A Little Bit Odder: The Oddball Odyssey, #3

By Graham Hamer

A riveting and unforgettable story of strange and incredible murders in another runaway thriller by author Graham Hamer.

 

Pools of human blood are appearing, but no matching bodies to go with them. Oddball and the team are tasked with finding out what's going on. But before being sent out on their mission, they are told something about themselves that they find difficult to believe. Their investigation takes them to the Norfolk Broads where Oddball and Sandi discover that their feelings for each other are growing.

Meanwhile, back at home base, Harry Lewis – real name Harriet - enjoys Saxon's company. Harry has the social skills of an angry porcupine and her personal space is normally defended with alarms, barbed wire and motion sensors, but she always drops her guard when she meets up with Saxon.

 

But Harry Lewis is as sharp as a winter's morning when it comes to breaking through firewalls and uncovering secrets. Her computer skills lead her to suspect that a shadowy psychopathic killer known only as The Vicar is ultimately responsible for the disappearing bodies. Harry and The Vicar have met before and are destined to meet again before the killings stop.

In a story of mayhem and murder, typical of the Oddball Odyssey, the incredible becomes the norm as the characters are drawn into a hunt that can only end one way. Or is there an alternative ending that could never have been foreseen?

 

A Little Bit Odder is written for an mature audience. It contains a smattering of street language, depictions of violence, and some sexual scenarios. In a masterful combination of mystery, intrigue, the extraordinary, and personal relationships, Oddball and his fellow team members are going to grip you like you've never been gripped before.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graham Hamer
• Release date: Dec 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393170846

Book preview

PROLOGUE

He looks well bled, the woman said as the towering figure lifted the naked body from the back of his van. As she shut the rear doors of the vehicle, the courtesy light disappeared, leaving them surrounded by the evening darkness. To the woman, the body appeared pale and bleached in the moonlight. Blood had coagulated on the face of the corpse from a hideous slash in the neck. Blood at midnight wasn't red. It was a purplish black that blended into the shadows and the woman couldn’t tell exactly where the blood started and where it ended. But she’d seen enough of these cadavers in the past year or so to know that it would only coat the face, not the neck or shoulders.

Bled just like an animal, the big man muttered, because that’s what he was - a sick animal that I needed to put down. He hoisted the body under his arm as it were no more effort than a child carrying her favourite doll. You should come with me one time and see how it’s done. You have the speed and the strength, so you’d find it no problem. After they are down, stunned, you need to bleed them out. Slit the throat. Best done by sticking a six inch boning knife through the neck just in front of the spine. Then bring it forwards, moving it around until you sever the carotid and jugular arteries. I hold them up by their feet as they bleed. The blood gushes better and the body bleeds out quicker. You want this. You need to have the body bleed itself out so the arterial system is clean and free of blood.

But you get blood on your legs and feet, you said.

It’s nothing. It’s bathing in the blood of evil.

The woman pointed forwards. You lead and I’ll follow. I don’t have your night-time vision and, despite our location, I don’t want to put any outside lights on.

He grunted and moved forwards in the darkness between the buildings.

You got rid of your coveralls? the woman asked, flicking back a lank of dark hair that had fallen over her eyes.

He nodded. I pushed them into a garbage bag, and dumped them in a builder’s skip behind a garage near Stoke-on-Trent. Now I need to hose out the van and swill it with bleach. It would be simpler just to bring the bodies here intact without bleeding. But this guy, for example, has come all the way from Edinburgh and, since blood is an ideal medium for the growth of bacteria, he would already be tainted and smelling.

The woman dodged round the big man and moved ahead of him. She nudged open the door to one of the buildings with her toe. As the body of the naked man passed her by, she leaned forwards and sniffed. He smells nice and fresh to me. You must have made good time. Let’s get him in the fridge and hung up overnight.

Inside the building, the big man pushed up the chrome handle to a commercial-sized chill room. He marched in and located the ceiling hooks that he wanted. As he hung the body by inserting a hook through each ankle, the woman asked, Do you need the light on, or are you okay?

When you spend as long as me trapped in darkness, my girl, you find that the darkness begins to stare back. That’s when you know you have to fight against it. I have lived many years in the shadows, but no longer. At last my life has true purpose.

A few minutes later, the pair stepped out of the building and shut and locked the door. I’ll deal with him tomorrow morning, she said.

No rush. He’s not going anywhere. The big man wore a black leather coat almost to his knees. Underneath he had on a black t-shirt, jeans, and black boots. He had tied his long, dark, oily hair in a crude knot that hung to the centre of his back. To his grand-daughter he looked almost invisible. He, on the other hand could see as well as if it were the middle of the day. His grand-daughter looked too young to be forty. The years had ignored her. The man too because, despite his threatening appearance, it was difficult to imagine him to be anybody’s grandfather. He knelt on the gravel and glanced up for the woman to join him. She sighed and crouched down on her heels. He tapped her knees. She changed her stance and knelt with him on the cold stones and clasped her hands together.

Don’t ever forget, my dear, that we have an agreement. I promised a prayer upon dispatch and a prayer upon disposal. What is your word worth if you do not keep it? He looked skywards, took a deep breath, and then closed his eyes. Father God, we give thanks to you with all our heart. We tell of all your wonderful deeds. We tell of your provision, your protection and your mercy. This evening, we thank you for all the great blessings heaped upon us once more. We ask for your continued grace in the coming weeks when we shall again acknowledge your rewards. Accept our thanks and praise for the undeserved gifts you lavish on your people. Praise be to You for blessings seen and unseen. Praise be to You for salvation in Your Son. Bless us, O Father. Amen.

Amen, the lady muttered before standing in a hurry and brushing the gravel off her knees. She muttered, Nobody would ever know if we didn’t bother with that bit. It’s so bloody primitive.

The man came to his feet, towering over her. So it might be, but a deal is a deal. He glanced around the fenced yard. They were safe here. It was private, it was not overlooked, and it was dark. Even in daylight, they were safe from prying eyes. But you could never be too careful.

I’ll have a decent collection of remains ready for you next week, the lady said. Can you fit in a trip to dispose of them?

And to the well, I suppose?

If you have time, though that will wait.

It’s no problem. A whinny from one of the stables made him smile. You have a new resident? he asked.

She nodded. A woman brought him in earlier today. The animal has equine canker. Everyone calls it hoof rot. A horse with hoof rot will have white or grey matter that is moist and spongy appearing in the sulci region of the hoof. It’s a bit like wet cauliflower mixed with cottage cheese. Not very nice. So anyway, this lady heard we took in unwanted animals and gave them a home for the rest of their lives. I’ll walk him out to the pasture in the morning and make sure the other horses react well to him.

The man nodded. That’s your side of the business, my girl. I confess, I don’t understand animals, but then we all have our strengths. Mine is in understanding people and how they are tempted into doing evil. Together we make a formidable team.

CHAPTER ONE

Sandi Watson sat facing the smartly-dressed woman on the other side of the wide chrome and glass desk. Ten minutes earlier, the lady had introduced herself as Crocker. No first names. Just Crocker.

As soon as she laid eyes on her, it was obvious to Sandi that the lady had style. Sandi liked people with style. Ritzy and trendy got noticed but style got remembered. Crocker, in her tailored masterpiece of ebony fabric oozed class. Her suit was an outstanding yet simple business suit that Crocker knew exactly how to wear to best effect. She also accessorised with elegance. Crocker had more than just class; she also had a well sculpted body. Her whole appearance was somewhat at odds with the view through the window behind her.

The bleak London skyline of brutalist blocks was craning its neck to take a look at Sandi through the window. It saw a small town girl who was happy to be so. It saw a detective sergeant who would rather be at home on the Isle of Man than here in the smoky, dirty atmosphere of the nation’s capital. But her chief constable had sent her on a special mission to meet Crocker, with strict instructions that she should discuss it with no-one.

The office she found herself in was well appointed. It was spacious and was furnished in a tasteful, understated fashion that said that money had not constrained the occupant’s choices. Despite the building’s drab exterior, the room was large, light, and airy. The desk was wide enough and long enough that Sandi had four chairs to choose from when Crocker invited her to sit down. Behind Sandi, two comfortable club chairs stood either side of a circular coffee table. A discreet mahogany bar nestled in one corner of the room.

Two impressive tableaux personalised the wall space. Nothing bland and comfortable like a pallid seascape though. The first was a large print that Sandi recognised as being ‘Sleeping Woman’ by Amrita Sher, one of the greatest avant-garde women artists of the early 20th century. The other was a quality print of Banksy's iconic ‘Flower Thrower’, depicting a masked rioter throwing flowers rather than rocks or a Molotov cocktail. The positioning of the two prints made it seem that the rioting man was about to throw his flowers towards the naked sleeping young woman. Sandi wondered if that had been an intentional placement of the prints to convey a subliminal message to the observer.

Two photographs in luxurious leather frames defined the edges of the desk. Both photos were of Crocker. One of her in her younger days, in full military fatigues, though the rifle she was holding was an old model. The other was Crocker in a cocktail dress alongside the British prime minister and the American president. The comfortable, almost luxurious office interior seemed at odds with the drab obscurity of the building which, Crocker had just told Sandi, cloaked its real purpose. The organisation that did its work here lived in the shadows - a collection of operatives whose existence was secret to all but those with the highest security clearances.

It was early evening in April and, during the previous ten minutes, Crocker had given Sandi a quick down-and-dirty summary of the work of the agency that called itself N2K. But even Crocker was hard pushed to explain exactly where N2K fitted in to the hierarchy of British surveillance and protection. Some people thought the agency was under the scrutiny of MI5, but nobody there was telling them what to do. What Crocker did explain was that everything they did was deniable. If ever a foreign power caught one of their operatives, they were completely on their own. If the shit hit the proverbial fan, nobody had ever ordered them to do anything, and they all understood that. For that reason, we only ever employ the best of the best, she said. Better that they don’t get caught.

Why is it called N2K? Sandi asked.

Because we collect and store a massive amount of information here and it’s only ever available to others on an N2K basis.

A what?

A Need to Know basis. That’s why everyone knows our agency as N2K. Here, we work to bridge the chasms between the different alphabet agencies. We receive and give information as required. It’s like we are the hub of a wheel where the spokes include, GCHQ, MI5, MI6, FCO, SIS, JTOC, CTC, and others. But information is often hard won and a lot of it is vital to the country’s security. So we only ever dispense it on a need to know basis.

That sounds like a massive amount of data.

It is. Our servers are air-gapped. They are stand-alone with no outside connections other than a high capacity fibre optic cable direct to GCHQ in Cheltenham - that’s the Government Communications Headquarters. Our servers are accessible, in both the physical and digital sense, by only a very small number of people, all of whom are under regular scrutiny from anonymous members of the security team. In physical terms, every single rack of servers is cage locked and an engineer can only access a rack using a code that changes daily, linked to his fingerprints. Even then, two more engineers chosen by an electronic random indicator must accompany him or her.

Sandi stared at her in admiration. Whatever sort of information do you store?

Just about anything. As I say, a lot of info comes from GCHQ in Cheltenham. It provides signals intelligence and information to the government and armed forces. They are without a doubt the finest intelligence gathering service in the world. They have eyes and ears everywhere and we harvest all the data that they deem relevant - plus a lot of data that isn’t. Believe me, Sandi, if people knew what we had here, we’d never hear the end of the ‘Big Brother’ accusations. But the same people will jump up and down and scream blue murder when the security forces miss a chance to stop a terrorist attack.

But I don’t have the sense that you are just an anti-terrorist agency.

We’re not. But we know that in the war against terrorism, extremism, extortion, theft, drug running, spying etcetera, information plays a huge role. So we have files on over 45% of all British citizens and large numbers of non-Brits. Some are resident here, many are not. The actual computing that we do on these servers is in making links between people and organisations, official or otherwise. We have algorithms which run day and night looking for patterns that can warn of danger ahead. We keep an eye out for communications indicating illegal activity. We try to analyse what’s happening in the underworld. When you have a gigantic information database at your fingertips, sometimes just the tiniest thread of input at one end can flag up many similar links elsewhere that would not be noticed otherwise.

And then what?

And then one or two of our team go out and put things right. As she spoke, there was a tap on the door and Crocker called out, Come.

Two women stepped into her office. Both about the same height, both about the same age, both about 30.

Sandi looked round and a smile lit her face. She stood to greet the visitors. Harry, how nice to see you.

Harriet Lewis, the lady with caramel-coloured hair and a wide smile stepped forward and high-fived Sandi. Harry wasn’t a huggy person. She guarded her personal space with barbed wire and electric fences. Saxon, her friend, who had stepped into the room with her, was one of the few people who Harry was on hugging terms with. In fact, Harry was on closer than hugging terms with Saxon, but that was not something that was generally known.

Saxon stepped past Harry and shook Sandi’s hand. Hi. I’m Saxon. I oversee the tech-hive here. It’s an underground network of servers several stories deep.

And I’m Sandi Watson. Sandi weighed her up with a glance - being a copper instilled that sort of behaviour into you. What she saw was a shapely woman of average height, dressed in a tight jumper and figure-hugging leggings featuring some kind of wild Caribbean motif of monkeys and palm trees. Despite that, Saxon had a certain understated refinement. Her hair was chestnut coloured and gathered in a loose bun at the back of her head, similar to the way Sandi wore hers. She had piercing, clear hazel eyes that glinted with humour and intelligence, all perched above soft cheek bones and full lips. Saxon’s heart-shaped face transmitted a genuine smile. It was a smile that immediately set Sandi at ease. And it was located on one of those well proportioned faces that seemed exquisite in its balance and harmony.

As Saxon leaned forwards to move a file off one of the chairs, the back of her jumper lifted up, exposing a thin slice of skin and revealing a wide and colourful tattoo. Sandi didn’t know why, but she found herself curious as to its full extent. Saxon smiled at her and eased her jumper back down, like she knew what Sandi was thinking.

Saxon glanced at Crocker as if asking permission to expand about the agency. Crocker nodded. Saxon said, Like I say, I oversee the data that we hold here. She waved her arm around. As you can already see, inside everything is comfortable and modern, so don’t let this bland, anonymous brick and concrete cube of unimaginative design fool you, Sandi. It’s intended to look that way. When they built it, they forgot to glue any architecture to the outside.

Sandi laughed. The new building over the road doesn’t look any better. It looks like it was designed by a committee of blind architects working in braille.

Saxon smiled and nodded her agreement, Under our feet, also in the building next door, and in the big new building across the road that you have just described so well, there’s a tech hive - a network of servers several stories deep. It’s one of the most secure data systems in the world. In fact, it may well be the most secure. We host over 150,000 high capacity servers with 16 terabyte capacity on each. And we are adding to them all the time. Information is always the key to successful action, and there is information here by the boat load. That’s our job. To secure the information, make connections, and analyse the results. We’re not concerned about delivering query results like Google, for instance, because the only queries are our own. Our focus is on storage capacity, and we have lots of that, and room for much more. On the other hand, Big Bertha, as we call our tech hive, has more than adequate petaflops.

Harry chirped in, A petaflop is the ability of a computer to do one quadrillion floating point operations per second. It’s the sort of processing power that people like me have wet dreams over.

I’m not that computer literate, Sandi said, but 150,000 high capacity servers and all those petaflops sound like a hell of a lot.

Harry chucked. It’s friggin’ huge, my dear. The cooling systems heat all the offices and the servers contain enough secret information to keep even me happy.

Christ, it must be something then. But how do you come to be here, Harry? I thought you were in France. And how come you have access to this data? I thought I knew you. What am I missing?

Crocker took the file from Saxon and indicated for them all to sit down. Harry has done some vital work for us in the past as an outside contractor, Sandi. We use most of our outsiders for low-level information-gathering but as you already know, Harry has a special level of skills that no-one else can match.

Harry grinned, put her arm across her midriff and made a small bowing motion, like a stage magician who had just performed a particularly clever trick.

Sandi looked at Crocker with even more questions written across her face. So did you already know that Harry and I met on the Isle of Man six months ago?

Crocker nodded. We know most things, Sandi. Harry works okay with others but she is only close to a few. She turned to Harry. I don’t mean to offend you, Harry. But you have developed an extensive system of ramparts to keep yourself from getting too close to people other than the handful you’ve trusted with the key to the portcullis.

That doesn’t mean I don’t want to get to know people.

That’s not what I said. You talk about computers and politics, but you don’t talk about personal things.

I do to my close friends.

Exactly, and I think Saxon falls into that category, does she not?

Harry blushed. She didn’t know how much Crocker knew or had assumed about their relationship.

But you don’t know Sandi quite so well, do you? Crocker continued. I know you met up on the Isle of Man a few months ago, because we had a certain source of inside information about that particular exploit. As she spoke, another knock sounded on her door. Come, she called.

A tall man with an athletic build stepped into the room.

Talk of the devil, Crocker said.

The man had arresting eyes the colour of gunmetal, and a full head of hair going a little grey at the temples. He wore a sharp, dark blue suit with a fine pinstripe and three buttons on each cuff. A crisp Turnbull & Asser white shirt and a navy blue tie completed the ensemble. A gold Jaeger-LeCoultre Reverso watch encircled his left wrist. His shoes were black and polished.

Jesus Christ, Sandi gasped.

Harry laughed. No, it’s definitely not Jesus. Crocker was closer when she said talk of the devil.

Saxon giggled. Jesus was scruffier than this one. This one is always well turned out.

Let me present Oddball, Harry said. I think you two might know each other.

Sandi’s blush rushed up her neck and ran riot across her cheeks. Oddball looked as surprised as her. What the —

Crocker smiled, revealing a generous mouth. Oddball, I think you may have already met Detective Sergeant Sandi Watson from the Isle of Man Constabulary.

Er, yes, I do believe I recognise her face, Oddball said.

Harry laughed out loud. Oh, you are a tart, Oddball. She turned to Sandi. Can you take your clothes off please, Sandi? I think the sight of your naked body might improve Oddball’s memory. I’m damn sure it’s not just your face he’d recognise. All of them knew that Oddball and Sandi were an item, when they were on the same land mass.

Oddball glanced at Crocker who reflected the amusement of the others.

It’s alright Oddball, I think we are all well aware that you and Sandi are - er - close, shall we say.

He shrugged and said, Fair cop. But before you go any further, I got the information you wanted. I’ll talk to you about it tomorrow.

Crocker acknowledge with a nod. Good. Now, since you’re on your feet, you can make yourself even more useful. She glanced at her watch. The sun is well past the yardarm, so see what everybody wants to drink, grab what’s needed from the bar, then sit down. We have things to discuss and I’ll try to explain why Harry and Sandi are here with us this evening. You can better introduce yourself to Detective Sergeant Watson later, she added, struggling to maintain a straight face.

Oh he’ll do that alright, Harry said.

CHAPTER TWO

When they were all seated and relaxed with drinks in their hands, Crocker said, I’ve got the four of you here today because there is a string of missing-murdered people throughout the UK and we need to bring some special talent together to deal with it. Incredible as it may seem, you are that special talent.

What does missing-murdered mean? Sandi asked.

And we’re special? Oddball asked.

Yes, you are, Crocker said, choosing to answer Oddball’s question first, and I’ll explain why in a moment. As far as missing-murdered, it’s my own shorthand description of people who have been murdered but nobody has ever found their bodies.

So how do you know they were murdered? Sandi asked.

I’ll fill you in as we go, but first, to understand the scale of this thing, let me give you some background. In brief, there are forty-five territorial police forces and three special police forces in the United Kingdom. While one force can now access information from another force using HOLMES - that’s the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System - they don’t go looking unless they have reason to do so. And in any case, as the name suggests, HOLMES only covers major country-wide enquiries. The odd murder is not categorised as such, even if the circumstances surrounding the murder are unusual. We, of course, at N2K, are able to access all official sources. Reports of missing people are not high on anyone’s radar. People go missing all the time and for all sorts of different reasons. The police have more important things to deal with. However, a combination of similar MO and an accidental discovery a few weeks ago has got us thinking that there’s an awful lot more to this than meets the eye.

Crocker pulled a notepad towards her. Harry’s been here a few days already, joining the dots for us and, thanks to her hard work and Saxon’s, we can now tie more than fifty of these missing-murdered people together. But they’re still going through the data to piece together others - because we are sure that there are others. The figure could be much higher than we think.

The data’s not always registered in the same order or with the same emphasis or keywords, Harry said. So even technology-based solutions need the human eye to confirm that we have it right. I’ve been providing the technology and Saxon has been providing the human angle. It’s been a joint effort.

And bloody hard work, Saxon added. Even where a regional police force has two or three of these murders on their patch, they don’t always tie them together because the regions are administered in smaller local divisions. The divisions are semi-autonomous. On this issue, there’s been no joined-up thinking at all.

What we have, Crocker said, are murders of male victims who have been stripped naked, exsanguinated, and the drained bodies taken away for disposal elsewhere.

When you say exsanguinated, you mean they bled out?

I mean exactly what I say, Oddball. I mean totally exsanguinated. The only way you can achieve that is by a deep cut to the throat. All blood was drained from their bodies via a slashed throat so wide and deep that the head was most likely only held to the body by the spinal cord. This is more than just a litre or two of blood. This is all five litres or more.

Oddball ran a finger round the rim of his glass. He said, I’ve dealt with a couple of dismemberment cases in the past. They’re normally either organised crime jobs or, if it’s a domestic murder, the killer almost always had training as a butcher, or on a farm or abattoir, something like that.

But these aren’t dismemberment, Oddball. They are just exsanguination.

You mean killed and hung up to drain on a hook or something?

Well no, that’s the thing I need to explain to you. Judging from the amount of blood found at the homes of the missing people, they were bled dry like slaughtered animals. But nowhere are there any signs of a device, nor evidence of any equipment from which they could have been suspended.