should have stopped and tried to shore up the wounds in his back, but he wasn’t thinking straight any more, trapped as he was in a spiralling nightmare where nothing looked real or made any sense. Summoning his last remaining strength, he got to his feet, hunched and buckled, but at least he was walking.

The first door he came to was only slightly open, with the terrible telltale bloody fingerprints smeared on its panels and frame. He took one deep breath, sending searing, burning pain through his back, but with it came a moment of clarity as he carefully pushed the door open and stepped inside. The air rushed from his body when he looked at the bed and saw the body of a girl no more than twelve years old lying face up on the bed, her unseeing eyes staring at the ceiling, arms crossed across her chest as if someone had posed her – tried to make her violent death appear peaceful. Only a parent would take such care after death. He thought of the man he’d beaten almost to the point of killing him. He was convinced that the life of the girl on the bed had been taken by her own father.

Although he already knew it was pointless, he staggered to the motionless figure and tried to find a pulse in her throat, but it was as still as a dead songbird. His eyes scanned her body, but could find no obvious sign of a wound other than reddening around her neck that would soon turn to widespread bruising. She’d been strangled. He swallowed deeply before stroking her brow and walking falteringly from the room, the blood from his hands mixing with the smears already on the walls as he tried to steady himself during the short walk to the next bedroom where the bloody handprints were heavier than anywhere else. He eased the door open and stepped inside. The approaching sirens wailed as if in mourning in the streets outside, but he couldn’t hear them.

The woman who he assumed was the mother of the family lay on a double bed soaked in blood, as were the tangled sheets twisted around her tortured and mangled body. He stepped closer and could see she’d been stabbed more times than he could count – in her chest, neck and face, her hands and arms too covered in slashes and stabs as she’d tried to save herself. He remembered the bloodstains on the door of the other room and realized she must have been killed first – the father, the madman, killing her to stop her trying to save the children. King looked into her face – her eyes still wide open in horror, her mouth frozen in a twisted scream as she’d realized she could neither save herself or her children.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he managed to say before giving in to his swelling nausea and vomiting on the floor. His stomach continued to retch even after its contents had been violently expelled, the dizziness pulling him to the floor where he rested for a few seconds before he tried to flee the room, half walking, half crawling, when the sight of something froze him in his tracks: a foot on the floor protruding from the other side of the bed.

Again he used the wall for support, sliding along it until the boy’s body came into view – lying on its side and, like his mother, heavily soiled by his own blood. Best he could tell the boy was fourteen or fifteen. King closed his eyes for a second and imagined the boy bursting into the room and seeing his own father slaying his mother – his bond with her so strong that he sacrificed his own young life to try and defend her from the wild animal his father had become, but it had all been in vain. The unarmed boy had had no chance. King opened his eyes, unable to comprehend what state of mind the man he’d beaten could have been in to butcher his own son and simply leave him dead on the floor of the bedroom as he went in search of his sisters. He fled from the room backwards – his eyes never leaving the boy on the floor by the side of his parents’ bed.

Back in the hallway he struggled past the family bathroom – breathing heavily with relief as he realized it held no more horrors. But there was still one room he’d yet to visit and now it beckoned him, and although in his subconscious he was aware of approaching sirens and the sound of urgent radio chatter, the only thing that existed in his world was the door to the room. So he staggered forward, his youth and strength keeping him on his feet, though even they were rapidly failing now.

He knew he had only seconds before he surrendered to the blackness, falling more than walking to reach the door and push it open, the lack of any blood marks giving him hope that his living nightmare would end in an empty room of normality, but as he fell inside he realized the cruelty of life and death had saved the worst till last – the eerie peacefulness somehow making what he saw even more harrowing than what had gone before.

The pale young girl, no more than six, a perfect, younger copy of the girl who’d fallen into his arms outside, lay still and staring on her bed, flanked by two empty, perfectly made beds either side. The beds of her sisters – one already dead and the other barely alive. The father’s first victim. He’d taken the time to close her eyes and straighten her clothes before going in search of the rest of the family – no doubt planning equally clean and peaceful deaths for her siblings. But the mother was always going to feel his rage, and when the son fought back everything had changed.

Without warning King’s legs buckled and he fell to his hands and knees, but even they could no longer take his weight as he collapsed onto his side, knocking the last of his breath from him as his eyes flickered and closed. At last the darkness came and took the nightmare away.