Bulldogs and Pure Silk

By Harry Waterman

Book 3
Pressure is mounting on the Metropolitan Police Force after an alarming number of young women have been brutally killed and their mutilated bodies left in public places around the city of London.

With no witnesses, no CCTV evidence or clues to who the murderer is or what the motive might be, SIO Ronnie Jarvis, once again calls on the assistance of specialist private investigators, Alan Cornish and Melanie Underwood.

When a young, male Cambridge law student’s mutilated body is found in woods near Saffron Walden the case takes on another dimension, and soon Alan Cornish and Melanie Underwood are embroiled in a complex murder mystery investigation hindered by corruption, a secret society, and deceitful ingenuity.

Aware that their reputations are at stake, Cornish and Underwood are pushed to the limits of their investigative skills, striving to uncover the sordid, heartbreaking facts that would, hopefully, lead them to the killer and to a successful conviction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Haydn Jones
• Release date: Aug 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005132507

Harry Waterman

Haydn Jones is an author of adult fiction. He lives in the UK and his books are available from Watermark Publications on Smashwords, Amazon and Apple.Haydn has released a number of novels in different genres, including: The Angels of Destiny, The Devil and the Unicorn and The Journal of Harry Somerville.Under the pen name of, Harry Waterman, he has written a murder mystery trilogy with includes: Shroud the Truth With Silence, Retribution and the recently released Bulldogs and Pure Silk.The trilogy is available as a download, paperback and hardback.

Book preview

My sincere thanks to: Nicola Durston, Doug Galloway, Olivia Jones, and Emma Evans for their valued contributions — above and beyond the call of duty.

Contents

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 1

Death has set his mark and seal

On all we are and on all we feel,

On all we known and all we fear,

P. B. Shelley

Saturday, 25 July

‘Did you ever think about the pain you were inflicting on my dear wife — so methodically — so deliberately?’

The man who asked the question shook his head, incredulously.

‘The fear she must have felt — knowing that her life was coming to an unexpected and excruciatingly painful end… You must be truly evil; incapable of feeling any emotions at all to do what you did?’ The man moved closer to his captive, wary of the stench, and said:

‘I’m sure you must feel pain though. At least I hope you do — because when I cut your fucking face off — just like you did to my beautiful wife — I want you to experience exactly the same suffering she must have endured. I want you to experience the awareness of such an unimaginably painful death.’

His captive whimpered helplessly.

‘I think that’s only fair, don’t you? It won’t be today though, because Jessica has been invited to her friend’s birthday party. Her mother can’t take her of course — that’s my job now,’ he said, struggling with his emotions.

‘Her mother wasn’t at her birthday party either, at the end of May, when Jessica cried for hours, because Paula’s cold body was lying in the mortuary, unrecognisable as a human being. In fact, me and my daughter both cried for hours the day we said goodbye to her at her funeral in June, when her beautiful body was turned into a pile of ash… But to be honest, Jessica cries herself to sleep most nights now. I try my best to comfort her, I really do—but all she wants is her mother… So…I’ve decided that it’s only fair that you pay for your hideous crime with your own life.’

The dark, sunken eyes of his captive rolled upwards in their sockets and his nostrils flared as his heavy, staccato breathing intensified. The silver coloured duct tape covering his mouth turned his pleas into long, forced murmurs that filled the purple, pulsing veins around his eyes with searing blood. Beads of sweat on his ebony coloured forehead reflected the light of the ceiling lamp like little pearls.

‘…I wonder what happened to you, to make you do what you did to my wife? I suppose I should ask myself the same question, as I now intend to kill you in exactly the same way. Does that make me a monster too?’ he asked pensively, as he walked around his captive’s naked body that was bound with more silver duct tape to a vertical, steel girder in the corner of the storeroom.

‘I really must wash your shit and piss away at some point because the smell is getting really unpleasant now and it’s making me gag. I’ll probably do that tomorrow, after I’m done with you — that’s if I’ve got time before my game of golf… Do you want a drink?’

His captive nodded his head in desperation; his tired eyes drawn to the man’s forearm tattoos. A blurred name—the word forever, a heart and an arrow, a Union Jack, a bulldog with the initials BB underneath.

‘…Okay, I’ll try and remember to bring some water with me,’ he replied, as he turned and walked towards the exit. He stopped at the heavy, metal door, turned to face his captive and sneered:

‘You stinking piece of Islamic shit!’

His captive slumped, as if shot by a bullet, and began to shake uncontrollably, whining pitifully as warm piss ran down his long, trembling leg.

‘…I bet you think that I’m as mad as you, don’t you?’ he asked, leaning towards his captive with his hands on his knees. ‘…Well, I suppose I am now… but I wasn’t always mad,’ he stressed.

Standing upright again he tapped his chin with a clenched fist that had turned his knuckles white, as he battled to control his growing anger. His eyes welled up and his breathing became laboured. ‘…I was a h…happily married family man—once—with a b…beautiful wife and daughter, and a bright future to look forward to. But you, you took all that away from me in a fleeting moment of frenzied perversion, didn’t you?’

There was a moment of reflective silence before he asked:

‘What do you think? — Do you think I’m over reacting and being unreasonable?’

The young man, head bowed through exhaustion, simply whimpered like a caged animal.

‘Exactly! It’s simply an-eye-for-an-eye, isn’t it?… Anyway — sleep well — I’ll see you in the morning,’ he said, before switching off the light and locking the door behind him.

He walked quickly down the metal staircase and out through the front door of his workshop into the bright sunshine. He then carefully locked the door and set the alarm before climbing into his Transit van. Once inside he reached for his cigarettes on the dashboard and lit one before starting the engine.

He smiled, contentedly, as he drove away; looking forward to the evening football on the TV and the six cans of Doombar in the fridge.

In the total darkness of the storeroom the only sound, throughout the long night, was the gentle sobbing of the young Somalian. He was confused and frightened; unable to understand why this nightmare was happening to him. He’d done nothing wrong! Nothing! He was just someone with hopes and ambitions of a better life; a law degree from Cambridge wasn’t just a dream anymore, it was close to being a reality. People would look up to him, respect him. His father would be so proud of him; his only son — the lawyer.

So why was he being accused of murdering Mrs Walker? She was just his friend. He was incapable of killing anyone!

His head was pounding and his body felt weak and leaden. His mouth was so dry he struggled to swallow and his throat burned as hot as a desert sun at noon. In a desperate attempt to free himself he lurched in vain at the duct tape wrapped around his body. His pitiful, muffled cry was his last before he began to drift in and out of consciousness.

The next morning the metal door swung open, allowing the morning sunlight to flood into the storeroom.

The young Somali slowly raised his aching head to see the man standing in the doorway, brandishing a butcher’s cleaver.

‘Good morning — did you sleep well,’ the man asked, nonchalantly, not expecting a reply, ‘because I did,’ he added. ‘Sorry but I forgot to bring you some water — not that it matters. After I’m done with you I’ll give this place a good wash-down, because it fucking stinks in here.’

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a Stanley Knife. ‘Brand new blade,’ he said, proudly, ‘ideal for slicing the flesh off your face.’ He held up the cleaver, ‘and this,’ he declared — ‘is for chopping off your limbs. It’ll be easier for me to dispose of your body if you’re in pieces, don’t you agree? But you’ll be dead by then anyway’… The man approached his captive, carefully avoiding the excrement and said:

‘Okay — let’s do this. I’ll start by cutting off your eyelids — because I don’t want an evil cunt like you closing your eyes and missing all the fun.’

Chapter 2

‘Yet look on me—take not thine eyes away,

Which feed upon the love within mine own,

Which is indeed but the reflected ray

Of thine own beauty from my spirit thrown

P.B. Shelley

Thursday, 27 August

Melanie stepped out of the shower and Cornish wrapped a large, white bath towel around her glowing, moist body.

‘Do you realise Alan,’ Melanie asked excitedly, ‘two weeks ago we were having tea with Her Majesty the Queen, no less?’

Cornish smiled and began to dry Melanie’s lithe body. ‘Stick with me kid,’ he said, with a mock American accent.

‘I intend to,’ she replied.

‘Time flies when you’re enjoying yourself, doesn’t it? And now we can’t take on any more clients, at least not for the foreseeable future — our success has meant we’re in demand, but until we can recruit more people we have to —’

‘But it was worth it, wasn’t it?’Melanie interrupted. ‘To be thanked by Her Majesty, I mean; it was just surreal to be there and talk to her and drink tea with her.’

‘Yeah, it was certainly surreal alright!’

‘We have four people to interview tomorrow,’ Melanie added.

‘I know, but getting good people is not easy… People like you,’ Cornish added.

Melanie smiled, ‘flattery will get you a lot, Mr Cornish,’ she said, dropping the towel to the floor.

Cornish pulled her close and kissed her passionately, before picking her up and carrying her into the bedroom.

As they lay on the bed, bodies entwined, Cornish’s mobile phone rang.

‘Fuck!’ he said.

Melanie smiled, knowing he would answer it. He always did; it was in his blood.

Cornish walked over to the dressing table and picked up his iPhone. The call was from DI Ronnie Jarvis. He answered it on speaker, so that Melanie could hear. ‘What a pleasure to hear from you Ronnie,’ he said with an overly sarcastic tone.

‘Oh fucking charming,’ came the reply. ‘Am I disturbing you, mate?’

‘Something like that,’Cornish replied.

‘Are you shagging?’

Melanie shook her head and giggled.

Cornish replied:

‘No, thanks to you Ronnie, I’m not shagging.’

‘Are you having tea with the Queen?’

‘No, Ronnie, I’m not.’

‘Which is better, mate?’

Cornish smiled at Melanie and she slowly opened her legs on the bed.

‘I hope it’s something worthwhile,’ Cornish replied, ignoring Ronnie Jarvis’s question, ‘because I’ve got a pressing engagement!’

‘It’s only more fucking work for your highly successful and extremely profitable organisation, that’s all.’

Cornish frowned — it was the last thing they needed at the moment. ‘What kind of work, Ronnie?’

‘The usual shit, Alan, just another serial killer. We’re up to five, seriously mutilated, young women. The killer is a real sicko, mate. Won’t go into the details over the phone. Montgomery’s under pressure again and guess what? He wants your lot on the case to bolster the enquiry. This can’t be allowed to turn into another Sutcliffe saga.’

Cornish looked at Melanie as if asking for her opinion. Melanie shrugged her shoulders.

‘You need to come and see me mate. Can you make it tomorrow morning? Your mate Montgomery will be there to bow down in front of you and kiss your —’

‘Yeah, yeah, thanks, Ronnie,’ Cornish interjected. ‘I’ll see you about eleven-thirty?’

‘Perfect!’ replied Jarvis, sounding relieved ‘And bring that beautiful woman of yours with you. God knows I need something to cheer me up. Give her one for me Alan, you lucky bastard,’ he said.

‘Thank you Ronnie!’ Melanie called out.

‘Oh shit!’ came the reply from the mobile.

The next morning, after rearranging the recruitment interviews, Cornish and Melanie arrived at New Scotland Yard on Victoria Embankment, ten minutes before the meeting with Ronnie Jarvis. Alan Cornish was dressed in a black, pinstriped suit, white shirt and a burgundy red tie. Melanie was wearing a dark-navy blouse, charcoal-grey jacket and matching skirt. Her fair hair was up in a neat bun behind her head.

When they stepped out of the taxi, the late-morning sun felt pleasantly warm and the sky was a pure azure canopy.

Cornish paid the taxi driver and they both walked the short distance towards the main entrance in silence; but Cornish had a wry smile on his face thinking about the phone conversation with Jarvis — the ‘cocky’ London copper who loved himself and believed he was irresistible to any woman who was lucky enough to be in his company! The original ‘Strictly’ tan and bright-white teeth was Peter Pan’s trademark. Even so, Cornish couldn’t help liking him and Melanie knew exactly how to handle him — and Jarvis knew it.

But Jarvis had still found it hard not to come on to her, even after he found out that Cornish was ‘giving her one!’ — because she was so fucking good looking and classy at the same time. Jarvis’s words, Too fucking good for you, Cornish! rang in his ears as he and Melanie walked into New Scotland Yard’s main entrance. Not something he really wanted to hear because he was only too aware of how beautiful she was and how lucky he was to be with her. What he didn’t know was just how much Melanie actually loved him; even though she’d told him so on numerous occasions, he still heard Jarvis’s jibe in his head far too often for his liking. He was now approaching fifty years of age and although fit and still very good looking, with just a hint of grey in his short, dark hair, he had to admit that he was no longer a young man. But when Melanie once called him her very own "George Clooney," that had certainly boosted his eggshell fragile ego.

After passing through security, Cornish and Melanie walked into a vacant lift. Cornish tapped a button and the doors closed.

Melanie rubbed her temples with her fingers.

‘Don’t worry about Ronnie, he’s harmless,’ Cornish said, sensing her tension.

Melanie smiled. ‘Oh it’s not Ronnie, love,’ she replied, ‘it’s what he’s got waiting for us. I never find it easy looking at mutilated bodies!’

‘No, it’s not a nice