Blind Alley Read online

  Also by Danielle Ramsay

  Broken Silence

  Vanishing Point

  Blind Alley

  Danielle Ramsay

  www.mulhollandbooks.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Mulholland Books

  An imprint of Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  1

  Copyright © Danielle Ramsay 2013

  The right of Danielle Ramsay to be identified as the Author of the

  Work has been asserted by her in accordance with

  the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

  means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be

  otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that

  in which it is published and without a similar condition being

  imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Paperback ISBN 978 1 444 75482 7

  eBook ISBN 978 1 444 75483 4

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  To the memory of Jack Ramsay

  ‘There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough, and liked it, never really care for anything else.’

  Ernest Hemingway

  Contents

  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

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Thursday, 24th October: 10:23 p.m.

  He watched her as she came outside. She couldn’t see him – he had made sure of that. He sat back in the dark and waited. It was the anticipation of what was about to follow that he savoured more than the event itself. He licked his bottom lip. The location was perfect. Rundown and deserted. If anyone heard anything they wouldn’t get involved. People here minded their own business. She couldn’t have chosen a better place for what was about to happen to her. If only she knew . . .

  He smiled to himself. He clenched and unclenched his hands as mentally he walked through the various scenarios he had meticulously planned.

  Trina McGuire pursed her bright red lips and sucked on her tab as her cold, hard eyes scanned the shadowy street corners. It was second nature for her. A silver saloon car turned slowly off Saville Street West down onto Borough Road, casting its harsh beam over her. Blowing out smoke seductively, she looked in the direction of the driver. The silver car was now parked directly opposite her with the engine idling. The driver’s face was in shadow but she knew he was watching her. Before she had a chance to walk over, he drove off. She was no fool. She was aware that the glare of his headlights had done her no favours. The roots of her long, straggly, bleached-blonde hair and the uneven fake-tan smears on her arms and legs would be all too visible.

  ‘Fuck you!’

  She was getting too old for this game. And she was cold, despite it being mild for late October. She wrapped her thin, bare arms across her low-cut vest top in an attempt to keep warm.

  She rested her back against the wall and listened to the dull thump of U2 on the jukebox inside as she smoked. Anything to calm her nerves. She had never known the streets to be so dark and quiet. Business was virtually non-existent. Even the Ballarat pub was empty apart from the hardcore regulars. She shivered again. She could feel the small, prickly hairs on the back of her neck standing up. She didn’t know what it was, but something felt wrong. Maybe it was just her nerves getting the better of her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her. She glanced up and down the badly lit street. She couldn’t see anyone. Or could she?

  ‘Fuck this!’ she muttered as she threw away what was left of her cigarette.

  She turned on her three-inch red heels, about to go back in.

  Before she had a chance to realise what was happening, he had already dragged her into the alley behind the pub where the rubbish bins were kept. A large leather-gloved hand covered her mouth, preventing her from screaming. Panicking, she struggled to get free but it was futile. He had the upper hand. He was at least six foot one and built like a Rottweiler on steroids.

  Suddenly his other hand was tearing at her vest top. He found her breasts and started twisting and pulling at them roughly.

  She felt physically sick. She wanted to vomit as his hand mauled her. But she knew that no matter what he did to her she had to keep focused. Her mind was racing. She was trying to process what was happening to her and at the same time trying to figure out how to get free.

  Was he a punter? No . . . no. She’d been roughed up before but this was different. He was different . . .

  Then it hit her. The news. It had been all over the news. There was a rapist in the area. Shit! Shit! Shit! How could she have been so stupid?

  The police had put up photofits of the bloke throughout the local pubs. There was even one pinned by the toilets in the Ballarat. He had attacked three women in the past two months. And from what she’d read in the local paper that evening, the third one had been hurt pretty badly – enough for the poor cow to need reconstructive surgery.

  Shit . . . shit . . . shit . . .

  Tortured thoughts tore through her mind.

  She was confused. She was sure he had only struck in Whitley Bay. She had been relaxed about the story because this was North Shields. How wrong could she have been?

  She had to get away from him. Fight . . . Anything to stop him hurting her . . .

  She used all her strength to prise his hand from over her mouth. Her long manicured nails snapped and split as she scratched and tore to no avail at the gloved hand. If she could scream it might be enough to scare him off. Desperate, she took her chance and bit as hard as she could through the leather to the flesh underneath.

  His reaction was s
udden and swift. He raised his knee and rammed it as hard as he could into the small of her back to make her let go.

  It had the desired effect.

  She was too winded to realise what was about to happen.

  The first blow was a surprise. It split her nose clean open. She heard the sickening sound of snapping bones as his fist connected with her face, followed by the hissing of escaping air and blood. She was stunned. She had no chance of protecting herself against what was to follow.

  The second punch was harder than the first. It smashed into her face with such force that her left eye socket imploded. Her head snapped violently backwards as her teeth ricocheted off her bottom lip, bursting it open like a swollen dam. Her legs gave way beneath her as everything went black.

  Minutes passed as she lay on the ground, her body consumed with a blinding agony. Nothing made sense. All she knew was that she hurt so badly she was certain she would die. Slowly, the hazy fog started to lift. She remembered that she’d been attacked. He had dragged her into the perilously black alley behind the pub. She was aware that she was lying on something cold and hard – the ground. She must have collapsed after he’d punched her.

  She could feel the panic overwhelming her.

  She looked around in the darkness for him.

  Where are you, you bastard? Where the fuck are you?

  Her left eye had swollen shut and her right eye was nothing more than a slit. But it was enough to see the glow of a cigarette in the blackness by the large waste bins.

  She realised with sickening clarity it was him. That he hadn’t finished with her – not yet.

  ‘Where is he?’ he asked, throwing his cigarette butt away.

  His voice was seamless and flat, devoid of any emotion.

  It was this that scared her. It was the voice of someone capable of murder.

  Her mind spun as she tried to figure out who he was after.

  Realising he wasn’t getting anywhere with her, he decided to jolt her memory. He walked over and bent down.

  She waited, expecting him to hit her again, but he took her by surprise when he started caressing her bare thin legs with his gloved hand.

  She trembled as he touched her gently. He slowly moved his hand further and further up her legs until it was under her skirt.

  She tried to struggle, to get his hand away from between her legs. But he had her pinned down.

  ‘I said, where is he?’

  He stopped caressing her. His hand had become a ball of tension, waiting to explode.

  She attempted to shake her head.

  It wasn’t the answer he wanted. He rammed his fist as hard as he could between her legs.

  The pain was unbearable. She was certain she would pass out. Instead she retched.

  He stood back and watched while she vomited, until eventually only bile was left. His stomach was turning at the sight of her. Vomit combined with blood trailed down the seeping, swollen mess that was her face.

  ‘Nick. Where is he, you fucking slag?’

  He was starting to lose his patience.

  The question jolted her.

  ‘What?’ she mumbled through swollen, bloodied lips.

  But the word she uttered made no sense.

  Irritated, he bent over her, bringing his face close to hers. She was terrified. The look in his eyes told him he wasn’t just going to rape her – he was going to kill her.

  ‘No . . . please . . . no . . .’

  But the words were inaudible. The only sound was a gargling, hissing noise.

  ‘I said, where the fuck is NICK, you stupid bitch?’

  He rammed a hand deep under her ribs to make sure that she was lucid.

  She gasped in agony.

  When she managed to breathe again, she mustered all the strength she had and spat at him.

  Blood, vomit and spit hit his face. He took a tissue out of his jacket and wiped his cheek. He then took off the jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

  ‘Maybe it’s time to teach you some manners,’ he suggested as he began to unzip his trousers.

  She tried to get up but her body refused to move. She willed herself to make a run for it. But something was wrong. Her legs wouldn’t work.

  Move . . . come on, Trina . . . Fucking move, girl! Move it before it’s too late!

  Desperate, she tried shuffling backwards on her elbows, dragging herself towards the entrance of the alley.

  He was more than ready. He had been anticipating this moment for some time. He took his time stretching a condom over himself. He knew he couldn’t take a chance with this disease-riddled bitch. He kneeled down and grabbed her by the legs as she tried in vain to scramble away from him. He leaned over and flipped her onto her stomach.

  She groaned in pain at the sudden, violent movement.

  Her reaction had the desired effect. It made him even more excited. He pulled up her faux leather skirt, exposing her black thong.

  She attempted to struggle but was unable to move under the crushing weight of his body. She felt him yank her thong to one side before he forced himself into her. The pain was excruciating. But it was more the humiliation that hurt. Hot, furious tears slipped down her face as he succeeded in violently thrusting himself deep into her. One hand restrained her head, forcing her damaged face into the hard concrete, while the other held his phone as he filmed what he was doing to her.

  She couldn’t breathe. Dirt filled her bloodied mouth as she choked and gasped, desperate for air.

  She could feel her body beginning to convulse as the lack of oxygen took effect. She prayed for unconsciousness. She was lucky. She blacked out before he started to really lose control.

  Once finished with her he felt nothing but disgust and contempt. He gave her lifeless body another hard kick. Nothing. Satisfied, he picked it up and dumped it into the pub’s industrial waste bins where it belonged.

  Fucking bitch. Deserved everything she got. He had bigger problems than some has-been prostitute. He still had to find Nick Brady. And when he did . . .

  He smiled at the prospect. He had what he wanted safe in a plastic bag: evidence that he had dealt with her. He felt no remorse. She was a used-up prostitute who was better off dead. No one would miss her.

  He threw the business card with her name scrawled on the back into the alleyway before turning to walk back to his car. He doubted the police would be able to identify her. Not in the condition he had left her in. But he was more than happy to point them in the right direction. After all, he had a job to do and he had to be sure that the police didn’t fuck everything up.

  Chapter Two

  Six days earlier: Saturday, 19th October: 3:07 a.m.

  Hidden in the shadows, he waited as she staggered on ahead of him. She made a sudden turn off the road into the alley behind the boarded-up Avenue pub, her body lurching from one side to another as she did so. She seemed oblivious to the fact that the streetlights were out in the alley. Too drunk and too intent on getting home to care. He followed, making sure he didn’t get too close.

  She stopped.

  He pushed his body flat against the wall, obscured by blackness as he held his breath and waited.

  Had she seen him? No . . . He was sure of that. She had no idea that he was there. Or of what was about to happen.

  ‘Shit!’ she cursed, nearly falling over as she bent down to undo the straps on her black heels.

  Successfully removing them, she yanked her dress up and crouched down.

  He watched with stirring excitement as she relieved herself.

  She was different. His tongue snaked slowly across his bottom lip as he thought about touching her. If he was honest, it was her tattoo that aroused him. It fascinated him.

  Unlike with the others, he had waited for this moment – religiously following her movements on Facebook and Twitter. Even tonight she had updated her status:

  ‘Out to get as drunk as I can. Are you up for it?’

  He was ‘up for it’ all right. And i
f it was trouble she was looking for, she was heading in the right direction.

  He studied her with a predatory interest as she managed to somehow pull herself up without tumbling forward. She even managed to drag her dress back down. Not that she needed to do that; he would soon be ripping it off.

  He double-checked his jacket for condoms. Two weeks of watching her. Fantasising. Planning. Now he was ready, he wanted to savour every detail.

  He had his phone with him so he could film her. Not that she could object, given the state she was in. She was lucky he’d been keeping an eye on her. Her friends – if you could call them friends – had abandoned her. Left her dangerously drunk outside the Blue Lagoon nightclub while they went on somewhere else.

  It couldn’t have worked out better for him when she decided to walk home – alone at 2:51 a.m. through the dark, empty streets of? Whitley Bay.

  Had she not watched the news or read the papers? Obviously not.

  The police hadn’t taken him as seriously as he wanted. But after tonight all that would change. She was the one. The one that was going to make the headlines. Her name – Chloe Winters – would soon have the following she craved. She wanted to be famous and he would be the one to give her that, and more.

  He would make her newsworthy.

  He playfully fingered the Stanley knife safely hidden in his jacket pocket for later. What he was going to do to her would take time. He would make sure it was slow and deliberate. The pain would be delicious. He could feel himself getting hard as he imagined the knife slicing neatly through her delicate, pale flesh.

  He was ready to make a move.

  He crept up behind her.

  Hearing someone, she spun round. She froze for a second as she tried to register who was behind her – and why. Even through the hazy blur of drunkenness she could tell that something about him was wrong. She started to edge backwards, away from him. He scared her. It was his eyes. Something was wrong with the way he was staring at her.