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  Dead Blind

  Rebecca Bradley

  Text copyright © 2018 Rebecca Bradley

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover art by Design for Writers.

  Do you want to claim your FREE copy of Three Weeks Dead, the prequel novella to Shallow Waters, Made to be Broken and Fighting Monsters? I’d love it if you joined my readers’ club and joined the many others who have enjoyed the book that starts the DI Hannah Robbins series.

  The great thing about Three Weeks Dead is that it can be read before or after Shallow Waters.

  View it now.

  Prologue

  St Andrew’s Church, climbing out of the ground towards the oppressive granite sky overhead, passed by on his left much faster than DI Ray Patrick would have liked.

  Rain lashed down, slamming into the windshield, the wipers working hard to clear the way. Visibility close to non-existent.

  The orange needle of the speedometer nosed around the clock and touched close to double the legal speed limit for the road.

  ‘This bastard is crazy,’ said DS Elaine Hart from the passenger seat.

  ‘You didn’t pick that up from behind the locked door?’ Ray asked.

  ‘Well …’ She laughed.

  The glow from the street lights turned the evening darkness into a sepia-toned jumble of shapes which were fractured by the blue strobes emitted from the grille of the unmarked police car.

  The road wasn’t particularly wide, and though it was late a trickle of traffic still crawled through the barrage of rain, as it always did, no matter what borough of London you were in, and Stoke Newington was no different. There were few pedestrians about, umbrellas pushed up against the onslaught, heads pulled down as far into collars as they’d go, but they stopped and stared as the two cars flew past them.

  Ray needed all his senses about him. He was glad to have Elaine with him to update the control room and provide the running commentary. They could hear the location of their backup through their radios, so they knew an intercept was on the cards.

  The Fabia they were following swerved and completed a wide overtake of the driver in front of him, who panicked as he heard the two-tone siren and saw the blues flash in his rear-view mirror. He stopped dead in the middle of the road. Ray swore. It was an all too common response. The sound and lights crashed into a driver’s brain, causing them to freeze up.

  But Ray was ready; he pulled around the stationary car and kept his forward momentum.

  ‘Left left left onto West Bank,’ commentated Elaine as the blue Fabia skidded hard in that direction, its tyres squealing as the driver made the manoeuvre. She braced herself, one hand on the dashboard, for what she knew would come.

  Ray slowed as much as he could and took the turn, feeling the back end of the car give from under them slightly. The late-summer day had ended in a massive downpour and conditions were poor for the sharp turn.

  ‘Shit.’ Elaine pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. West Bank was filled with cars parked on both sides, and it was so narrow that it was only possible for one car to drive down at once. Terraced houses lined the left-hand side of the street and thick evergreen shrubs and trees lined the right.

  The problem was the parked cars. A bead of sweat slid down Ray’s spine, pricking at his skin as it did so.

  They’d been after this guy for the last six months and he’d finally slipped up. After he’d murdered his third victim it appeared that he might have got sloppy, or overconfident, or overexcited. A partial print had been found on the latest woman’s belt buckle. It wasn’t enough for a conviction as it could reasonably have belonged to someone she’d met before her murder. He could have had a plausible explanation, but the fact that they were now in a high-speed chase with him gave Ray reason enough to believe they had their man. All they needed to do was prove it once they had him locked up. As they chased him down, Ray knew the full forensic team was tearing his house apart, and he was confident they would find evidence of the crimes.

  But, fucking hell, he drove like a bastard. He wanted him locked up and answering for what he’d done, not wrapped around a lamp-post or tree.

  You would never have guessed there was a problem when he answered the door. You would have considered him the lover – but really, what does a killer look like? This guy looked like a stereotypical teacher. Late twenties, thick bouncy hair, dark-framed glasses and a V-neck Argyle jumper with open-neck shirt underneath. He looked smart, together in himself. He’d invited them in and put the kettle on. They were only there for a chat, after all. But before Ray knew it, the guy was out of the front door, having locked it behind him, and was away in his car.

  They’d been locked in the flat. Inside! Now that was a new one. One he and Elaine would never live down. The rest of the team would give them hell about it. They’d had to break down a door – to get out.

  Son of a bitch.

  Now he was leading them a merry dance, and Ray didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit. His driving was reckless for the time of day and conditions. The rain was coming down in sheets, the windscreen wipers sliding at full speed. Ray lifted his foot off the gas slightly, gave him some room. ‘We’re not going to kill this guy tonight,’ he said to Elaine as the headlights splintered in the water through his windshield.

  The car in front weaved through tight spots, cars parked too close together on opposite sides of the road. A wing mirror flew off, rose upwards before it crashed to the road.

  ‘Sounds good to me. Too much paperwork involved in that.’ She held on to the edge of her seat with one hand as she updated the control room as to their whereabouts and speed on a continual basis with the other.

  The Fabia was pulling away, picking up speed. It started to swerve on the narrow road.

  ‘What the hell’s he trying to do?’

  ‘I don’t think he wants to talk to us,’ she answered.

  ‘Really? But we’re such nice people. I don’t see his problem.’ Ray dropped his speed again, 35 mph – the conditions were getting worse. Elaine updated control. Other cars were close by and would intercept shortly, all Ray had to do was keep his eyes on him.

  Where the road became Holmdale Terrace the parked cars diminished and the road widened. The Fabia weaved about even more.

  ‘You think he watches too much television and thinks we’re going to ram him?’ asked Elaine.

  ‘What, 1970s television?’

  ‘Well, he’d get further if he stayed in a straight line.’

  He was on the wrong side of the road again and a sharp left-hand bend was approaching.

  ‘Shit, is he going to pull back across?’ Ray dropped his speed a little more while the driver in front stayed on the wrong side of the road as he travelled the bend.

  There was a burst of horns.

  A squeal of tyres.

  Metal scraped against metal.

  Rain continued to slash down.

  Then, directly in front of them, on the bend, another car, another driver, head turned to look at the lunatic he’d managed to avoid, the crazy driver who’d made this other guy correct to the wrong side of the road to avoid a head-on collision – and this second car was headed straight for them.

  There was no time. Ray saw the hint of anger and frustration on the driver’s face, the relief that he wasn’t dead, as Elaine’s scream perforated his brain. The word brake flashed into his head with the scream.

  But; time.

  Time was both stretched and over. Ray didn’t have the time to get the brake signal from his brain to his leg. The other driver barely had time to turn back and look in the direction his car was moving, moving on the wrong side of the
road after it had swerved and missed one collision.

  Elaine didn’t have the time to think of her children, but the image was seared into her pupils.

  The sound of smashing, crushing, twisting metal could be heard through the driving rain by the approaching officers who were there to back up Ray and Elaine.

  1

  Walking through the secure doors into Stoke Newington police station held a sense of familiarity. A sense of coming home. There was the everyday smell of shredded paper, printer ink, cleaning fluids from the cleaners’ trolleys and the odours from all the bodies that passed through the corridors: masculine aftershaves, feminine perfumes and the very particular whiff of those who didn’t bother with either.

  This hadn’t changed in the six months Ray had been on sick leave recuperating from his injuries. Recuperating – that was the line HR believed, and he had let them. There was no reason for them to suspect anything was wrong with him other than broken bones. His signed sick-notes had all been for his physical injuries, his fractured ribs, his arm, the more serious compound fracture in his femur, which had required surgery to place a metal rod in his leg, and which had then become infected. The punctured lung was not a big issue. It had been a small pneumothorax, taking only a couple of weeks to heal. He’d been lucky. So yes, it was the breaks that had slowed his return to work, and these were the ones he’d had to prove his recovery from. The rest, he wasn’t checked for. The rest, he wasn’t owning up to.

  For Ray, the time away had been time to get his head around the change in his life. His bones and physical body were the easy transitions. Rest, physio and exercise to get back into shape and take him to the point where he could return; a simple enough plan. But the other problem, that took some adjustment. When he looked back at the time he woke at the hospital to find his ex-wife, Helen, and their children in the room, it broke his heart. Remembering the look his children gave him as tears streaked their faces. Eyes flooded like broken riverbanks as pain tore down their cheeks in tidal surges. Knowing he had been responsible, with his denial that their mother was his ex-wife, his denial that he even knew her. It had been an excruciating time. Helen had been there in the first place because of the children. Because she wanted them to continue to have a well-rounded family unit, even if they were separated. Even if they were still trying to find their footing to make that work.

  It was because of the hours he’d put in at this place that his marriage had broken down. Helen hadn’t appreciated coming second to the job. Not many wives and husbands did – it was why there were so many break-ups. Cops were human and they sought out human warmth and understanding where it was easiest. Not that Ray had; their breakdown was lack of time together and he gave her the divorce without a fight. He couldn’t argue with her, he couldn’t promise to be at home more. The job made demands and he submitted. Simple as that. And he didn’t deny her at the hospital because of any frictions they may have been harbouring, he denied her because he simply didn’t recognise her.

  The station, though: he could remember every corridor and every office, including who it belonged to – which boss or unit – and every stationery cupboard and toilet.

  Ray pushed his hands into his pockets, took a deep breath and started his ascent of the stairs to his office and the incident room where his colleagues would gather in the next couple of hours or so. An early start would give him a chance to settle before the arduous task of pretence started.

  Catching the villains, the chase, was what it was all about. For Ray, though, paperwork and email would be his sanctuary today. He’d seek solace behind his desk, because at least he remembered where his desk was.

  Those first steps into the station after six months sick weren’t the issue; the ability to recognise his colleagues – now that would be a problem.

  His leg ached in the background as he walked up the stairs towards his office, old memories flooding his senses with each step. Then Ray heard footsteps headed down towards him.

  A single set. Alone.

  His fist clenched in his pocket. Otherwise he kept his relaxed pose in place and one foot moving in front of the other.

  ‘Sir!’ A young officer in uniform. ‘It’s good to see you back. First day?’

  ‘Morning.’ Ray smiled at the young lad. Dark hair, dark eyes, and, in that familiar uniform, looked pretty much like everyone else. There was no use in looking for ‘identifiers’ as his nurse, Elizabeth, had taught him, as he had only prepared for his team. He tried for relaxed, but felt tight. ‘Yes, first day, expecting to be crushed under the weight of the paper on my desk.’

  The young officer laughed and carried on down the stairs. ‘We’ll expect a tasking for a search party later then, sir.’ And he was out of sight.

  Ray breathed. No idea who he had spoken with.

  It was all quiet as he had hoped when he reached the incident room and his office. The perks of being a DI meant that he had his own space to hide out in, and because he knew the routine of the team he knew what time they’d be in, even if there was a job on. He had had the foresight to call his boss and good friend, Detective Superintendent Prabhat Jain, who had said they did have a job, but it wasn’t one where the unit would need to be in early, so he would have some time to himself if he wanted to acclimatise before they came in. Prabhat said he would also come in earlier than usual to meet up with him, so Ray knew they’d be able to sit and chat, but he also knew he wouldn’t disclose the facts he didn’t have to. He had passed his fitness to work. All his injuries were healed; he hadn’t lied about any of his physical injuries.

  After six months off, his office looked bedraggled. Cops had obviously used it as a spare room when they needed the space and had then tried to clear it out again when they knew of his return. Chairs were shoved to the sides against walls, and there were stacks of opened letters on his desk. Prabhat had warned him that he had opened them in case any needed urgent action. The ones left here were ones for him to deal with now.

  Ray slipped off his coat and hung it up. It felt like coming home. Home after teenagers had partied in the house, but home nonetheless. He fired up the laptop on his desk and started to work his way through the hundreds of emails that waited for him.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Humpty Dumpty himself.’

  Ray recognised the voice in his doorway as that of Jain and looked at the time on the screen; an hour had passed.

  ‘But this good egg doesn’t stay –’ He looked up, he had expected it, but the shock still stopped his flow. He needed to do better.

  ‘What’s that, mate?’ the Asian guy in the smart suit asked as he walked into the office with a big smile on his face.

  Ray needed to act as though this was normal. He forced his legs to move, stood to meet him and walked around his desk. ‘– doesn’t stay down.’ He grasped Jain’s hand, and he used both hands in return, shaking vigorously.

  ‘It’s a good job, mate.’ He let go of Ray’s hand and pulled a chair over. ‘Can you imagine the outrage if we’d have had to do a second collection for your funeral flowers after we’d already done a collection for the hospital gift, with this bunch of tight-arses?’

  Ray turned back to his desk, closed his eyes. The voice was the same. He knew who he was. He now had to keep this up all day and try to figure it out for every single member of staff who walked through the door.

  2

  ‘So.’ Ray walked back into his office with two mugs, warm coffee wafting under his nose. He handed one to Jain. ‘What is the job we have on?’ He sat behind his desk, creating distance between them. He had expected this, and had come in early so he could take it at his own pace, but still it had taken him by surprise and now there was no escape. He was locked in a room with his guv, his mate – and he needed to do this with Prabhat. If he could do this with him, then there was half a chance he could keep it up with an office full of staff. This was the big test. So much more than the MRI and CT he’d had at the hospital after failing to recognise Helen and the kids. Tests t
hat had come back normal. The hospital cited retrograde amnesia for a while; that was until they had the real answer.

  He felt his shirt start to cling to him as his body reacted to the stress. He sucked in a breath, held it, looked at the ceiling and let it go.

  Jain watched him. ‘You sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Yes. Fine. It’s been a while since I was here. The usual worries that I might have slipped from my game, that’s all.’

  ‘Not you, Ray. I give you a couple of hours. At the outside. And you’ll feel as though you’ve never been away.’

  The voice was so familiar. The mellow tone, so soothing.

  ‘You’re right. So –’ he straightened himself ‘– the job that we have?’

  ‘It’s an interesting one.’ Jain crossed one leg over the other, settled himself in. ‘It’ll get your juices going. We’ve only had one charged in the UK before and not the people at the top of an operation like this. This is a unique chance to get the people behind the curtain.’

  ‘Okay, you’ve piqued my interest.’

  Prabhat put his mug on Ray’s desk and leaned forward on his knees, an intense look on his face. ‘Trading in human organs.’

  ‘What? Seriously? In the UK? How?’

  ‘Yes, that is what I said, yes, yes, and – that’s a long story.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to hear it.’

  ‘I know, but we have an op running that you’ve come back just in time for, so I need to know you’re okay to take over supervision of a case of this magnitude?’

  Ray paused, looked at the Asian skin tone and the dark black hair, worn so neatly, of his friend and guv. It was the only way he knew it was Jain, and the only way he would be able to differentiate him from his DSs and DCs below him.

  Prosopagnosia. That’s what they had called it when one doctor had figured it out after he’d walked out of the room and then back in again. Or in layman’s terms, face blindness. He was face blind. He couldn’t recognise a single goddamn person. Cop, witness or offender.