EVIDENTLY WRONG
EVIDENTLY WRONG the new 1980s crime thriller by Katrina Deverill The road to hell is only as short as the journey... Raising funds and awareness of Parkinson's in a novel way!
EVIDENTLY WRONG by Katrina Deverill
The Road To Hell Is Only As Short As The Journey…
Set in the 1980s, DCI Max Barton is an expert in detecting and arresting serial killers, only now he’s facing a crisis. Over a year has passed, and a killer is evading him and his team, he also has an underlying health problem, but he’s in denial and refuses to face it head-on. Then there’s the additional dilemma, his Chief Super wants him gone and she’s gunning for him. Can Max, overcome all three problems, or will this be his last case? Max is a fighter, old school and his team is behind him, but the thing that sets him apart is his family, they mean almost as much as the job, and for a detective so entrenched in solving crime, it’s a rare and wonderful thing. But there’s always a downside; add a killer that’s hell-bent on making this personal and Max has his work cut out.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 29 May 2023
CHAPTER ONE
There was only one face she wanted to see right now, but it wasn’t his. In recent days, she had tried to stay calm, positive and hopeful, but the constant grip of fear did nothing for her resolve. Footsteps broke the overwhelming silence and her heart sunk, wishing someone dead didn’t make it happen. She already knew it was the promise of pain and terror which approached, as a rescue looked unlikely. Her thoughts were concise; as his seventh victim, she knew what to expect and that she’d be leaving here in a body-bag.
He strolled towards her with a twisted smile, his lip curled upward, his cold eyes trained on her face, as the light from the window high above hit the edge of the scalpel he carried, it glinted with menace. She turned her head away as the icy fear of her fate sank in, not wanting to acknowledge the power he held over her, but she failed. Her eyes needed to see. The direction of an oncoming fist, or the distance of the knife.
There was an inner panic that told her to never turn away, face your enemy, just look him in the eye and stand firm. She tried locking eyes in his direction, as her inner strength ebbed away with each step he took towards her. It was no good. He frightened her and for good reason, this guy had no scruples. She knew this was the serial killer who had terrorised the county for too long and she also knew he was mad as a hatter.
The inevitable terror took hold. No matter how hard she tried to fight it, the fear rolled over her as thee dread at what was to come played out in her mind, she’d read the media reports, knew his MO and the pain he caused, the devastating injuries he’d inflicted on his other victims. It was all too much.
A single tear coursed down her cheek; the mental fight lost. Her eyes darted about, looking for an escape, but there was none. The only exit lay behind him. She wouldn’t stand a chance. As he spoke, his voice was both soothing and insincere, his demeanour calm, then ferocious. She froze as he lunged forward and grabbing a fistful of her hair pulled her roughly across the bare floor… dragging her like a rag doll; she didn’t fight back. What was the point?
A sob left her throat, but as hard as she tried to keep everything inside, damned if she’d give him his moment of pleasure, the unbearable pain took hold and she let the bottled-up emotions flow. As her screams rang out, there was no one to hear them except for her persecutor.
It gave him a buzz like no other as he sliced the hair away from her skull, taking his prize, a piece of scalp, all done with an expert hand. This was by now a well-practised ritual. He enjoyed the pain he inflicted on his victims, and the screams it elicited each time he executed his fetish, for he admitted now that was what it was. His pulse raced with the feeling of sheer joy and exhilaration. It came with a tinge of excitement which flowed through his body as her song of pain filled the air, along with the metallic aroma, as the blood dried caking on her pale, sun deprived skin.
The girl’s scream muted now to a sob. The shock of what he’d done washing over her mind, fragmenting, and shearing it as the planes of reality and fantasy splintered her mind. It was a joy to behold, and he bathed in every filthy detail.
He stood back to admire his work. A warm thrill of satisfaction and the need to savour the moment compelled him to stand watching her childlike machinations. How the human body coped with pain fascinated him and angered him in equal measure.
She scrambled to hold on to her sanity as she lay on the floor. Unable to focus her thoughts, she wondered if any of it was real as she drew her finger through the sticky fluid on the rough concrete floor. With her arm stretched out in front of her, she used one finger to swirl through the sticky red mess as she moved it around in ever-increasing circles, pausing once to write one word. Was it a word? She wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
The girl cocked her bloodied head to one side then the other, focussing hard on the four scrawled letters she’d written with an intensity of sheer concentration as she wondered what they meant. She babbled in an incoherent chatter like a toddler amusing themselves at a doll’s tea party. As a globule of fresh blood dripped from her bloodied head, it splashed across her hard work and she grunted angrily, scrubbing her palms backwards and forwards across the floor, obliterating all she’d accomplished.
‘No, no, no!’ she squealed as the single word disappeared into oblivion, leaving a mass of messy wet lines across the concrete.
A splatter of rusty-coloured blood hit his sleeve, but he didn’t notice. What angered him was her fight, the determination she showed, and he snapped, striking her hard across the face. The slap rang out, reverberating in the cavernous space. He laughed at her pathetic attempt to escape his wrath as she scrambled back towards the wall, cowering.
Thoughts swam around her frozen mind; It should sting. But did it? Her brain blocked out a mass of feelings and replaced them with a numbness as a hollow nothingness of emotion flooded through her body. Only the soft quiver of her shoulders and the wet salty tears let her know she was still very much alive, but she’d long decided death would be the ultimate release, a prize worth winning as yet another moment of lucidity passed her by. There was no escape and with her mind already lost, her body became a useless vessel of pain and forgotten memories; if she’d prayed for someone to rescue her, then no one was listening…
If you would like to help me raise funds to find a cure for Parkinson’s please buy this book. 50% of the royalties are going to The Michael J. Fox Foundation to help find a cure for this debilitating decease. Or you can follow this link and leave a donation (better still, do both), https://give.michaeljfox.org/fundraiser/4699484 10 million suffers Worldwide will thank you!