Douglas Stewart - Capital Crimes

CAPITAL CRIMES

An Anthology of Short Thriller Fiction

Written by UK & Europe Members of

The INTERNATIONAL THRILLER WRITERS (ITW)

Edited by Alex Shaw and Maynard Sims

Charlie Cochrane, Stephen Edger, Charlie Flowers, Alex McDermott, J L Merrow, Alex Shaw, Graeme Shimmin, Maynard Sims, Lambert Nagle, Douglas Stewart, 2015

Charlie Cochrane, Stephen Edger, Charlie Flowers, Alex McDermott, J L Merrow, Alex Shaw, Graeme Shimmin, Maynard Sims, Lambert Nagle amd Douglas Stewart have asserted their rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

First published 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

Table of Contents

FOREWORD by Peter James

Ive always loved the medium of the short story, both as a writer and reader. For the writer, it gives a chance to explore ideas and themes that work best on a small canvas rather than in the 100,000+ words of the modern novel. For the reader, in our increasingly hectic lives, what a joy to have an entire story one can devour on a commute, or between going to bed and falling asleep.

Some of my strongest inspiration for my books, over the years, has come from ideas that have popped from reading short stories by wonderful writers. Tales with great twists in them, and tales that are just wry observations of fellow human beings, and snapshots of ordinary or extraordinary - lives.

Themed anthologies can work exceptionally well, because they give writers a great opportunity for contrast against a common backdrop. This collection is just that, the backdrop being London, one of the most diverse cities in the world, and eight stories as diverse as the writing is brilliant. And dark of course would you expect anything less from such fine crime and mystery writers? Youre going to have a lot of fun with these and not a few shocks

Three captives are incinerated alive in a London basement. A dark, edgy lady travels in the rear of a cab. A gay man revisits London Pride after a long absence. A man wakes up in bed with a blonde stranger. A man on a Vespa arrives late for work to find a dead body. An army deserter threatens to kill another soldier. Commandoes in a stealth helicopter track a suicide bomber. An old man watching football suddenly finds himself forced to relive his life. An MI6 agent discovers a scam. And the past catches up with a killer.

Peter James

Sussex

INSCRUTABLE by Douglas Stewart

Central London

In the damp chill of the basement, the three figures sat in silence, the smell of stale sweat and excrement hanging heavily around them. Had they wanted to shout or scream in fear of imminent death it would have been futile. The gags stuffed deep into their mouths prevented them from uttering any meaningful noise. Each was strapped to a metal chair by piano-wire wrapped around ankles, waist and shoulders. Their hands were clasped together behind the chair-backs. Only their heads and eyes could move, but two of the captives were keeping their eyes tight shut against what was going to happen. The third flicked his eyes right and left, and saw enough to whimper as he fought against the bindings.

Their captor was alone now in his grey hoodie and latex gloves. Earlier, another man of similar stocky build had been wiping everything for fingerprints. After pulling a navy-blue hoodie tight around his face, he had left. The remaining man paced round the trio shouting vitriol close to the mens pallid faces while each prisoner quivered and prayed for a merciful intervention or a speedy ending.

It was not going to come.

In a sudden move the captor picked up a large can and doused the men from head to toe before retreating to the doorway. Then he threw a lighted rag. Instantly the figures were engulfed in flames, squirming against the piano-wire. Pausing only to smile and grunt with satisfaction, the man slammed and locked the door behind him and raced up the stone steps to slip away, head down, hands deep in pockets. Glancing neither left nor right, he crossed the paved street and within seconds was anonymous among the night owls chilling out near the Hippodrome Casino or chomping on fast-food from the eateries beside Leicester Square.

He turned right beside the Empire Cinema, sauntering through the shadows until he had nearly completed a square. Now he was into Lisle Street, passing between the endless Chinese restaurants, the smell of soy sauce and crispy duck drifting through the still July air. As he passed the Chinese Arch on Gerrard Street he glanced at his watch, saw it was nearly 2 a.m. and quickened his pace before breaking into a trot for which he looked ill-equipped. The hooded figure scurried across Shaftesbury Avenue, dodging a taxi, jogging faster between the late-nighters along Archer Street as he headed for the multistorey.

For the first time, the man glanced round, but there was no sign of anyone who might have been following. Moments later, three floors up, he clambered into the passenger seat of a brown Toyota saloon. As he pulled back his grey hood, the driver looked enquiringly, the body language asking the question. In answer, he gave an almost imperceptible nod of the head.

It was enough.

*

At almost 3 a.m. Det. Inspector Todd Ratso Holtom was redirected to Wentworth Passage, a narrow side street off Charing Cross Road, not far from Leicester Square Tube. At that moment he had been heading back to the nick on Buckingham Palace Road after interviewing an Indian money-changer about a murder enquiry linked to money-laundering an investigation which had been going nowhere fast. Central London, with its myriad of poky money-changing outlets, was proving a nightmare to investigate without resources to throw at 24-7 surveillance.

An adrenalin rush pumped through him as he received the call to head for a possible crime scene. As he lengthened his stride along Cranbourn Street, recollections of his afternoons cricket vanished. A new incident always got him fired up. He hoped it would be a big one something he could crack, and crack quickly. As he turned into Charing Cross Road, he was disappointed at the lack of drama there was just the faintest smell of burning, mixed with diesel fumes and French fries. In the blackness of the sky there was no sign of flames or smoke billowing over the rooftops. Maybe a false alarm, no big deal after all.

It was only then that he spotted a crowd standing behind a blue and white police line. The ribbon blocked entry to Wentworth Passage, which usually was traffic-free. A couple of uniforms stood inside the cordon. Ratso used his height, his commanding voice and determined look to muscle between the thirty or so gawpers taking pictures on their smartphones. After waving his ID he was at once admitted. Filling the alley were a squad car, two ambulances and three fire engines, their blue lights bouncing eerily off the buildings that rose four storeys on either side. Everywhere was movement and noise the fire crews wrestling with hoses amid shouted orders over the throb-throb from the fire engines which reverberated between the small shopfronts.

Ratso joined the nearest firefighter and asked for his boss, and was pointed towards a figure with a large yellow helmet with blue stripes.

DI Holtom. Belgravia Police Station, Ratso volunteered as the officer squinted at his ID in the flashing light. Whats the story?

Bob Armstrong, Crew Manager. The ambulance guys are down there now. In the basement. He had more than a rough edge of South London in his accent.

Ratso studied the building and the hose snaking its way into a narrow corridor. Fires out then?

Armstrongs eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips before exhaling. The fabric never really caught. Stone floor down there. No furniture neither least except for the metal chairs.

Meaning?

Three of them. Tied to chairs. Accelerant poured over them and set alight.