Mr Invisible Read online

  Mr Invisible

  Duncan Brockwell

  Copyright © 2021 Duncan Brockwell

  The right of Duncan Brockwell to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2021 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Print ISBN 978-1-913942-15-1

  Contents

  Love crime, thriller and mystery books?

  Also by Duncan Brockwell

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Acknowledgements

  A note from the publisher

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  Also by Duncan Brockwell

  The Met Murder Investigations

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  Bad Blood #3

  1

  The closer he came to the industrial bin the more the stench grew. The fourth of January, and while not typically cold for a Sussex winter, the corpse inside the metal receptacle didn’t smell as bad as it would have in August. Detective Inspector David Coates wrinkled his nose beneath the face mask, while covered head to toe in white coveralls. Even his shoes wore white protectors. “Open up,” he ordered, the SOCO in front of him lifting the lid. Flies buzzed.

  “What do you think, Pat? How long do you think she’s been in here for?” He was expecting a lengthy answer from the coroner he worked with on a more regular basis than he wished.

  “A couple of days, I’d say,” Patricia Rollins said through her mask. “I’m guessing there’s no chance of cameras catching this guy?”

  Looking around him, Coates noted nothing but fields, and a small recreation park for children. Why was the bin here? The undergrowth almost concealed it. “I don’t think so. I didn’t see any on the way in. Gary’s checking.”

  With accusatory eyes looking up at Coates, a naked woman – unceremoniously dumped in the container – asked him why, her mouth open in a horrific “O”. Coates estimated the woman to be in her mid-to-late twenties. The fact she was exposed would make identification tough, and more so if she didn’t have a criminal record. “You think she was raped?”

  “I don’t doubt it for a second.” Rollins pointed at the body. “Bruising and traces of bleeding. The poor woman was bound – those ligature marks on her wrists and ankles are deep. I’ll know more after the autopsy.”

  The first thing he noted when he’d set eyes on her: she had to be around his daughter’s age. “What’s this town coming to? I used to love Lewes.”

  “Inspector,” came a voice from behind him, “sorry to interrupt.”

  Turning, he found Detective Sergeant Gary Packard’s eyes on him. “Well? Any luck?” He hoped for an affirmative. A shake of his partner’s head dashed his hopes. “What I thought.” He turned back to the body, his partner joining him. “Looks like we’re in for a long one on this.”

  “Let’s start with missing persons,” Packard suggested. “Someone must’ve noticed she’s not around. A pretty girl like this… Oh, and we might be lucky with that.” He squinted his eyes, studying the ink.

  Coates watched as his junior took his mobile out and snapped a photo of the tattoo on the corpse’s abdomen. “What is that? A hummingbird?” He attempted to take a closer look. “It’s a line of enquiry, I guess. See what you can do with it.”

  “Will do.” His partner pocketed his phone. “I can contact some people if you want? I’m friends with a couple of ink artists locally. And they keep records of their customers. If she’s local, she’ll be a customer of Wozz’s here in Lewes, or Crypt’s in Brighton; they’re the most popular. If not, I’ll research further afield.”

  “Great! I’ll go with missing cases,” he said, nodding at the coroner, “and you take that angle.” He pointed at the hummingbird. “Pat, how soon can you have the autopsy done?” Trace evidence, if there was any on the body, Patricia would find it. Semen or saliva, blood, whatever, the medical doctor would come through for him. “I’ve got a feeling she’s a good girl.” What was it about her? Maybe because she reminded him of his daughter, Hannah.

  “By close of play, I hope, but I am backed up I’m sorry to say. If I can’t get it done by then, I’m afraid it won’t be until Monday.” She signalled for one of the SOCOs to join them. Patricia took him by the arm and walked with him away from the crime scene. “If I can complete today, I’ll phone the findings through to save you coming in.”

  “Thanks,” he said, the SOCOs busy photographing the area, dusting for prints on the bin and all manner of other evidence-related activities. “You’ll give it your all, I’m sure.” He took his protective clothing off at the cordon, stooped underneath the tape and handed the clothes to Rollins. Packard followed his lead. “Call me as soon as you have something.”

  He thanked the coroner one last time, then walked back towards their unmarked white Peugeot, saying “no comment” several times to the press, who were being held behind the cordon by uniformed officers. “Bloody vultures,” he grumbled, opening the driver’s door and slumping in his seat. “Sell their mothers for a story, most of them.”

  “Why would anyone want that job?” Packard closed his door and fastened his seat belt.

  Coates started the engine. “I’ve no idea, but most of them would offer out their own mothers. Anything for a story.” With the car in gear, he glanced over at his passenger. “Right, let’s go find out who our victim is.”

  2

 
; Friday nights at The Starfish Pub on Bondi Beach were always packed. It may have been the fourth of January, but that didn’t stop everyone coming out en masse. Amelia Thomas, having trouble hearing what her friends Georgina and Isla were talking about, gave up. Sat on the last outside table overlooking the sand, she had no clue how they’d managed to snag it. “What are you having?”

  A waiter stood by their table holding a handheld till device. Isla ordered a daiquiri, which she contemplated, then decided on a pina colada. Georgina followed her lead, which was unusual; Amelia normally followed Georgina. When the server sauntered off, she sat back and took in the atmosphere, fanning herself. A stunning night, the temperature still in the high teens, the music played from a speaker right next to them. The drinkers out, groups of girls and guys, the majority youngsters in their early-to-mid twenties, Amelia enjoyed the ambience.

  With Georgina and Isla busy chatting, Amelia took in the scenery. It annoyed her how Georgina glowed in whatever she wore. Hell, she could give her best friend a sack to wear, and by the end of the night, a couple of thousand people would be wearing one. At Darlinghurst Grammar the girls had mostly followed Georgina, and the boys had wanted to… She tried not to think about it. The number of blokes she’d liked over the years who’d fallen madly and deeply in love with her best friend insulted her. “Thank you,” she shouted to the member of staff when he dropped off their cocktails.

  Isla, stunning in a low-cut white top and short skirt, interrupted her conversation with Georgina to answer a call. Amelia smiled at Georgina, who went into her bag and pulled out a flyer. “What’s this?”

  “Which dates can you make?”

  “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m easy,” she quipped, the straw still in her mouth. “I can definitely make the Corona Open in Queensland on 26th March.” She read further on. “And the Rip Curl Pro on Bells in April; I can make that, too. Not sure about Margaret River, though; I’ll get back to you on that.”

  “We’ll run through them when I’ve got my diary with me.” Georgina, whose skin was annoyingly perfect, not a blemish in sight, was excited. “We’re going to have such a blast. I can’t wait for Honolua Bay at the end of November. I’m going to wipe Carissa out.”

  When Georgina laughed, Amelia did too. Her friend didn’t possess a bad bone in her body. Georgina could trash talk with the best of them, but she didn’t own the killer instinct to win the World Surf League. If Amelia thought for one second Georgina might one day be champion… Well, she wouldn’t be socialising with her now. No, Georgina would make money from smaller sponsors and fashion labels, but she would never make the big time.

  “The boys are buying drinks.” Isla covered the mouthpiece of her mobile. “Are you two all right, or do you fancy another?” She nodded and ordered another round. “Are you going to the Corona Open?” she asked Amelia.

  “I reckon! Wouldn’t miss the start of the season.”

  She let Isla take over the conversation, knowing that Kereama, Amelia’s boyfriend, was on his way over. Sometimes jealousy of Georgina and Isla took over; they were both talented in their own ways: Georgina being a good surfer and Isla a well-known bodybuilder. Isla had won competitions and, being in a relationship with Oliver King, had solidified her fame – the weightlifters’ version of Posh and Becks. Where was her talent? Sure, she could sunbathe, and she wore clothes well, which had secured her a large fan base and three lucrative promotional contracts, but sometimes she wished she could do something better than anyone else. Still, at least she didn’t need to work. She made money just by snapping pictures of herself wearing her clobber – especially bikinis – and uploading them to the Chatter app. None of that mattered, not when she had the most gorgeous guy.

  A couple of guys approached their table, young, in their late teens or early twenties. The taller fella pulled out a notepad and asked Georgina for her autograph, handing her a pen. Georgina obliged, signing her name, and thanked them for their support. Amelia desired that level of fame; she wanted people to recognise her and ask her to sign whatever they offered her. When her best friend turned back to her, she smiled and slurped the remains of her pina colada through her straw, as the boys arrived carrying their drinks. “Hey!” she said, budging over and letting Kereama sit next to her.

  Kereama Tua was a Kiwi, half-Maori, half-white, with long dark hair and a physique other guys would die for. He played guitar in a heavy metal band. Having finished touring only last month, Amelia was looking forward to having him around for a while. And he was the best-looking of all their boyfriends; she thought so anyway. She kissed him in greeting, noting that Georgina looked uncomfortable, left out – Shane wasn’t with their guys. Sorry for her surfer friend, Amelia broke away from Kereama and picked up her second pina colada, sticking her new straw in her mouth.

  “Where is he?” Kereama asked. “He not out tonight?”

  “On his way.” Georgina looked around for him.

  “There he is.” Amelia pointed to the bar.

  When Georgina found him, she rose from her chair and thanked her. “No, wait! Your…” Too late, Georgina hightailed it through the throng of drinkers. “Phone.” Amelia picked up the mobile and held it for safekeeping.

  “Let’s see that.” Isla’s boyfriend, Oliver, reached across and snatched Georgina’s mobile out of Amelia’s hand. “Cheers!” He grinned, his big slab hand in danger of crushing the flimsy phone. “Bloody hell! She’s up to two and a half million followers, mate.”

  “George gets most of hers through her modelling, not surfing,” Amelia reminded him. While Georgina was a famous surfer, the majority of her fans came through her sense of style. “Come on, give it to me. She’ll kill me if she knows you’ve got it.”

  “Yeah, give it back, Oli.” Isla attempted to grab the phone.

  Holding it higher than his girlfriend could reach, Oliver winked at Kereama. “Shall we take a look at her messages? I wonder what drongos are following her on here.”

  Oliver’s arms were super toned, his biceps firm and appealing; he was muscular in an attractive way, rather than looking like a balloon about to burst. “Go on, then,” she said, giving the go-ahead. She could see Georgina talking to Shane.

  “Check out this galah.” Oliver chuckled, turning the phone around to show her the account photo of a guy calling himself Elf Man. “Just what I thought, so ugly he can’t even upload a picture. Just some stupid snap of a dog.”

  Amelia shuddered, thinking that Georgina had followers out there who hid themselves, never posting photos of their faces. “Ew, creepy,” Amelia said, feeling sorry for her best friend.

  “Do we know anywhere cool for him to visit while he’s over here?” Oliver leaned forwards when Kereama beckoned him with his finger.

  “Here’s as good a place as any, I reckon,” Kereama said.

  Amelia didn’t like where the conversation was going. “No way! Uh-uh! Give it back, Oli.” She lunged across the table, trying to snatch the phone. When he rose from his chair and held it too high, she gave up. “You know better than messing with followers.”

  Oliver perched on the edge of his seat, getting ready to reply. “He could be some sick stalker, you know.”

  “Behave! He’s a pom. He ain’t coming over here. He’s probably lying in bed cracking a fat one over a picture of George as we speak. Relax! It’s a bit of a laugh, that’s all.”

  Amelia sucked on her straw, watching as Oliver typed the text. “Please don’t send anything.”

  “You should come visit us when you’re over.” Oliver read his handiwork out loud, impressed with himself. “Two hearts, one with an arrow through it.” He showed her and pressed “Send”. “Too late now, ladies, done.”

  Isla gave her a look: not happy. Before he could do any more damage, Amelia grabbed the phone from him and hid it in her bag. Oliver grinned, trying to tickle Isla into smiling for him. Kereama put his arm around her.

  3

  Amelia checked that Georgina was still with Shane when she f
elt the mobile vibrate in her bag. Her friend was safely wrapped in Shane’s arms, talking to another couple Amelia didn’t recognise. With trepidation, she took out the phone and saw a message on Chatter from the pom. “Shit!” She opened the app.

  “What is it?” Isla leaned over the table towards her.

  “Oh brilliant!” Amelia held up the mobile for Oliver. “Nice one, mate. He’s just bought flights. This thing’s coming here, to this pub.” She watched Oliver’s face drop.

  “Give me that.” He grabbed the phone. “I thought he was some pommie drongo. How was I supposed to know this guy would go and buy bloody plane tickets?” He handed her back the phone. “And first class, too.”

  What was she going to do now? As soon as Georgina took her mobile back, she would guess they’d been playing silly buggers. “I’m going to go tell her,” Amelia said, making to leave, when Kereama’s strong arm pulled her back. “What? I have to.”