David Hodges [Hodges - Death on the Levels

DEATH ON THE LEVELS

An addictive crime thriller full of twists

DAVID HODGES

(Detective Kate Hamblin mystery book 6)

Published 2019

Joffe Books, London

www.joffebooks.com

David Hodges

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the authors rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of David Hodges to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

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CONTENTS

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my wife, Elizabeth, for all her love, patience and support over so many wonderful years and to my late mother and father, whose faith in me to one day achieve my ambition as a writer remained steadfast throughout their lifetime and whose tragic passing has left a hole in my life that will never be filled.

AUTHORS NOTE

Although the action in this novel takes place within the Avon & Somerset Police area, the story itself and all the characters in it are entirely fictitious. Similarly, at the time of writing, there is no police station in Highbridge. This has been drawn entirely from the authors imagination to ensure no connection is made between any existing police station or personnel in the force and the content of the novel. I would also point out that I have used some poetic licence in relation to the local police structure and some of the specific procedures followed by Avon & Somerset Police in order to meet the requirements of the plot. Nevertheless, the policing background depicted in the novel is broadly in accord with the national picture and these little departures from fact will, hopefully, not spoil the reading enjoyment of serving or retired police officers, for whom I have the utmost respect.

David Hodges

Before The Fact

There was not as much blood as might have been expected. The sharpened pencil penetrated the cornea of the psychiatrists right eye and buried itself in the sixty-year-olds brain with the ease of a breadstick sliding into a guacamole dip. Death was instantaneous, of course, and when the body had stopped twitching, it was a simple enough matter to exchange clothes with the victim before hauling the cadaver into the private flat that adjoined the consulting room, closing and locking the door afterwards, and pocketing the key. Dumped in there, it could be days before the body was found, and probably only then when the sweet, sickly smell that accompanied the natural process of early decomposition attracted attention.

George Lupin had been a guest at a succession of mental institutions since early adulthood, before finally ending up at Larchfield Secure Psychiatric Hospital. In fact, at the start of it all, decades ago, the then assize court had obviously intended to throw away the key when theyd passed judgement. By recording a verdict of unfit to plead by reason of insanity, they had in effect handed down an indeterminate sentence. Not that that had been much of a surprise to George, who had admitted to the torture of some halfwit kid in a shed at the young offenders institution, just months after the teenager had been sent there for fatally stabbing a pervert at the orphanage.

Mind you, it had not been too bad in the hospital. Actually, it had been a bit like staying in a hotel. Except for the massive outer wall, the surveillance cameras, electronic gates, tight perimeter security, and the compulsory pharmacological medication, which had at times produced similar psychedelic effects to those experienced by Jack Nicholsons character in the early stages of the film, One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest .

George had even enjoyed the regular visits of the shrink. It had been fun pretending to respond to the treatment and all that counselling claptrap deceiving the hospitals nave hierarchy into believing that their pathetic treatment programme had made a difference to one of their most dangerous psychopaths, even though release was unlikely to be an option. Not after what Patient 174 had done.

But then the worst news possible had been delivered by the hospitals senior consultant after George had noticed some bleeding, accompanied by substantial weight loss. A tumour, theyd said; a nasty, aggressive one that was inoperable and eating away at the essential organs, like something out of the film Alien . As yet, there was no real pain, just discomfort, but theyd admitted it would come at the end. Their resident psycho had just a few months left, with the grim prospect of inheriting a nice little plot in the hospitals cemetery before Christmas arrived. It wasnt fair. All those years of incarceration and now the final turn of the screw.

What would they inscribe on the tombstone, George wondered? George Lupin or maybe just Patient 174, with a date of birth and death, plus the usual RIP? In short, just another deceased inmate passing into obscurity like all the others. No, there had to be something better than that, something more enduring; a reason for society to remember this sad, sick psycho, as they had remembered others who had earned a prominent place in history through their notoriety, like the Moors Murderers or Dr Shipman.

It was then that George Lupin had made the decision to ditch the mind-bending drugs the hospital had been prescribing to secretly regurgitate the little coloured tablets after they had been issued and consign them to the toilet before breaking out of Larchfield altogether, to spend the last few weeks that remained giving free rein to the paranoid desires which the medication had so far suppressed.

The whole thing had taken meticulous planning.

First, pre-escape preparation. That had meant deciding on a weapon for what George had in mind. Sharps of any sort were out of the question, so it had to be something that could be adapted. A biro? No, that wouldnt be permitted. A pencil, then? No, the same would apply on this wing, unless the art classes had been boring, but they had provided access to some basic kit, including pencils; nice, sharp pencils. The dotty art teacher Larchfield brought in from outside the hospital was more concerned with the creative aspects of her role than monitoring the return of the kit she had issued.

So far, so good the weapon had been obtained. Now for the second part of the plan; a haircut. George had quite long, blond hair, but it needed to be much shorter and of a similar style to the blond hair of the psychiatrist, who was to be Patient 174s ticket out of Larchfield. To avoid attracting attention any sudden change always aroused suspicion the trim had to be carried out over a period of weeks. A little bit shorter to start with, so that everyone got used to it, then a bit more and a bit more, until it was done. That meant eating into the last two months of Georges remaining life expectancy, but it couldnt be helped and, in any event, it still left enough time for what needed to be done on the outside, so it was worth the risk.

Next on the agenda was the going away outfit. The shrink was about the same build as George, with similar size feet, so borrowing his clothes and shoes after the victim had been dispatched hadnt seemed to pose too much of a problem.