Taken to Die: A chilling crime thriller (DCI Danny Flint Book 4) Read online

  Taken to Die

  A DCI Danny Flint Book

  Trevor Negus

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  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  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

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Epilogue

  Inkubator Newsletter

  We hope you enjoyed this book

  Also by Trevor Negus

  Rights Info

  Prologue

  10.00am, 3 July 1986

  HMP Leeds, Gloucester Terrace, Leeds

  Sam Jamieson had been awake since five o’clock that morning. Today was the day he would finally be released from his living hell. At eight thirty, he had heard the key turn in the lock of his cell door. He had vowed, there and then, that it would be the last time he would ever have to wait for someone else to unlock a door so he could start his day.

  He had spent seven long years rotting inside the walls of the Armley jail. He was that very rare commodity, a genuinely innocent man in prison. He had maintained his innocence throughout his time in custody, even to the detriment of possible early release. Eighteen months ago, he had still refused to admit any involvement in the armed robbery for which he had been convicted. As a result, he had been refused parole.

  As far as Sam Jamieson was concerned, the damage had already been done. There was nothing to be gained by being released early now.

  Just after he had served three years of his sentence, he had been notified by the prison chaplain that his thirteen-year-old daughter, Vanessa, had passed away. He was coldly informed by the elderly clergyman that she had died at a party with friends after suffering a bad reaction from taking the illegal drug Ecstasy.

  He had been allowed out of prison for one morning so he could be present as his only child was buried at the Mansfield Woodhouse cemetery. Standing at the graveside, handcuffed to a prison officer, Sam had been unwilling to even look at his wife, let alone speak to her.

  For the six months following his daughter’s funeral, Sam had raged against the system. He constantly fought other prisoners and prison officers. He repeatedly smashed everything in his cell and was regularly placed on report.

  Sam blamed himself for the death of his daughter.

  He knew in his heart that if he had been at home, his daughter would never have been allowed to mix with the people his wife had turned a blind eye to. He had discovered later that his errant wife had been more interested in going out with friends and getting on with her own life to worry about an angsty teenage daughter.

  At that most crucial time in her short life, Vanessa had needed both her parents to be there for her.

  She had neither.

  Eventually, Sam Jamieson stopped blaming himself.

  He had come to realise there were other people far more deserving of that blame. There were two people who had been responsible for his conviction, his incarceration and, ultimately, the death of his only child.

  One was his cousin. His own flesh and blood. The man who had said nothing to clear him and allowed him to be sent to prison for something he had played no part in.

  The other was Rebecca Whitchurch. She had been counsel for the prosecution at his trial. She had gone out of her way to convince the jury that he had been the getaway driver for the gang that had robbed a sub-post office in Mansfield Woodhouse at gunpoint.

  Sam was no angel, but he had never been involved in serious crime and had only one previous dishonesty offence to his name. That was a shoplifting charge from way back when he was still a juvenile.

  The only evidence to connect Sam to the armed robbery was a single fingerprint found on the rear-view mirror of the abandoned getaway car. Following his arrest, he had told detectives that he’d borrowed the car from his cousin. The only reason he had used the car was to get medicine for his ten-year-old daughter, who was running a high fever.

  Sam had returned the car to his cousin shortly after making a quick visit to the late-night chemist. He had been totally unaware that his relation planned to use the same car during an armed robbery the following day.

  Even though detectives quickly established that Sam had been to the chemist the night before, there was no proof he had used his cousin’s vehicle to do so. A point that was forcefully made to the jury by the arrogant Rebecca Whitchurch.

  She also made capital out of the fact that his own cousin had refused to say, one way or the other, if Sam had been the driver during the robbery. She maintained throughout the trial that if Jamieson had been innocent, then surely his own flesh and blood would have spoken up for him. The fact that his cousin had maintained ‘no comment’ answers throughout his police interviews and had refused to give verbal evidence during the trial was welcomed by Whitchurch. Consequently, the jury were never given the op
portunity to establish what Sam’s cousin would say had he chosen to answer the question of exactly who the getaway driver was.

  At the prosecution barrister’s insistence, the jury were urged to convict all three men before them for armed robbery. The three men were all subsequently convicted, and each sentenced to seven years imprisonment.

  Finally, Sam had come to terms with the death of his daughter. He stopped butting heads with the establishment. He realised that revenge was a dish best served cold, and had used the remaining time of his sentence to prepare for his eventual release. He began working out in the gym every day and studied an Open University course, subsequently gaining a first-class degree in psychology.

  During the final four years of his sentence, Sam had transformed himself from violent, troublesome convict to model prisoner. However, he was still refused early release, simply because he refused to accept that he had any involvement in the offence for which he had been convicted. Having served every minute of his sentence, when the time finally came for his release, there was no licence to contend with.

  He had served his entire sentence. It was now time for a new start.

  Sam Jamieson was being released from prison still holding a burning desire to avenge both the death of his daughter and the loss of seven years of his life. He had decided four years ago that it would be his cousin and Rebecca Whitchurch who would pay the price.

  That had changed two years ago, when Sam had learned of his cousin’s death. He had hung himself in Lincoln prison while still serving his sentence for the armed robbery. The death of his cousin meant that Sam had polarised all that frustration and hatred against one person, the barrister Rebecca Whitchurch.

  On the day of his release, that hadn’t changed. The hatred still burned fiercely inside him.

  After going through the administrative process of release, he now stood in civilian clothes just inside the last gate, waiting to be released.

  The gate officer walked forward with a large bunch of keys and said, ‘Is that you away, then, Jamieson?’

  ‘I think I’ve been here long enough, Mr Armstrong, don’t you?’

  The experienced prison officer nodded. ‘Aye, I reckon you have, lad. Have you got anything lined up on the outside?’

  ‘Not yet. I just want to get out of here. Go home and visit my daughter’s grave.’

  ‘That was a bad business, son. A terrible shame that you were in here when it happened. I can’t believe that was almost three years ago now.’

  Sam shook his head; it was now four years ago. It still felt as raw as though it were yesterday. He knew the fat Geordie screw meant no harm, so he let the man’s thoughtless comment wash over him. Four years ago, that same careless utterance would have resulted in Sam beating the middle-aged prison officer to the floor.

  Sam Jamieson had changed completely. He was now a very cold, calculating individual, with only one purpose driving his life. The searing violence was still there and capable of being unleashed. He was now a man in total control of his emotions and his actions.

  He turned to the prison officer and said, ‘How do I get to the railway station from here, boss?’

  ‘When you get outside the gate, turn left and walk along Gloucester Terrace down towards the main road. Use the underpass to get onto Armley Road. There’s a bus stop on that road; it’ll get you into the city. You’ll need to get off the bus at Aire Street. The railway station’s signposted from there.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Armstrong.’

  The prison officer stepped forward and unlocked the gate, ‘Off you go, then, Jamieson, and good luck. Don’t let me see you back here.’

  Sam stepped forward, outside, and became a free man once more. He heard the heavy gate slam shut behind him, and heard the bolts being drawn across.

  Finally, he was out and alone on the street.

  He walked forward, turned, and took one last look at the twin stone turrets that flanked each side of the large wooden gate. He felt a cold shudder that had nothing to do with the freezing temperature.

  He tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and drew in a deep lungful of air.

  It felt fresh and tasted clean.

  He opened his eyes and looked around him. It was still early, and there wasn’t another soul on the street outside the jail. As directed by the prison officer, he turned left and began walking towards the main road. As he walked along, he felt uncomfortable. The navy-blue suit he was wearing felt very tight. It pinched under his arms and around his thighs. He was wearing the same suit he’d worn for his trial seven years ago. Four years of working out in the prison gym meant that the jacket and trousers were now a very poor fit.

  He would have removed the tight jacket, but the sky was as grey as the twin stone turrets, and the chill breeze made it feel even colder.

  He counted the money in his trouser pockets. He had the grand sum of ninety-five pounds and thirty-four pence to his name. The prison officer who had returned his property had sarcastically assured him that it would be more than enough cash to purchase a one-way train ticket to Nottingham.

  Sam walked through the underpass as traffic roared overhead on the main A647 road. He stepped back out into the light and found himself on Armley Road. He looked to his right and, in the distance, saw a bus shelter. He pulled up the collar of his jacket and began to walk briskly towards the bus stop. As he got nearer, he could see there was an elderly man sitting alone on the bench, inside the shelter.

  Suddenly, the heavens opened, and it began to rain hard.

  Sam sprinted for the bus shelter. By the time he had covered the seventy-five yards, the shoulders of his navy-blue suit were several shades darker than the rest. He was soaked.

  As Sam dashed out of the rain and under the shelter, he startled the old man. Sam saw that the old man had taken a fright at his sudden appearance. He realised that his shaven head and muscular appearance might make him nervous, so he quickly said, ‘Sorry, mate. I didn’t mean to make you jump.’

  In a broad West Yorkshire accent, the old man replied, ‘That’s alright, young fella. It’s pissing it down out there, and you’ve got no raincoat.’

  He winked, then grinned and said, ‘Didn’t you have a raincoat when you got sent down, lad?’

  Sam smiled back and said, ‘Is it that obvious?’

  The old man nodded. ‘Afraid so, lad. I’m guessing you’ve served at least a four-year stretch, looking at how that jacket fits. It’s either that or they’ve given you the wrong bloody suit.’

  Sam laughed. ‘It’s a good job I’m not dangerous, the amount of stick you’re giving me.’

  The old man chuckled and said, ‘I don’t mean to give you a hard time. I’ve been a guest at Her Majesty’s pleasure a couple of times myself, but that was all a long time ago. Where you headed, lad?’

  ‘I’m hoping I can get a bus into the city centre from this stop. I need to catch a train down to Nottingham.’

  ‘You’ll need to get on the number forty-seven bus. There’ll be one along soon. Tell the driver you need to get off at Aire Street.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘This is my bus now, son. Don’t forget you want the number forty-seven to Aire Street.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  The single-decker bus stopped amidst a screech of air brakes. When the doors finally opened, the old man turned. With a knowing grin, he said, ‘One last thing, lad: Don’t let the bastards grind you down!’

  The doors closed; the diesel engine of the bus was revved loudly before the driver pulled the large vehicle away from the kerb. Black clouds of foul-smelling, acrid exhaust fumes billowed out in its wake.

  Eventually, silence returned to the bus shelter. Sam was left alone with thoughts of the daughter he no longer had, and seven wasted years.

  1

  10.30pm, 20 September 1986

  Blidworth Bottoms, Nottinghamshire

  The bright full moon that had been illuminating the car park at the secluded beauty spot was suddenly covered by th
ick cloud, and darkness engulfed the only two vehicles there.

  The man, standing behind the large tree and watching the two parked vehicles, welcomed the darkness. Dressed entirely in black from head to toe, he was virtually impossible to see.

  He had left his small 125cc motorcycle propped against a tree at the edge of the woods after following one of the cars to the beauty spot. He had followed the black Volvo estate at a discreet distance. They had travelled through almost deserted streets, from Nottingham city centre through the districts of Sherwood and Arnold, before finally taking the A60 road at Redhill roundabout and driving towards Mansfield.