A Cross to Bear: A Jack Sheridan Mystery Read online

  A CROSS TO BEAR

  Copyright © 2017 by Vince Vogel

  All right reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  PROLOGUE

  DAY ONE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  DAY TWO

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  DAY THREE

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  DAY FOUR

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  DAY FIVE

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  EPILOGUE

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

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  PROLOGUE

  Deep within the bowels of darkness, within the neon room, the killer gazes down at her eternal sleeping face. Lying motionless, she glows with an unnatural luminescence, and the killer slowly strokes the back of its hand down her waxen face, her dead eyes staring into an endless void. It tenderly runs a thumb across her cold, hard lips, recalling that she hadn’t screamed or fought. Had passed peacefully from life into death, as though life had only ever been the dream of death. She would suffer no more. A metamorphosis was taking place, and she was becoming something greater than herself. She was no longer a simple wretched girl.

  Now she was a symbol.

  The killer lifts her up and lays her carefully out upon a timber cross that rests on a large metal table in the neon room’s center. Surrounded by walls covered in tesselated patterns of interlocking black crucifixes graffitied to the breeze blocks, it stretches her glowing arms across the wooden length running along her shoulders and places the backs of her hands against the wood, before binding the wrists with plastic zip ties. Then it takes a six-inch nail that glistens in the atomic light and holds it against the palm of her hand. It raises the hammer above its head, gazes momentarily at her open eyes, emits a wry smile, and drives the nail through the flesh and into the wood with an almighty smash.

  DAY ONE

  1

  The men shouted and screamed songs as the train rumbled out of the urban tangle of inner London toward the clear green of Epping Forest. Every compartment stuffed to bursting with a thronging mass of claret-shirted West Ham goons on their way to meet the old enemy: Millwall.

  Each man has a hungry look to him, jumping and jostling with his West Ham brothers and spilling beer on anything that happens to be close by. This includes other lay passengers, who let it happen with little complaint. No, they won’t complain today. Not when they can see the look of animal dissatisfaction shining in these men’s bloodshot eyes, smell the stench of booze on their breath, and feel the air thicken with their lustful barbarity. They know that today was West Ham versus Millwall in the fourth round of the FA Cup. They know that now the match is over, the real contest for these men begins.

  The train stopped at Epping, and a loud cheer greeted the station’s announcement on the intercom. When the automatic doors opened, the men charged off the train like soldiers disembarking for battle, the cobbles of the station platform becoming the sand under their feet on Omaha Beach. The remaining passengers, of which there were few, breathed a huge sigh of relief to see the men go off to battle, the stench of rabid testosterone remaining in the air of the carriage long after they’d left.

  The warriors greedily made their way through the small countryside station and fanned out in the car park, emerging under a thick gray carpet of cloud blanketing them from the tepid sun. Their eyes instinctively and furtively jolted toward the leafless black trees of the surrounding forest. This sight, so eagerly anticipated, brought shivers to many of the men. They had arrived at their battleground: Epping Forest.

  Soon the word was given—it’s on, they’ve all arrived, including Millwall at the other station. With an added vitality, they made their way out of the car park and bustled along country pathways that led like arteries into the heart of the trees. Some of the younger pups ran ahead, overeager for the fight, and the older men laughed to themselves; the young ones’ ardor joyfully reminding them of how they’d once been, especially during their first Millwall fight. There’s a fervent zealousness about you as you prepare to finally lock horns with the great enemy that your father, uncles, and grandfathers have prattled on about since you were a boy.

  Three generations of men walked side by side into battle: Grandfather with swollen eyes and flattened nose; thickset father with no neck, a little larger than his dad; and fresh-faced son of sixteen, whose gaze dashed nervously about the woods.

  “You gonna be lookin’ for Briggsy, then, Dad?” No-Neck said to Grandfather.

  “Of course.”

  No-Neck laughed and shook his head.

  “You two ’ave been goin’ at it for more than thirty years now. When you gonna fight someone else from Millwall?”

  “This is the way it is, son,” the older man said forcefully. “It’s the way it’s always been since he broke my jaw in ’83.”

  “Who’s Briggsy, Dad?” the son asked No-Neck.

  “That’s your grandfather’s mortal enemy,” Dad explained. “Except the truth is that off the battlefield, him and Briggsy are good mates.”

  “Not today,” the old man snapped, wanting to rid himself of this latest fact.

  The trees became less dense and opened out into a large heath of sodden grass, knotty bushes, and mud. From the sky, as though ushering in the fight, the rain began to fall in great globs, drenching them as they progressed to the center. It wasn’t long before the two sets of raging men stood opposite each other, many of them now shirtless and only identifiable by the particular design of their tattoos
. Wide eyes met across the void of barren ground separating these two snarling masses as they began to ejaculate war words at each other, shouting out with fanatical fury through the veil of falling rain, the blood pumping through their bulging faces, bodies jolting like insane dogs on leashes, picking out the man they were going to fight first.

  An air horn commenced the battle, and with a cacophonous cry that crackled through the trees, they charged at one another and became an instant mash of tangled limbs and swinging fists. One eager young Millwall fan took an early smash across the chin and crumpled to the ground in an unconscious heap, his fight over within the first seconds. Other more experienced fighters stayed back, having learned through the years to avoid the initial clash and mayhem.

  While the fight ensued in typical style, the initial heap spreading and thinning out through the forest, the grandfather began looking for his fighting mate, the dreaded Briggsy.

  Avoiding a few swinging punches that came his way, he steadily walked through the battlefield. Soon he spotted his man waiting purposely for him a little off to the side of the others. The moment their eyes met, both men’s hearts jumped, and they steadily made their ways to each other.

  As fervent as they were, they didn’t rush into battle immediately. First they needed to walk off with each other to secluded ground, where they could fight in peace without some young pup rushing in and trying to back one of them up. They wanted no one to enter the sanctity of their most personal of fights.

  “How’s Pat?” Briggsy said as they crunched through the damp leaves.

  “She’s good.”

  “You still on for the end of the month?”

  “What, the golf do?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Of course I am.”

  When they could no longer hear the cries of the other men, they stopped and looked around. They were girdled by an endless field of trees. In the air, the only sound that broke through the beating rain was the whooping of the wood pigeons and the cawing of the crows.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Briggsy said.

  “It is.”

  Both men smiled gently at the other.

  In an instant their faces grimaced into furious masks, and they charged. Accomplished fighters, they played out a beautifully chaotic dance, weaving within each other. As one threw a jab or a swing, the other ducked and moved out of reach, blocking the blows that came too close. Some of the boys liked to kick and use their knees, but these two were brought up under the proud tradition of boxing and treated their fight as a good old box.

  The rain lashed down on their old, sinewed bodies, and each landed punch came with a splash, colliding with the cold flesh with a snap. Every so often they lost their footing on the mud and fell onto the ground in a matted heap until they released each other and made their ways back up to their feet.

  Ten minutes in and Briggsy’s eye was gashed open by a smart hook from the grandfather, a spatter of blood joining the rain, washing down his face. He pressed on with some body blows of his own and opened up his opponent’s guard. Crack! Briggsy laid a headbutt firmly onto the bridge of grandfather’s crooked nose, and the latter staggered back. Stunned, the old man shook it off before piercing his eyes once more at his enemy.

  But as he did, he spotted something lying on the soggy ground several meters behind his opponent. Through the rain he thought he saw shining ivory sticking out of the brown leaves. Briggsy noticed the other’s distracted eyes.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s something on the ground over there.”

  “This better not be some childish distraction tactic, Henry.”

  “It’s not. Take a look.”

  Briggsy turned around and saw the curious bright-white object poking out from the leaves. His battered face took on a confused look when he thought he saw two lily-white feet twisted into each other. Both mud-and-blood-drenched men dropped their fists and began to wander over to it. The closer they got, the less of the object was obscured by the heaps of leaves, until eventually, they stood looking down at the white, naked figure of a young woman nailed to a large wooden cross, her eyes wide and staring up at the rain falling down upon her corpse.

  “Poor girl,” Briggsy muttered.

  Grandfather crossed himself, realizing there would be no more fighting today.

  2

  With a tinkle of drum and piano, the track began—Toots and the Maytals’ “Pressure Drop.”

  The song never failed to put a smile on Jack Sheridan’s face. Even if today it was a rather crooked and half-hearted smile. One that the gentle breeze of a desolate thought could easily blow away from his lips at any moment. Shining that weak smile down upon the four happy faces staring up at him from the photograph lying on his lap, he lifted his glass and took a swig of whiskey. By the time the glass came away from his mouth, the smile had dissolved, replaced by the sad look that had formerly held his features before the commencement of the track. The initial euphoria now over, Jack found himself once again falling into melancholia, Toots and the Maytals fading into an echo.

  Sundays often did this to him, when he would sit all alone in the curtained darkness of his lounge listening to ska records and drinking whiskey. He’d always end up holding that same picture of himself, Marsha, Col, and Beth, the four of them leering into the lens with drinks in their hands, joy in their eyes, and the sun shining brightly in the background. A waiter had taken it as they’d eaten lobster on the coast of Majorca. It had been a happy summer together.

  Listen to the music, you silly sod flashed through Jack’s mind, and he looked away from the photo, poured another drink, closed his eyes, lay back in the chair, and breathed in the music. He recalled the first time he heard the sweet sound of ska. It had been flowing out of a small boombox perched upon the bunk of one Danny King.

  Danny had been born to Jamaican parents who’d come over after the Second World War so his dad could work in London as a train driver. But it wasn’t London that Jack knew him from, though; it was the army. They’d met the day Jack had first joined the London Infantry Regiment after basic training and walked into the dorm. Standing there with his folded blankets in his arms, he’d heard this wave of easy melodies come wafting from Danny’s bunk.

  After placing his gear away, Jack wanted to know what it was. It provoked him, this music, appeared to slow his movements, massaged his mind. When he found the source, he found the big figure of Danny lying on his back, head rested on his arms, eyes closed, smiling widely beneath his dome of frizzy afro hair.

  “You like it, bruv?” he’d said to Jack, cocking open an eye at him.

  “It’s got a nice beat to it.”

  “You sound like you never heard ska before.”

  “I haven’t.”

  Danny’s eyes yawned and he looked Jack up and down.

  “You a black man and you’ve never heard ska?” he exclaimed incredulously.

  “Probably somethin’ to do with being raised by a white woman.”

  Danny had smiled that broad smile Jack would become well acquainted with over the following six months and let him sit with him for the rest of the day. The big Jamaican lad took Jack under his wing, told him all about ska and reggae, the ins and outs of West Indian culture, and about how to survive in a mostly white army. Jack had looked up to Danny from day one.

  Another sip of whiskey and the eyes went moist.

  Six months after they first met, Argentina invaded a stretch of tiny islands off its east coast, which happened to be part of the United Kingdom, and the London Regiment was shipped off to the Falklands. The last time Jack saw Danny, the poor guy had no face below the nose. A sniper’s bullet had erased it along with half his throat during heavy fighting while they’d defended an expanse of hill named Goose Green. Poor Danny died shivering and spluttering his guts up in Jack’s arms on the other side of the world, as far away from home as you could imagine.

  Even now, Jack could still see Danny’s vacant eyes staring up at him, the
night’s sky reflecting off them, zipping light beams of bullets moving like innumerable shooting stars across the surface of those blank eyeballs.

  They’d fought all night until victory, and when the sun came up, a ghostly mist settled over the land, covering the dead in an eery white veil. Walking the battleground, hungry, cold, and exhausted, Jack gazed around at the field of broken bodies. It was a strange feeling to see so many dead, knowing that you were alive. To see their motionless forms, their faces, some at peace with eyes closed, others with terror written on their death masks. To walk within the mist among the fallen.

  Jack walked that morning field in an envelope of complete silence, broken only by the occasional gunshot, something that no longer bothered him as much as it had the previous days he’d been out there. Some of the men celebrated, openly gleeful that they’d secured the area. It was supposed to feel like victory. That’s what Jack had intended to feel that day. But now that it had actually arrived, it felt different to him. Like he’d entered a room he had no right to be in.

  He’d killed men that night, at least three he was sure of. He’d always planned to kill. It would be pretty pointless joining the army if you weren’t prepared to. But now that it was done, now that he had killed and was walking among the wasteland of death, he sensed that the whole thing had been somehow inappropriate. A line that shouldn’t have been crossed was lying far behind his heels.

  So many young men lay wasted upon the ground and for what? Some poxy island in the middle of nowhere?

  Jack didn’t get it. He never got it.

  The day he returned from the Falklands, he handed in his beret and joined the police force. He sensed in his soul that death deserves more reverence, the dead more justice. An epiphanic resolution had flown into his heart that morning upon the foggy green. I want to investigate murder, not commit it. Those were his words to his mother when he’d arrived home at their little council flat in Leyton after the war. He wanted to bring justice to the dead. Whether they were the fallen soldier, the murdered love rival, or the stabbed pimp who’d gone too far with one of his girls, Jack wanted to speak for the silent dead. He wanted to give them his voice.