Not Over Our Dead Bodies: The Characters Compilation, #7

By Graham Hamer

Detective Sergeant Kelly Ross is acerbic, strident, sarcastic, and feisty. And that's on her better days. Her work partner, Detective Constable Jordan Sparrow tolerates her caustic tongue, He puts up with the fact that she's ornery and abrasive, because he also knows she's courageous and honest, and very good at what she does.

 

When Reverend Malcolm 'Deep Pockets' Cockburn goes missing, Kelly and Jordan are tasked with finding out what's happened to him. His daughter tries to convince Kelly that she's distraught, but Kelly has her suspicions that many of her tears have come from a crocodile.

 

Meanwhile, ten miles away, on Snettisham beach, James Smith is concerned about late-night activity for which he has no explanation. Kelly and Jordan go to investigate and Kelly finds herself attracted to the man. But despite her best endeavours, she discovers no answers to the mysterious behaviour of a large, white van.

 

Inside the former Snettisham vicarage, Henry Barnard, Mrs Seagram, and Rebecca Thorpe are summonsed by Lavinia Woods to an emergency meeting. Lavinia, who has had the vicarage to herself for many years, is forced to witness scenes of debauchery beyond her wildest imagination. But what can they do about it?

 

Puzzled? You won't be once you've finished reading Not Over Our Dead Bodies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graham Hamer
• Release date: Jun 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201400897

Book preview

PROLOGUE

ONE WEEK EARLIER

The small cruise launch materialised out of the night mist like a dark, amorphous shape. To conceal its intent, it glided forwards with no navigation lights. When it cut the engine, it came to a gentle rest with its bow on the shingle beach at Snettisham - an ancient village overlooking The Wash. At low tide, The Wash - a fifteen-mile square inlet of the North Sea on the east coast of England - was nothing but mudflats as far as the eye could see, with just a few narrow shipping channels. Ideal for small fishing boats looking for prawns, mussels, cockles, and whelks. But, tonight, the crew had timed the launch’s arrival to make the best of the high tide. The cargo boat that had transported the consignment from Rotterdam continued its steady progress towards the tidal port of King’s Lynn, ten miles away where, tomorrow morning, it would unload its shipment of timber.

It was approaching midnight and the all-encompassing evening mist was beginning to thin. A dark figure waited on the beach, the saline taste of the brine in his mouth. When the boat appeared out of the gloom, he strode forwards and steadied the bow. Quick, he said, there could be some overnight birdwatchers around. He looked around him with a watchful eye as the two crewmen went below. The larger of them returned almost at once. He led a group of seven young women, their faces sickly in the light of the men’s torches. They shuffled forward one by one as the man on the beach lifted them each by the waist and set them onto the coarse sand.

The man pulled a wad of money out of his pocket and handed it across to the crewmen, then helped ease the boat away from the shore. He shook some water off his feet, then stood and watched for a moment as the boat engine fired up and the vessel was once more absorbed into the misty darkness. Turning, he ushered the women away from the shoreline and up the steep sea defence bank to the informal roadway on the other side. All along the high embankment were holiday bungalows - mostly deserted for the winter, though lights still showed in one or two. Other than the most ardent twitchers in the nearby bird reserve, there was very little life in mid-winter on Snettisham beach. As they mounted the sea defence bank, another man was waiting beside a long-wheelbase Ford Transit van. He ushered the women into the back which was fitted out like a luxury limousine with white leather-upholstery. The man hurried the women into their seats.

What about our belongings? one of the women asked in accented English. The man who’d helped them down from the boat grabbed her shoulder, spun her around and slapped her face. Then he pushed her through the side door of the van, where she sprawled face down on the floor in shock. He slammed the sliding passenger door, and the two men settled into the front seats. They made their way with caution, relying on what little ambient light seeped through the mist to guide them. The rough roadway was narrow, constructed almost on top of the first line of earth sea defences. On their left, the beach bungalows perched on top of the steep slope to the sea. On their right a sharp drop into the deep, black waters of the old, flooded gravel pits. Stefan, the driver, leaned forwards, peering through the gloom and mist beyond the windscreen. He chewed at his fingernails as he manoeuvred without lights along the pot-holed access road. Any sort of accident now could prove to be their last.

Both men were relieved when, some minutes later, they reached the smooth, tarmacked surface of Beach Road, where they were able to illuminate the van’s headlights and pick up speed. They made their way through the misty countryside the two miles into Snettisham village - population just a few bodies over 2,500. Minutes later they killed the lights and pulled off the road onto a narrow farm track. On their left, was the 14th-century St. Mary's Church with its high spire - a daytime landmark for ships in The Wash. Behind a low carrstone wall were rows of ancient gravestones where the villagers had buried those who had died from The Black Death.

During the plague, the healthy villagers had moved half-a-mile down the hill onto Watery Lane that now formed the main road through the village. Those who showed any signs of illness stayed in the cluster of houses that surrounded the church and, in the main, they died from the effects of the Devil’s Abomination. Months later, their houses were burnt to destroy whatever evil curses might have remained behind. In fact, the fires expunged the rodents that carried the infected fleas that spread the Bubonic plague, which killed millions of Europeans during the Middle Ages. But no matter the cause, fire was the great leveller and, within a couple of generations, life in Snettisham continued much as before, leaving the church separated from the main body of the village. The only evidence of the former village were odd mounds of stone, now covered in grass, in the nearby fields. Hundreds of years after The Plague, when The Black Death had sunk into the annals of history, a tiny handful of forward-looking people built big houses nearby. But otherwise, the church continued to reign in supreme isolation on the higher ground.

Stefan Mayer jumped down from the driver’s seat and slid open the vehicle’s side door to let the women out. The teenager who Eric had slapped still held her face. She hadn’t yet puzzled out what was going on, though some of her friends were now becoming suspicious. A man who the other two called Ben, met them when they came to a halt. He moved to his left, over a wooden style and into the old graveyard that surrounded the church. In the darkness, a low whining sound made the women look round. Then a light showed through the mist, coming up from the ground and silhouetting Ben and the nearby gravestones. One of the girls whimpered while Stefan herded them towards the light. As they neared the source, they were surprised to find, inside a tall stone kiosk, an illuminated wooden stairway leading down into the ground. Even so, they hesitated. It seemed for all the world like a trap.

Cristina, the girl who had been slapped, whispered, This looks like the entrance to hell.

Nadia, the girl next to her, said, The gates of hell are open night and day. You don't have to wait until you're dead to get there. Or at least that’s what my grandmother always used to say.

Move it, Stefan grumbled. He spoke to them in their native Romanian. Your new accommodation is a thousand times better than that cargo ship, so what’s the issue? This is just a secret access.

One of the young women, Izabela, took the first step down and the rest followed. At the bottom of the stairs, they were met by Ben, who had gone ahead. He waved them to follow him along the tunnel. The corridor was about two metres wide and two metres high with an arched roof. All the way along, images of naked and semi-naked women painted on the walls beckoned them forward. Cristina turned to her friend and whispered, This is some sort of a ruse, isn’t it, Nadia? We’re being led here under false pretences.

I don’t know, Cristina. Everything has been good so far. I don’t know why that man hit you. All you asked him about was our belongings. Not that we were allowed to bring much anyway. And they took our passports from us on the boat. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps this is some sort of trap. But what can we do about it?

Nothing for the moment, Cristina said. But we need to find out what’s going on tomorrow. I think the soup is already turning sour.

After walking in line for two minutes, the group arrived at another set of steps leading up to a stout wooden door. Ben led them forward and, beyond the door, they found themselves in a large room, with wide, comfortable chairs and sofas around the walls. The girls looked around them in awe. All of them were peasant stock and had seen nothing like it. Cristina liked that everything was done up in shades of deep midnight blue and creamy white, giving the room depth and a sense of tranquillity. She admired the abundance of soft, light wood and relaxing lighting. And there was a smell of newness about the place. A mixture of wood shavings and paint – not offensive, but somewhere deep in the background.

Yet, looking back as the door to the passage closed behind them, she still felt a deep unease. From this side, the smooth wooden door was recessed so deep into an elaborate archway that you would be unlikely to notice it if you weren’t looking.

A little to one side, an open door led to a smaller room with honey-coloured light oak panelling covering the walls. Against one wall was a long table on which was a bank of television monitors showing images of empty rooms. Some of the images showed long, wooden benches with equipment like a laboratory. The man who had driven the long vehicle they had arrived in stepped forward and stood in the door-opening with his arms folded.

Cristina hugged herself and shivered. It wasn’t cold. In fact it was unduly warm and she spotted several low-level vents that were, presumably, pushing out the heat. But she was now certain that something was amiss.

When they were all accounted for, the man who had hit Cristina said, Right, listen up. You all speak some English, yes?

The girls all nodded. They had come to work in England, so it was vital that they had a basic grasp of the language. Prior to Brexit, if they had jobs to go to, they could have made the trip legally, but not anymore.

Okay, so sit down and make yourselves comfortable while I tell you what happens next.

The girls all obeyed.

Here’s the situation, the man said. My name’s Eric. He pointed to the others. That’s Stefan and that’s Beniamin. Here in England, we call them Steve and Ben. You, too, may, at some point, adopt English names for your jobs. But not yet. He looked around at the women’s faces. I guess you’re all wondering where you are?

A few nodded, but all of them looked wary.

This is our new headquarters. You girls are our first intake at this particular location, but we have spared no expense to make you comfortable. You will discover that the building and your rooms are very spacious and well-appointed. If you do as we tell you, you will continue to be well cared for. If you challenge us, we can make life very difficult. He looked at Cristina. We have taken charge of your belongings for the time being. If you do as we say, we will return them to you. If not, well... he let the sentence trail off.

But why did you hit me? she said, sticking out her chin.

Eric shrugged as though it were nothing. He was a short man of heavy build, wearing a tight-fitting black T-shirt. His arms bore the unsophisticated tattoos that told of life as a hard man. And his muscled abs let people know he worked out. The sooner you understand who’s in charge, the better, he said. He glanced at his watch. It’s getting late, and I imagine you’re all hungry. Our cook— he nodded at Ben and smiled, displaying a gold tooth on one side, —has been busy in the kitchen preparing some hot food for you. From tomorrow morning on, we will provide the food, but you must prepare your own meals. He pointed to his left, beyond the wide staircase. The dining room is through there. The kitchens also. There’s a laundry room beyond the kitchen where we expect you to keep your clothes and bedclothes clean. After you have eaten, we will show you to your own rooms, but we want to give you all a warning first. He nodded at Stefan to continue.

Stefan spoke in his native Romanian to be sure they all understood. He wanted no misunderstandings. You all know about Zburatorul - the lover from the stars? Zburatorul, who personifies all your intense feelings of erotic desire and longing for a man? Zburatorul who enters a girl’s room in the shape of a handsome man - often in the shape of the man the girl loves. They meet and consume their love in the world of dreams. But everything is so intense, almost real, that the young women become obsessed by their love for him.

All the girls nodded. They had been carefully selected from farms and rural areas, and believed in most of the myths and legends of their homeland. The great enemy of truth was often not the deliberate, contrived and dishonest lie - but the persistent, persuasive and improbable superstition. Too often, simple, uneducated folk, like the seven girls that Stefan was addressing, held fast to the folklore and traditions of their forebears. They subjected all ‘facts’ to a prefabricated set of interpretations, passed down over the many generations. That way, they could enjoy the comfort of opinion without the discomfort of thought.

Well, I can tell you, Stefan continued. that Zburatorul is here in this very place. He will visit you many times and in different forms, but only if you do as we say. He took a moment to look into the faces of the young women, one-by-one. On the other hand, you also know of the Strigoi - the undead monsters with an insatiable thirst for blood. You’ve no doubt heard of the Pricolici who take the form of giant wolves. Violent, murderous men return from the grave as Pricolici to continue harming living people. And, of course, there’s the worst one of all... Căpcăun - the dog-headed, man-eating ogre who kidnaps innocent young ladies like yourselves. The Căpcăun sometimes has one too many limbs and heads. Some brave men have faced the Căpcăun in an attempt to rescue a fair maiden, but they have all failed and fallen to the ogre’s evil tricks. This miserable creature lives all alone in a den that reeks of death and he will not hesitate to attack anyone who passes by.

Stefan looked around at the pale, wide-eyed, innocent faces that were drinking in his every word. He was a large, powerful man with a mean, coarse face. His fingernails were grubby and bitten down to the quick, and he had short, spiky hair. Those evil spirits also live in this place, he continued in a breathy sotto-voce. Even we don’t have total control over them, but we can limit their powers. He stood aside and pointed to the bank of screens in the room behind him. We have taken steps to protect your private rooms. No bad spirits can enter there - only Zburatorul, the lover from the stars. However, the other spaces in this building do not have our protection. If you venture beyond your rooms at night, even we cannot help you.

One of the girls asked. But what if we need the toilet?

All of your rooms have their own bathrooms with toilets. You will be very comfortable while you are here.

And how long will we be here for? Dorotthea asked in English.

Eric took over again, speaking in English. Our organisation promised to find you work over here in Britain. Since Britain left the European Union, it is not possible for people like yourselves to improve your status in life. So now you are here, we will be finding the best work for you. This is just a temporary place of safety away from the prying eyes of the authorities. We have your passports and, even as we speak, our colleagues will be preparing good papers for you, for when you start your new lives. Now go with Beniamin and eat.

Nadia glanced at Cristina and nodded. I think it will be okay, she whispered.

An hour later, after eating a nourishing stew, and discovering their well-appointed rooms, the women took hot showers, and revelled in the luxury of warmed bath towels. On each bed, they found silky nightwear such as they had never before seen. Scents and perfumes adorned the dressing tables. It wasn’t long before they were ready for bed but, for three of them, sleep would have to wait.

Eric, Stefan and Ben each led a girl back down to the plush reception room. A drink before you go to sleep, Ben said. It was obvious that Ben was the oldest of the three. He wore faded and slashed jeans, which would have been more appropriate on someone a generation younger than him. The jeans were accompanied by a fawn-coloured suede jacket, which had never been fashionable. Ben didn't know this. He was a man who liked to act hard, but whose personal life had been fraught with mediocre attention to detail and bad choices.

He poured them each a large shot of tuica - a traditional Romanian spirit, prepared from plums. Tuica, from the homeland. A drink of friendship and welcome, as you know. We just want to make you feel at home in your new country.

The girls, dressed only in their luxurious nightgowns, were peasants, but knew that it would have been rude to have refused. What they didn’t see was the shot of Rohypnol - the date-rape drug - that Ben added to each of their glasses. Ten minutes from now, they would all be willing and pliable.

What about the monsters that come out at night? young Irina asked. Won’t they be waiting for us as we go back to our rooms?

Stefan grinned. Don’t worry. We’ll escort you back and make sure you are safe. While you do as we ask and keep us happy, we’ll take good care of you all.

CHAPTER ONE

TODAY

Clutching a dog-eared folder, Detective Constable Jordan Sparrow approached his sergeant. Crime statistics you asked for yesterday, he said, dropping the file onto her desk.

No need to knock, Detective. Please, come in.

Jordan looked around. Knock where? We’re in an open office.

Sergeant Kelly Ross looked up. So it is. Off you go then. You’re using up valuable oxygen just standing there.

Jordon turned and headed back to his own workspace.

And don’t forget to knock next time, Kelly called.

Jordan grinned, raised his eyes to the heavens, and muttered, Sorry Serg, before sitting down again. He knew when he’d been outwitted.

At forty-three, Detective Sergeant Kelly Ross was a little shorter than her fellow police officers. She had a chiselled, yet delicate face and brown, shoulder-length hair, which made her somewhat unnoticeable at first sight. But most men, and some women, took a second look when they spotted her firm breasts and rounded bottom. And when she relaxed and let them show, her legs could turn strong men to jelly. And sometimes did, when given the chance.

One man who would have liked the chance to take a closer look at those legs, but didn’t dare even voice his wishes, was DC Jordan Sparrow. At twenty-three, he wasn’t supposed to lust after MILFs like Detective Sergeant Ross. And anyway, she was his senior with over twenty years’ experience, while he was the new boy, having only received his promotion to detective constable just six months earlier.

A few minutes later, Kelly called to him across the squad room as she slid into her leather bomber jacket. Come on, Spaz, we have to go visit someone who’s lost their father. Bloody careless if you ask me.

Jordan swallowed the last of his coffee and hurried down the stairs to catch up. As they approached the unmarked squad car outside, he said, You do realise that’s very insensitive, Serg, don’t you? Certainly not very PC.

What? Calling someone careless?

No. Calling me Spaz. It’s not very nice that.

Kelly laughed. Do I look like I give a fuck, Jordie Boy? Just get in the car and drive.

And you’re always swearing too.

Fuck off, DC Sparrow. Get a fucking grip, will you? We’re not still in the 1800s, you know? Women have the vote now. We can smoke, drink, fart, swear, and even leave the house without an escort. When do you plan joining us in the twenty-first century? And don’t crash the gears.

I never crash the gears.

Bloody do. Come on, we need to take a ride.

Where to?

To where we’re going.

And where is it that we’re going?

To the place we’re headed to.

Is it far?

No.

It would be helpful to know which way to turn the steering wheel, Serg.

Okay, we’re going to church.

Jordan turned his head to look at her. What church, and why?

Bloody hell, you ask more questions than a six-year-old. All Saints, if you must know. Round the back of Harmony Square.

But we could walk there in less than five minutes.

So, you walk if you want, Smartarse. Meanwhile I’ll go and find myself a new partner who knows how to drive without crashing the gears.

Jordan