Dead Man's Hand Read online

  Dead Man’s Hand

  Mark Lock

  The first in a new series by debut author Mark Lock, for fans of Mo Hayder, Belinda Bauer and Mark Billingham.

  Detective Inspector Hal Luchewski’s life is complicated. The stress of his job is getting to him – usually in the form of hard liquor. He’s still living in his dead father’s shadow, his relationship with his daughter is strained, and his love life is complex to say the least…although nearly 40, Hal’s still reconciling himself to the fact he’s gay...

  When teenager Danny Wiseman’s butchered body is found in a squalid bedsit in South London, Hal and his team think they have a psychopath on the loose. When a second body is found – that of an ex-guard at Granton Young Offender Institution – Hal fears the worst. Is it a coincidence that Wiseman recently spent time at Granton, a place which has become a byword for corruption and scandal? Is Hal up against a former inmate’s wrath, or something even more sinister? Soon enough, the case gets personal – and in more ways than one…

  For Z

  About the author

  Mark Lock is a lecturer in mathematics in South Wales, where he lives with his young family and more animals than you can shake a wonky stick at. Dead Man’s Hand is his first novel.

  CONTENTS

  Part One: Ceremony

  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

  Part Two: Blue Monday

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Part Three: Ruined in a Day

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Part Four: The Perfect Kiss

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Epilogue

  For more information about Mark Lock

  Linda Regan

  Anna Legat

  Penny Kline

  James Green

  Jane Bidder

  Part One: Ceremony

  Chapter One

  His head was thumping like fuck as he tried to open his eyes. He must have been sleeping. His sight was blurry and he tried to turn his head to see where he was. As he turned, the thing on his neck dug further in and he cried out in pain. He was still in his own room – the man hadn’t moved him. Thank God the man hadn’t moved him. He felt a tiny twitch of relief that he was still on his own territory, that he had at least a fighting chance if he knew he was at home.

  His eyes were beginning to regain their focus now, and he could see all of his things dotted around the room. Above the gas fireplace, the Abbey Road poster. Stripes of black and white going up and down. Below that, on the mantelpiece, the Southern Comfort bottle with an old candle stuck in the neck, dried wax dribbling over the sides. On the floor in front of him, about two feet from where he lay, was the home-made bong he’d been using for the last couple of weeks – a crumpled two-litre bottle of Coke with a small length of hose. Just behind that he could make out the shoes that his mother had bought for his last court appearance. The shoes that he refused to wear even though she said that it would make a good impression on the board. ‘A good clean pair of shoes could make all the difference,’ she’d said, and the thought of it now made his eyes well up with heavy tears. How could he find himself in such a position? Lying here utterly helpless while this man moved about his flat.

  The man. Where was he? Danny tried to twist around to see if he was standing behind him but the strap around his neck made him wince once again so he remained still and listened to the light phut phut phut that seemed to come from somewhere nearby. What was that? What was it?

  Why did he feel this weak? All he could do was lie there. Why couldn’t he just get up and walk out of the room and knock on the door of one of the other flats and tell them there was a psychopath trying to kill him on his floor and, if they’d be so kind, could they call the police please, thank you. Not that he’d ever met one of his neighbours before. A brief brush past someone in the hallway a few months back, music coming from some of the rooms late at night. That’s all the evidence he had to suggest that other people lived in the building. Not exactly a great deal of –

  The door opened and the man walked back in carrying two large navy blue holdalls. Danny’s heart thumped into life again. His stomach flipped over and he felt his legs tense. The man set the bags down near Danny’s head before leaning over him once more.

  ‘Sorry about leaving you alone there for a bit, Danny,’ he said. ‘Had to pick these up.’

  The bags looked heavy and Danny worried about what exactly they contained.

  ‘Now. Shall we try again?’

  The man reached up on to the nearby table and brought down the dictaphone that he’d used earlier. In his other hand was the piece of card. Shiny. Laminated perhaps. It reminded Danny of his school timetable. The teachers always made the kids write them out on thin pieces of card and then cover them with strips of sellotape to prevent them from getting soggy.

  Squatting over his body, the man thrust both the dictaphone and the card into Danny’s face.

  ‘Just read the words. That’s all I ask of you. Just say them nice and slowly into the tape recorder here. Where you see the asterisk, just say your name.’

  Danny stared hard at the card but his eyes were still blurred and his head still thumped. He could see that they were typed, not hand-written. But that was about all. The words themselves were nothing more than smears.

  ‘Please, Danny. I’m parked on a double yellow outside and I don’t want to get clamped, so let’s hurry up and get it over with, eh? There’s a good boy.’

  Danny’s mind slipped to the traffic wardens who strolled up the road. They could help him. They could stop this man. They were like police. How could he get to them? Could he shout out and be heard? Surely they would hear him? Unfortunately his room looked out over the back of the property. An unkempt tuft of scrubby garden that backed on to another unkempt tuft of scrubby garden. No one would hear him. Anyway, he’d already tried that when the man first went out. His body and his throat were weak for some reason and he could barely manage a useless croak. Shouting was no good. Nor was reading at the moment. His eyes were starting to water, or was he crying? He didn’t know. Couldn’t tell.

  ‘Come on, Danny,’ the voice was a little less patient sounding now. ‘Let’s get it over with. Please. I need you to do this.’

  The floor around Danny’s neck and head felt warm, wet, and sticky. His hair was clinging to his scalp and he wanted to scratch at it. Loosen it up. He needed to wash it – that was the truth. He needed to get a good shampoo and conditioner from the shop around the corner and clean himself off. He would definitely need both shampoo and conditioner. Those shampoos that were also conditioners at the same time were rubbish. Left your hair feeling half washed. No, he needed both for this particular job. In fact, it was probably a good idea to go somewhere in town to buy the stuff. The shop around the corner probably only sold cheapo nonsense. Go to a proper chemist like Boots or something. Or even a salon. They sold the best stuff in hairdressers these days. That would be –

  ‘Look! Just READ THE BLOODY CARD, WILL YOU? Just read the bloody thing! Jesus!’

  The man got up from Danny and stormed to the window shaking his head. Danny got the impression that he was trying to compose himself. Calm himsel
f down. He was looking outside. Probably thinking that the lawn (if there was one under all the mess and growth) needed some serious TLC.

  ‘Look, Danny.’ The voice was softer again. ‘You’re dying. It’s unavoidable. You’re lying there bleeding to death. It could take ages. You could be rolling around there for hours, which isn’t nice, and I don’t want that, trust me. I really don’t want that for you. Read the card for me and I will speed it up. We’ll get to the end a lot quicker.’ The man turned away from the window to look at Danny. On his face was a smile. Not a cruel, malicious smile. Not even a vaguely sarcastic one. But a pleasant smile. Friendly. ‘OK?’

  The man walked over to one of the blue holdalls and, after unzipping it, pulled out the biggest saw that Danny had ever seen in his short life.

  His head was thumping like fuck as he tried to open his eyes. He must have been sleeping. His sight was blurry and he tried to turn his head to see where he was. The orange glow from the bedside clock made him realise that he was at home. Untypically. Whenever he awoke with a bad head he was usually in somebody else’s bed. Embarrassed, he’d scurry his clothes together, garble an excuse, and head for the door. This morning, though, he was at home. Which was convenient in many ways, but also inconvenient in that he had to somehow get rid of the person lying next to him. He found being tactful difficult when hungover and tired. He turned in the sheets and looked up at the white-emulsioned ceiling. A fly was zzz-ing around the lightshade, momentarily stopping now and then to rub its legs together. It was late spring and the flies were becoming more apparent in the slowly warming air of south London. A few more weeks and they would be a pest, getting themselves caught indoors or tetching about your head while you were walking through the park. Hal wished he had a rolled-up newspaper to hand so that he could finish this particular buzzing bugger off. He’d have to pick its squashed carcass off the ceiling, but it was a price worth paying to prevent it from dive-bombing his ears later in the day.

  His latest lover gave a short sharp snort. Dear God, thought Hal, a snorer. The last time he’d drunkenly slept with a snorer he got virtually no sleep and spent the entire night flicking through their collection of photograph albums. Beautifully annotated, by the time dawn came around Hal could have told you anything you needed to know about that person and their family, from their first boyfriend to their inter-railing holiday with friends during university. For Christ’s sake, he even knew that the family had once had a pet rabbit called Bertrand Russell.

  The clock said 7.09 and Hal tutted at himself for not having had the presence of mind to set the alarm for 6.30. He’d been too out of it. Too horny. He got up out of bed, slipped on some boxers and a T-shirt, and headed down to the kitchen.

  In the fridge, Hal considered the Free Trade Organic Decaffeinated Coffee, but decided that today was a Hot Lava Java (Strength 5) sort of day. Flicking the wall-mounted TV on, he prepared the cafetière and popped some bread in the toaster. The BBC news was a litany of disaster and despair as usual. Plane crash in Colombia – 170 dead. Villages flooded in Pakistan – thousands lost, suspected dead. Car bomb in Iraq – five killed. The only story not guaranteed to make you slash your wrists was an item on the latest Pixar film, and even that left a slightly stale taste in the mouth after all that misery. Sitting down at the breakfast bar to nibble his toast, Hal nudged the rubber buttons on the remote control. A kiddies’ cartoon on BBC2. Daybreak interviewing some minor actor from some minor soap opera (about to launch a minor pop career, no doubt). Some mindless, talentless boy band yobbos bouncing around to their latest single on Channel Four. Irritating, squeaky-voiced children’s presenter on Five. Hal turned the television off.

  In the first floor bathroom, he showered. At six foot four, he needed the showerhead high. He twisted the nozzle and the water shot out in a single powerful jet. He liked the feeling of water hitting his skin hard, and turned the temperature up so that it was as hot as he could take it. The bathroom was thick with steam as he rubbed the soap over his completely shaven head and rinsed it off.

  Stepping out of the cubicle he patted himself dry with a towel that was slightly too damp and too overused to be totally effective. His body was still as strong as it always had been, but his visits to the gym had become less frequent in the last few months, and the onset of middle-aged spread meant that he was losing his muscle tone. Not greatly. Not yet. But the rot was beginning to set in. He was all too aware of that. Of course, excesses like the previous night’s didn’t help. Left you feeling shit and bloated. He was drinking too much again. Doing too much in the evenings, like a stupid first year university student, overexcited at having left home for the first time and the freedom that entailed. Unfortunately, Hal thought, he wasn’t eighteen any more. He wasn’t even eighteen times two any more. At thirty-nine years old he felt as though he should have known better.

  But he didn’t.

  Downstairs, with a towel still wrapped around his waist, he checked the post. Nothing but bills. And junk mail. Bills and bilge, as he liked to call it. Suddenly a high-pitched beeping came from the sitting room. Hal sighed and wandered in, picking up the pager that sat on top of the stereo. He pressed a button and read the message before carrying it upstairs with him.

  Back in the bedroom, last night’s shag was stirring. Hal went to the wardrobe and pulled out a shirt and an immaculately pressed light cotton suit.

  ‘Nice suit.’

  ‘Eh? Oh. Yeah. Sleep well?’

  ‘Wonderfully. Eventually.’ The twinkle in the eye made Hal feel uneasy. He pulled on his trousers then went to work on the shirt buttons, popping them through each little eyelet.

  ‘I’ve got to go to work. Had a message.’ He waved the pager in the air, as if it explained everything. ‘Urgent.’

  ‘What do you do exactly? You never told me last night.’

  ‘Er …’ Hal stumbled. ‘Accountant.’

  ‘Must be a very important accountant if you’re summoned out of bed at twenty to eight in the morning. Must be an important account you’re dealing with.’

  ‘Yeah. Something like that.’

  A pause. The sort of thing that happens when two strangers are trapped in a room together.

  ‘Do you want me to get dressed and go?’

  ‘No, no,’ Hal lied. ‘As long as you just pull the front door behind you when you do go. Take as long as you need to get ready.’ He slipped his shoes over each foot. ‘There’s food and coffee in the kitchen. Help yourself.’

  ‘I prefer tea.’

  ‘I think I might have some tea in one of the cupboards down there. It’ll be quite old but it might be all right. Main bathroom’s downstairs on the first floor.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Sorry I have to shoot off like this,’ he lied again. ‘Work.’

  ‘That’s OK. I understand.’

  Hal pulled on his jacket and started heading for the bedroom door.

  ‘Hey, before you go … I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name – inherited my father’s inability to remember names, I’m afraid. What is it?’

  Hal turned back. ‘It’s Harry. Harry Luchewski.’ Feeling somewhat obliged, he asked, ‘And yours?’

  ‘It’s Steven,’ replied the man in Hal’s bed. ‘Steven Denyer.’

  Chapter Two

  Detective Inspector Harry Luchewski closed the front door of his three-storey Victorian townhouse, and walked down the steps to the hard standing where his black Audi TT awaited him. He peep-peeped the locks open with the key and clambered into the driving seat. Everyone told him that a TT wasn’t a suitable car for someone of his height, but he liked it so much that he chose to ignore them. His seat was set as far back as possible, but still his knees kept bashing the dashboard – especially when he changed gear. He knew it would be sensible to swap it soon. Change it to something bigger and more practical. Like a VW. Or a Volvo.

  ‘Ach!’ Hal shuddered to himself as he turned right off the forecourt, up Maple Road towards Penge High Street. ‘Volvos
. Ach!’

  On a normal day, he would take a right at the junction down towards Beckenham, where the team were based. Today however he went left, up through Crystal Palace towards West Norwood and one of the streets around Gipsy Hill Station. Singh had paged him with the address. No other details.

  Driving up the hill towards Crystal Palace, Hal got trapped behind a bus dragging seventy or so bleary-eyed souls to their place of work. It pulled in to let some more on and Hal dropped the car to second and roared past it. The traffic was relatively light for that time in the morning and, notwithstanding a few minutes consulting the London A-to-Z on the passenger seat (the TT’s ‘as standard’ GPS having never been turned on once in its lifetime), he managed to arrive surprisingly quickly. He could see Singh talking to the Good Professor on the doorstep of the house. Noticing his car pull up, she broke off and strolled over to meet him.

  ‘What’s up?’ Hal peep-peeped the locks shut again, coming round the front of the car to where she stood.

  ‘Come and see for yourself, sir,’ replied DS Priti Singh. Her hand beckoned him up the path to where the Good Professor was now taking pictures of something on the doorstep.

  ‘Morning, Hal,’ the Good Professor greeted Harry without stopping his photographic session. ‘Funny bloody thing this.’

  ‘Old lady who lives in one of the flats found it this morning. She lets her little dog out at six to go wee-wees.’ Singh popped a Polo mint into her mouth. ‘Thought a drunk had left it so she peered in.’

  On the doorstep sat a McDonald’s bag.

  ‘Open it up.’ The Good Professor nodded at Hal.

  ‘Margaret and the boys OK?’ Hal asked, prising the sides of the bag open.

  ‘Very good. She’s away this week. Up in Sheffield on a –’

  ‘Jesus!’ Inside the bag was another bag. A clear plastic bag. Hal recognised it as a freezer bag. A small thing with a popper device across the top to stop food getting contaminated in the freezer. Inside that was a fleshy, bloody mess. ‘What is it?’