A Treacherous Past

By A. W. Lambert

A former Intelligence agent disappears and private detective, Theo Stern, is asked to investigate. A woman is found brutally killed, her neck viciously broken, and MI5 agents threaten Stern, warning him off the case. As an ex-London copper, Stern doesn't threaten easily, but when he is callously driven off the road and almost killed his resolve is tested to the extreme.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597053723

Book preview

One

Tuesday 28 th February 2006

He pushes the door and it opens before him, swinging silently wide. His eyes struggle, pupils dilating, sucking in precious light, anxiously probing the murk. Then, as he does every time, he shouts the obligatory warning, his lungs thrusting air, lips forming words that, as always, float soundlessly into the murk.

He knows what’s going to happen; he’s been here before, but still he steps forward into the gloom, unable to stop the inevitable. The figure appears from the shadows, its movements leisurely, unhurried. No rush, no urgency. It knows, as does he, that there is no escaping its advance. The long, ugly serrated blade, its intricate engravings mesmerizingly clear even in the dulled half-light, thrusts inexorably toward him. Then the pain, the searing pain.

Jesus. What the...? Theo Stern struggled up from the awkward position he had slipped into, his heart thudding uncomfortably loud in his ears. As he straightened, needle sharp pains shot through his cranked, stiffened neck. He groaned, moving his head cautiously from side to side, the stiffness only slowly easing. Hoisting himself into a more comfortable position, he took slow, deep breaths, filling his lungs with the chilled air, feeling his pulse gradually slow.

He looked anxiously around. Had he cried out? Had he actually screamed? He rubbed roughly at his face with gloved hands. Trembling hands. He couldn’t be sure; now he never could be. At first, in the hospital after it had happened, he really had screamed; the nurses, hurrying to his bedside, mopping the streaming sweat, had told him so. But now the dream was less frequent and there was no one there to tell him. Now he could never be sure.

Reaching forward, he cleared a small section of the icy windscreen and peered along the street at the bungalow and its garage; the double doors still closed, the light seeping from beneath. Relieved, he relaxed back into the seat, cursing himself for allowing the weariness to overcome him, allowing himself to drift off. But it wasn’t so easy these days. Not like before, when all night surveillance was a piece of cake. When he was tagged by his exhausted, sleep-craving subordinates as the ultimate night owl. Then he was seen as one of those strange beings that revelled in the endless nightlong vigil. It wasn’t true, of course. It was the end product that mattered, the nailing of the villain. And if that meant an all nighter, then so be it. It was true, though, that whatever he expected of himself, he expected equally of those around him.

But that was then. That was another life. Things were different now.

He was fifty, for goodness sake. He should be at home tucked up in a warm bed. He sighed, his breath condensing before him in the icy air, clinging to an already fogged windscreen. Report or no report, he muttered bitterly, if he don’t show soon, I’m out of here. But he knew that that wouldn’t be the case. He knew that whatever happened he would stay as long as necessary. It was just the way he was, the way he had always been. It had to be right, had to be complete. You couldn’t claim £300 a day plus expenses without the detail. A written, up to the minute report including every sordid detail-photographs too if you could get them. It was what the client expected and it was what the client would get.

He ran his gloved fingers roughly through the mass of iron-grey hair and pulled the collar of his heavy overcoat closer about his neck. Reaching stiffly for the thermos flask on the seat alongside him, he poured the last dregs and sipped distastefully at the lukewarm coffee. Little more than a couple of years ago he would have laughed at the mere thought of doing what he was doing now. It would have sounded ludicrous then. The once Detective Inspector Theodore Peregrine Stern of New Scotland Yard, an illustrious career spanning more than 30 years, now a lowly private detective. Who would have thought it? Funny how life had a way of turning things inside out, forcing changes beyond your wildest imagination.

His lips formed a thin, tight line as he remembered the early morning bust. A dealer they had been watching for some time. Small beer and no different from plenty of others before him. No different, that was, except for the knife, its long, slim and lethal blade appearing as if from nowhere. Every detail of that fateful morning was still etched in his mind, still able to conjure nightmares. And just the one single thrust. He shuddered, this time not because of the cold.

Detecting movement from outside, Stern again peered hopefully through the windscreen. Now one of the garage doors had been pushed open, the light flooding along the short driveway, illuminating the back of the car. Stern sank lower in the car seat as two men emerged, one carrying a package; Stern estimated about two feet square. They popped the boot lid of the car standing on the driveway and dropped the box inside. Closing the boot quietly the two men stood talking earnestly, one, his eyes resting for some long, pulse quickening moments on Stern’s car. Finally though, to Stern’s relief, the two men shook hands and one returned to the garage, closing the door behind him. The other man climbed into the car and drove quickly away. Stern stayed very still until the light still showing beneath the garage door was extinguished. Even then, he waited several minutes more, his every sense concentrating on his surroundings, ensuring that he was now indeed alone. When he was sure, he eased himself up in the seat and switched on the car’s interior light.

He rubbed his gloved hands vigorously in an attempt to restore some feeling before reaching awkwardly for his notebook. He looked at his watch, confirming the time, his chilled fingers fumbling clumsily with the ballpoint as he meticulously completed the final details of the night’s surveillance. He could have waited till later, completed his notes in the comfort of the flat, his fingers warmed by a hot drink. But no, that was not his way. He knew that even as highly trained and experienced as he was, he could forget details in the shortest time. Get the details down as they occur. It was the only way. He read the entry slowly and carefully, finally nodding his satisfaction. Sliding the notebook back into his pocket, he turned off the interior light and reached gratefully for the ignition key.

It was Stern’s proud boast that everything about the old ‘75 model VW Scirocco was original. And apart from any spares that were no longer available and had to be replaced from an equivalent source, the boast was true. There was just one exception. He had installed the CD player himself. It was the only modern addition and was Stern’s only indulgence. And there was good reason for it. The music he loved, the jazz played by the old New Orleans masters, was now cheaply available on CD. Stern had amassed a whole collection. Bunk Johnson, Jelly Roll, Sidney Bechet, the legendary Louis Armstrong and many more. He had them all. He seldom relaxed at home or drove the car without the strains of one of those great musicians playing in the background. Now, as he pulled away from the curb, he turned the heater to full blast and hit the play button.

At such an early hour, the little North Norfolk seaside town of Cromer was silent and still. The ancient church, standing sentinel-like as it had for over 600 years, its outline stark against the crisp moonlit sky, oversaw Stern as he threaded his way through the deserted one-way system and out onto the coast road.

He passed the last of the hotels, its long since darkened windows overlooking an icy, moon drenched North Sea and accelerated quickly westward toward Sheringham and home. Up to temperature now, the old Scirocco’s engine hummed happily to the tune of Bechet’s Wild Cat Blues, its heater blasting hot air onto Stern’s grateful feet.

A little over ten minutes later, Stern arrived at the rear of the sea front flats and pulled the car into the lock up. He gave it an appreciative pat on the boot lid before pulling down and locking the garage door. He had owned the little VW for over 15 years and, despite its faults and limitations, it was his passion. He allowed no one near the car and carried out all repair and maintenance work himself. He remembered with a smile that before, when they were together, Annie would say he handled the damned car with more passion than he did her. It wasn’t true, of course, but as he let himself into the flat and the cold silence closed around him, the thought of Annie induced a familiar melancholy.

He poured himself a generous measure of his favourite Laphroaig and collapsed wearily into an armchair. Pushing thoughts of Annie from his mind, he concentrated on the current case notes, mentally ticking off each point, ensuring he had missed nothing.

Stern’s client, the wife of local businessman Jonathan Evans, had hired him because she suspected an affair because of her husband’s unaccountable, irregular hours. Initial investigations had revealed no sign of any such indiscretion, but digging deeper, Stern had found that Evans’ business was in serious financial difficulties. He had decided to carry out a full surveillance and had tailed Evans on a number of occasions, both during the day and, like tonight, on late night jaunts. During the day, Evans seldom left his place of business. His nighttime activities were of a different nature. On a number of occasions, he had met with the man living in the bungalow, a known local villain with a violent reputation. Meetings took place either in a public house several miles along the coast or, like tonight, at the bungalow. A short time back, at after one in the morning, Stern had witnessed the two men collecting a number of packages from a small boat drawn up on the beach beneath the local cliffs. The packages had been taken to the bungalow and now, for the second time, Evans had collected one of those packages. Stern had no idea what the package contained, but of one thing he was sure; an affair was the least of Mrs. Evans’ worries.

Stern drained the last of the whiskey and headed for the bedroom. He threw off his clothes and slid wearily and uncomfortably under the skin-chilling duvet. He sat in the silent darkness, the duvet pulled up under his chin. Again he thought of Annie. At that very moment she was just a few miles from him. Was she alone in her bed, too? His stomach turned at the very notion that it could be otherwise. He thought about how it used to be; her soft, warm back curled into his groin, his arms encircling her sweet scented body, her breathing gentle and regular. For a precious moment, the warmth of the whiskey still drifting through him, he hung on to the thought. But soon, as it always did, reality returned.

Knowing the reputation of the man in the bungalow, Stern knew that his dealings with the Evans case could be dangerous, very dangerous indeed. And he was sure that the time would come when the police would have to be informed. But until he knew exactly what the men were up to, particularly what was in the packages, his duty lay with his client. And tomorrow was another day. Who knows what that would bring?

As he slid beneath the duvet and total weariness drew him into sleep, Stern could be forgiven for being unaware of just what tomorrow was about to bring.

Two

It was a few minutes before nine when Stern dragged himself reluctantly out from under the duvet. In the early hours, he’d struggled for sleep, his brain refusing to switch off, his body cold and tense. He had finally collapsed into a shallow, exhausted slumber at around five.

Now, tired and irritated before the day had begun, he slouched to the kitchen and downed a glass of cold water to clear a fouled mouth. Returning to the bedroom, he clambered reluctantly aboard the rowing machine.

He had noticed the developing gut the year before and had fought the good fight ever since ... a punishing 20 minutes on the machine every morning and, weather permitting, a 40-minute beach run every other day. Sometimes, like this morning, it was hard work, but he stuck at it, convincing himself that it had to be doing him some good even though his weight hadn’t altered an ounce. At just under six feet, he had hovered around the 14 stone mark for years. Even before, in the Force, when there had been no time at all for exercise routines, it had seldom altered more than a pound or two. He was big boned, always carried his weight well. And the gut? Sometimes he was sure it was flattening. But then, like this morning...

Twenty minutes later, his heart pounding, he abandoned the machine and wandered into the bathroom where he stood in front of the mirror and studied his tired reflection. This morning, he thought sadly, he looked his age. His broad, heavy-browed features seemed more lined than ever and the normally firm, determined jaw, accentuated by dark, unshaven stubble, appeared jutting and belligerent. His hair, too, normally shining and well groomed, was little more than a thick, unruly iron-grey mass. But what depressed Stern most of all were the eyes. Normally deep grey and sharply intelligent, they were dulled with fatigue. That was another thing about getting older, he thought as he moved away from the mirror and headed for the shower, sleep became more important.

But as he dressed, Stern’s thoughts brightened. It was Wednesday and there were two good things about that. One, it was only the rowing machine and no run; he didn’t think he would have had the energy anyway. Two, he had promised Annie lunch. Back in the kitchen, he splashed his usual cornflakes and milk into a bowl and wandered into the lounge. Drawing the curtains, he stood absently spooning the cornflakes and looking out across an angry grey North Sea.

Stern had bought the second floor flat, only yards from the beach, soon after his enforced retirement from the Force. It was small, only one bedroom, but spacious enough. And the balcony overlooking the North Sea was a bonus; there was nothing better, on a warm summer evening, than to sit outside cradling a glass of malt and watching a moon-drenched North Sea lap lazily at the smooth white sand.

But it wasn’t the flat, nor was it the scenery that had brought him to rural North Norfolk. He was a city man and always had been. He had spent his career almost exclusively in the capital as well as various positions in Liverpool and Manchester - even an advisory post in violence-ridden Belfast for a short while. No, Stern had chosen Norfolk for one reason and one reason only. Annie was here.

Annie. The love of his life. She had tried hard to make the marriage work, struggling for 15 years against an adversary that even she, in her heart, knew could not be beaten. He was a copper to the very marrow in his bones and his work would always come first. Annie, though devoted to him as much as he was to her, wanted him only on her terms. The end had been inevitable.

Pushing negative thoughts from his mind, Stern slid the empty cereal bowl and spoon into the sink, grabbed his coat and headed for the door. They might be parted, he thought, but they were still married; in three years, neither had yet been able to bring themselves to initiate that final piece of paper that would officially cut the tie. And Stern was no longer in the Force. Therefore, in his mind, there was still hope that the tiny flicker he was sure still burned in them both could be rekindled. A forlorn hope? Maybe, but Stern was ever the optimist.

With his office only a few minutes’ walk from the flat, Stern left the Scirocco in the garage. He took the sea front route, striding quickly down to the promenade, a sharp onshore wind whipping whitecaps on the incoming tide, buffeting him as he walked. Then on past the beach watch hut and the tiny seafront café, both their doors tightly closed and locked at this time of year. At the crab fisherman’s boat launching slope, he made his way up past the old lifeboat shed and its antique lifeboats. Cutting through the narrow alleyway between the shops, he emerged onto the bustling Sheringham high street.

Stern’s offices were two small rooms above a local bakery. They were rented courtesy of Denis, the hard working owner, who baked every delicious loaf and pastry himself and was grateful for the added revenue to supplement an income slowly being eroded by new, ever encroaching supermarkets.

Passing through the shop, the heavy smell of freshly baked bread and cakes filling his nostrils, Stern called a greeting to his baker landlord and headed for the back of the shop. Easing past the hot ovens, their heat warming him after the sea front chill, he pushed through a door and climbed a flight of narrow stairs. At the top of the stairs was another door, glass-fronted, the words STERN INVESTIGATIONS stencilled across it. Stern looked at his watch. It was 10:30 and as he pushed the door open, he knew what to expect.

He wasn’t disappointed.

If you worked for me, I’d sack you, Cherry sat at her desk, her fingers moving effortlessly over the PC keyboard.

Well I don’t, so you can’t, he retaliated quickly, closing the door behind him. But you do and I can, so make with the coffee.

Smiling, she kept her eyes on the keyboard. Miserable git.

Stern dropped the notes of the previous night on the desk in front of her.

Cherry Hooker looked up for the first time, seeking his tired eyes. Late one, was it?

Stern nodded. And bloody cold.

Did you see them?

He nodded. Our man collected some more gear. He chewed at his lip. Need to find out what it is.

You need to be careful, too. The words reflected no criticism, just concern.

He nodded lamely. I know, but you know me; belt and braces. He looked into the startlingly blue, challenging eyes. What was it Annie had said when first introduced to Cherry?

Eyes that reflected her heart.

It was true and under their gaze, Stern’s smile broadened, easy now, not forced. He perched himself on the corner of her desk.

You know I’m too old to change now, he said.

She shook her head slowly. And too daft.

He chuckled, her words conjuring memories of his first encounter with Cherry Hooker.

Hell, was it really nine years ago?

Three

1999

The East End of London

London’s Bethnal Green and the raid on the flat was the result of an anonymous telephone call.

Violent exchanges, the concerned caller said, distressed screams.

Violent exchanges in the East End were nothing unusual, but a report of distressed screams prompted a visit by uniforms who, with no response to their continuous banging, finally forced an entry.

They found Cherry Hooker. She was alone in the flat, spread-eagled, face down on a disrupted, heavily-stained bed. She was also completely naked and had been viciously beaten. The single sheet beneath her was saturated with blood pumping from a ruptured artery. Uniforms’ first visual indicated death, but as a matter of routine they had immediately called for medics. It was Cherry’s lucky day; a paramedic vehicle had been only a street away.

Coincidentally, Detective Inspector Theo Stern was also only minutes away from the scene. Hearing the call on the car radio, he too had hurried to the flat, arriving only minutes after the medics.

Cherry Hooker was found not to be dead and was saved only by the prompt actions of the paramedics and the closeness of the local hospital. But her condition was serious. Besides the ruptured artery, she had suffered several broken ribs and a punctured lung. It was some time before she was deemed strong enough to be interrogated and even then, on his first visit, Stern had encountered a very weak and defensive young woman. But he had persevered and over the course of several gentle sessions had been able to gain Cherry’s confidence and compile the full story.

She was just 18 years old and had been a full time prostitute for two years. Thanks to the sadistic insistence of her drug-pushing pimp, she had been main-lining heroin for at least 18 months. The reason for her pimp’s latest and most fierce beating had been her objection to submitting to the wishes of three drunken Hungarian businessmen visiting London. They were willing to pay whatever the pimp demanded to prove that three into one was an acceptable equation. With their money in his pocket and Cherry forcefully pinned to the bed, the pimp watched as the three men were given the opportunity to prove their theory. Afterwards, satisfied, they were sent happily on their way and the pimp had methodically set about ensuring that Cherry Hooker would never again object to his instructions. But the pimp was too enthusiastic with his enforcement. Realising the damage he had done, he panicked and left Cherry to her fate, slipping away just before the police arrived.

Stern had seen much before, but the sight of the slender, ravaged figure spread-eagled prone on the blood-saturated bed had haunted him. He had continued to visit Cherry often - more than the job demanded - helping to pull her from the depths of despair, watching her slowly heal mentally as well as physically. He had personally funded Cherry’s enrollment into a rehabilitation scheme, cajoling, bullying and caressing her through the bad times, praising and treating her through the good. In return, Cherry had grown to trust and rely on him. To Cherry Hooker, Theo Stern could do no wrong. And through him, when she had eventually grown strong enough, Cherry testified against her pimp, bringing him and others to justice. Fearing reprisals, the authorities had insisted that, for her own safety, Cherry should join the witness protection programme. Cherry had reacted against the suggestion, but grudgingly, again taking Stern’s advice, she had adopted a new name and moved to a new life in Carlisle. From that time, contact between Stern and Cherry Hooker had been forbidden.

It was five years before they had again come face-to-face and Stern had learned how, from the very first, Cherry had hated Carlisle as much as she hated her new name. When the time was right, she had promised herself, she would again re-adopt the birth name she cherished. She would also live in the place of her own choice. A rigorous fitness programme, including the achievement of a brown belt in karate, ensured that no one would ever again lay an angry finger on Cherry Hooker and live to tell the tale. Adult education classes, too, with qualifications in English and computer studies. And during that time Cherry worked hard, holding down a series of jobs, each an improvement on the last.

It had been a little more than five years from the day that Cherry Hooker had lain broken and abused beyond recognition in a dingy east end of London flat. Stern had been officially retired for six months and the daily boredom was driving him to depression. He was standing on the Sheringham seafront contemplating the future, a small seed of an idea germinating in his mind.

The firm tap on the shoulder had interrupted his thoughts.

She had looked then, as she did now, immaculate. No more than five four and 50 kilos at most, Cherry Hooker would never grace the cover of a fashion magazine; even without the help of Botox, her lips were too full and her jaw too aggressive. But there was something about her that caught the eye, drew the attention. Maybe it was the clear, intelligent eyes-eyes that reflected her heart-or maybe the soft, naturally fair hair she wore short, framing her pale features. And then maybe it was none of those things; maybe it was just the confident, very female way she held herself.

Don’t know why I bothered to come here, she had said as he spun round. Still, I suppose it’s as good a place as any. She had laughed, glorying in her idol’s amazed, utter disbelief. Don’t have a job by any chance, do you, guv’?

Now, eighteen months later, squatting on the edge of Cherry’s desk, Stern accepted the mug of coffee she handed him, remembering that day as if it were yesterday. And yes, as it happened, he did have a job.

Cherry hesitated. What?

Sorry?

What are you looking at? Why are you grinning?

Stern let the unconscious grin spread to a full-blown smile. Oh, nothing really. I was just thinking that if it weren’t for you I wouldn’t have to do all this rubbish. He raised the mug to his lips.

Yeah, right, she scoffed. And you hate every minute of it, don’t you? She slid back into her chair. I just helped you make up your mind, that’s all. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be dithering around wondering what to do with your idle life. She shook her head. I honestly don’t know why I bother to come here every day. The pleasurable twitch of her ample lips belied her mock anger. She dropped her eyes back to the keyboard. Don’t you think it’s about time you did some work?

He cradled the mug to his chest Having a quiet morning, he replied. Then I’m taking Annie to lunch.

Cherry didn’t look up. You’d better get on and deal with your client then.

She nodded her head toward the other door, the one leading to his personal inner sanctum, its half glass