Dan Waddell - The Blood Detective

The basement, he thought.

His eyes were attracted to a sign to one side of the block, black on white in giant lettering: 'STORE

MORE'. A road wound down underneath the council block, ended by a black garage door. Some sort of self-storage facility. Using the torch, he checked the 1893 map, folded and bundled into his coat pocket.

Then he looked back at the block of flats. The road on the 1893 map was at a different angle from the other streets that branched off the main road. Tracing it with his finger, Pamber Street seemed to follow the contour of the road leading down to the underground storage unit. He ran towards it. Outside the entrance was a security guard.

'Is anyone in there?' Nigel asked, gesturing with his finger at the door.

'No,' the guard said. 'There's only me on duty.

What's going on here?' He gestured to the melee around the block of flats.

'Police work.'

The security guard raised his eyebrows.

'Police?'

Nigel decided to l ie. He nodded imperceptibly. 'I need to get in there,' he said, indicating the entrance behind the guard. 'It's important,' he added.

The security guard weighed up his decision.

'Once you've let me in, you need to go and find Detective Sergeant Heather Jenkins and tell her to meet me in here,' Nigel continued with as much authority as he could muster, not wanting to give him time to think about it too much.

The gleam in Nigel's eyes, his desperation, appeared to sway the security guard. He turned back and unlocked the door, letting Nigel in.

'Where's unit 12?'

'First floor down. Take the lift.' He disappeared into an office for a few seconds, returning with a set of bolt cutters. 'Only the customers have keys. You'll need these.'

The security guard turned and left. Nigel headed down into the storage area, turning right from the brightly lit parking bay through a giant set of double doors, towards a lift.

'Nigel!' a voice hissed from behind. It was Heather, out of breath from exertion. She had followed him out of the flat, caught him up. 'Where are you going?'

He told her about the family being murdered in the cellar, and how he had re-examined the map.

She looked at him coolly. 'I just passed the security guard. He's adamant there's no one in the entire complex.'

Nigel shrugged. 'There might be something in there that can help us.'

Heather glanced at the bolt cutters, the glimmer of a smile on her lips. 'Where did you get them?'

'Playing the cop opens a few doors. Literally.'

Heather unholstered her radio and spoke, giving her position and asking for back-up. 'Come on,' she said.

The pair ran to the lift, went down a floor, alighting on a long corridor that stretched for about a hundred yards. The walls on either side were white steel, broken at regular intervals by bright yellow steel doors. The only silence was the gentle hum of the air ventilation system. Nigel walked down the hall, to a point where the doors were less tightly spaced, indicating bigger storage units. He turned and gestured to the last door on the left. No number on it.

They stopped outside, looking at each other. Still only the distant hum of circulating air.

'It's not locked,' Heather said.

All the others they had passed had been.

Nigel looked at her. The bolt cutters he had were no use now, but he felt his grip tighten on the shaft.

Heather reached down and grasped the metal door handle. Slowly, without making a sound, she pushed it down and pulled. The door opened.

'Bloody hell,' she said simply.

There was a wall of boxes blocking the doorway like bricks.

From beyond came a noise, the sound of something being knocked over. Followed, Nigel thought, by a low moan.

Heather flashed him a look, eyes wide. 'He's in there,' she hissed. She looked behind her, along the corridor. No sign of back-up.

Nigel looked at the wall of boxes blocking their path. Without another thought, he took a short run and pitched himself headlong. He met a box square on, felt it give on impact and the whole edifice shift.

A searing pain went through his shoulder. The top rows of boxes came down with him as he burst through the makeshift barrier.

'Stop! Police!' he heard Heather scream out.

He was lying on one side and managed to look up, seeing a dark-haired man with a knife charge across the crowded room towards them. Behind him a supine figure lay almost naked on a trestle. Nigel pushed a box out of the way and jumped to his feet, intercepting the man's path to the door and Heather.

He swung the bolt cutters back like a baseball bat and struck at the figure. They hit the man square in the chest, making him stagger backwards and drop the knife. His eyes flared with anger and he jumped straight to his feet, launching himself at Nigel. Nigel did not have time to swing the cutters once more, but used them to fend off his attacker. His face was contorted with agony, sweat streaming from his brow, teeth bared. He was doing all he could to repel the attacker, but his crash through the boxes had wrenched his shoulder and he could feel his grip on the bolt cutters giving way.

The man wrestled the cutters from his grasp. He swung them back behind his head. Nigel lifted his arms to protect himself from the impact. There was a deafening crack that echoed through the vault. He lowered his arms and saw the man on the floor, in black jeans and white T-shirt, slumped against a box.

There was a small hole in his forehead, only now beginning to gush blood. The man's eyes were open, but he was obviously dead.

Nigel felt his legs weaken and he slumped to the floor, staring ahead, ears still ringing from the shot, cordite in his nostrils. There was a silence that seemed to last for an age before all hell broke loose.

Policemen funnelled in, guns at the ready. Nigel instinctively held his hands up to show he was not armed; he saw their anxious eyes scour the room in search of another assailant, then relax when they saw it was empty. One beckoned Nigel over towards them.

Nigel began to tread gingerly but Heather, ignoring the warnings, sprinted past him, to a corner of the room. He turned and saw the pale, lifeless figure of Foster lying on a makeshift trestle. Nigel followed her. Foster's leg was at a grotesque angle, clearly broken. The rest of his body was covered in welts and bruises. He was absolutely still.

'Grant?' Heather screamed, standing over him.

'Oh, my God! Grant!'

A steady drizzle blanketed Kensal Green Cemetery.

Suitable weather for a funeral, Nigel thought, as he gazed across the verdant churchyard. Where is everyone, he wondered? His only companion was the priest, alternating between impatiently checking his watch and anxiously looking for some clue from Nigel as to the whereabouts of the rest of the mourners, and two pallbearers, who had disappeared behind some foliage for a smoke.

Beside the grave, on a trestle, lay a vast coffin -- it needed to be, given the size of the body occupying it, Nigel thought. Beside it was a mound of earth, dug the night before, covered with artificial turf-like cloth. Nigel thought about calling Heather on her mobile; she and the rest of the team should have been here by now.

'Sorry, but I really do need to get away by eleven,'

the priest muttered apologetically.

'It's OK,' Nigel said, looking towards the main path that cut through the heart of the graveyard.

'I see someone now.'

It was Heather and Andy Drinkwater, dressed in black. They disappeared from view behind a tree.

When they emerged the other side, Nigel waved, then stopped dead when he saw who was with them.

Foster.

He was in a wheelchair pushed by Drinkwater.

Nigel had thought he was still in hospital. Last week he had spoken to Heather to see how he was, and she'd said he was improving, but that the medical team treating him thought he would be there for some time. He appeared to have lost some weight over the last three weeks, but then, he was having to suck most of his meals through a straw. As he came nearer, Nigel could hear him muttering like a ventriloquist through his broken jaw.