This Little Piggy Read online

  This Little Piggy

  Rob Ashman

  Contents

  Also by Rob Ashman

  Preface

  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

  A Note from Bloodhound Books:

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2018 Rob Ashman

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

  First published in 2018 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

  Also by Rob Ashman

  The Mechanic Trilogy

  Those That Remain ( Book 1)

  In Your Name ( Book 2)

  Pay The Penance ( Book 3)

  DI Roz Kray Series

  Faceless ( Book 1)

  Praise for Rob Ashman

  "Five stars from me, would have been six if Amazon and Goodreads went up that high!!" Donna Maguire - Donnas Book Blog

  "Faceless is fast paced, it’s twisted and it packs one hell of a punch into every page!" Sharon Bairden - Chapter In My Life

  "I’ll definitely be reading more from this author in the future. Loved it." Philomena Callan - Cheekypee Reads And Reviews

  "The story is very fast paced with lots happening and lots of twists and turns that kept me on the edge of my seat, sometimes quite literally!" Joanna Park - Over The Rainbow Book Blog

  "Faceless is a fantastic, jaw-dropping journey as I was introduced to DI Roz Kray." Yvonne Bastian - Me And My Books

  "It is jam packed with tension and OMG moments in fact there is nothing not to like and is the best book I have read this year so far...." Shell Baker - Chelle's Book Reviews

  "This is a seriously addictive read. There were so many shocking twists and revelations..." Lorna Cassidy - On The Shelf Reviews

  "Dark, nauseating, intense, destructive, yet incredibly written..." Kaisha Holloway - The Writing Garnet

  "If you want a seriously twisted and deranged serial killer thriller, then look not further!" Jessica Robins - Jessicamap Reviews

  "His writing is so slick that you cannot help but be drawn into this fascinating novel." Kate Eveleigh - Portable Magic

  "...it’s a read that will keep you guessing from page to page..." Jo Turner - Life Of Crime

  "A brilliant start to a brand new upcoming series that is bound to blow us all away!" Gemma Myers - Between The Pages Book Club

  "My jaw is on the floor, but I loved every single second of this fabulously sadistic read." Katie Jones - Katie's Book Cave

  "Faceless is a gritty, compelling and thrilling serial killer thriller that kept me utterly engrossed..." Eva Merckx - Novel Deelights

  "The story itself is exciting and addictive in the way a good thriller should be." Susan Corcoran - Booksaremycwtches

  "A super unique and thrilling story line that had me feel uncomfortable even in a room full of people." Susan Hampson - Books From Dusk Till Dawn

  "Faceless is a rollercoaster of a ride with twists and turns at every corner." Caroline Vincent - Bits About Books

  "I love Ashman’s books and recommend anyone that loves a good, bloody, and gory thriller to check them out." Jessica Bronder - JBronder Book Reviews

  For Don, who told me about the trick with the lollypop stick. He was such a storyteller I have no idea if it’s true. If not, he would be laughing to see it in print.

  Preface

  ‘As you watch your life drain away, I want you to remember one thing … I never wanted any of this.

  ‘I was the man with a wife and kids, who lived in a house, went to work every morning and enjoyed the occasional holiday. But that was never enough. You made that clear.

  ‘You lined up for your pound of flesh and, one by one, tore apart the building blocks of my life. You each took a piece, shredded the goodness from it, and handed it back. Then laughed in my face as I crumbled to dust.

  ‘Life is all about change, and things are about to get worse. Much worse.

  ‘You know who you are …

  ‘You all know who you are …

  ‘But what you don’t know is …

  ‘It’s time to make the piggies squeal.’

  1

  ‘Bloody hell, this is a s–’ He dances at the end of my arm as I jab the metal pins into his stomach, sending his central nervous system into meltdown. His face resembles a landed carp, mouth gaping open as his muscles go into spasm. He topples back into the hallway landing face up on the parquet floor.

  His body jolts and convulses at my feet. I step across the welcome mat and into the house, closing the door behind me. I unzip my bag, rummage around and bring out a handful of thick black cable ties. I roll him onto his front, securing his wrists tight behind his back and bind his feet together at the ankles. He continues to jerk and spasm as I straddle him. I reach forward and ram a tea-towel into his mouth, shoving it past his teeth with my thumb until his cheeks bulge. I tie it in place with a length of cord knotted behind his head. I step off him, pull a white coverall from the bag and slip it on, zipping the front right up to my neck. The hood covers my head and the drawstrings pull the material tight around my face. Next, I don a pair of overshoes and gloves.

  The hallway is large, and straight ahead, through an archway, I can see the ornate staircase. It leads to the first floor, then splits left and right, a series of bedrooms run along the landing.

  I take my bag, walk through the arch, up the stairs and circle back on myself until I’m stood directly above the foot of the stairs. I remove a chain block and a coil of thick rope and feed the rope through the balustrade. I tie it off and lower the chain block down to the first step.

  I head downstairs, into the hallway where the man is twisting and turning on his front. I kneel beside him, and he cranes his neck to look at me, screaming through the gag. I take my new toy and hold it up for him to see. It crackles, and he goes berserk trying to roll over. I ram the pins into his back, and he once again does the million-volt dance.

  I grab him by his feet and drag his twitching body through the arc
h and along the carpet, dumping him at the bottom of the stairs. I bind a heavy leather strap from my bag around his ankles and snap the carabiner in place. The links chink through the pulley block as I yank on the chain, raising him feet first into the air. The metallic sound resonates off the walls as I continue to raise him up; his hips come clear of the floor. His bodyweight takes over, and he swings, hitting his head on the bottom step. I hoist him over it and press the stop-lock. He sways back and forth, suspended upside down from the first-floor balustrade.

  He is coming around, rotating slowly in mid-air. I take the knives from the bag and set to work. He jerks when he sees the blades; now, a different sound bounces off the walls –muffled screams and choking. I brush past him and climb three steps, grasping the hem of his trouser leg.

  He freezes.

  The point of the scalpel pierces the denim, and I slice downwards, severing the material until it gapes open to reveal his underwear. I do the same with the other leg. The material falls to his crotch, I reach for the hunting knife. The heavy blade makes short work of the waist band, and in two cuts, his jeans and boxer shorts hit the carpet.

  I grab his shirt collar, cutting through the cotton at the back. This time, he bucks and spins, swinging wildly on the hoist. It makes no odds and the shirt is soon hanging in two pieces. I cut into the cuff, and in one slash the sleeve comes away. I do the same with the other. He yelps when the razor-sharp blade scores his skin.

  I walk back down the stairs to replace the knives in the bag. He is staring at me bug eyed, suspended by his ankles, completely naked, apart from his socks. Well, a man has to have some dignity.

  I make my way into the kitchen and root around in the cupboards for the biggest pots I can find. I fill them with water and load up the six-ring hob. The gas burners have a satisfying hiss as they crank up the heat. They’re much better than the camping stove I was forced to use last time.

  I leave the cooker and return to the bottom of the stairs. The man is making a right commotion, his cock and balls are flapping around as he jack-knifes his body, yelling at the top of his voice – as much as that is possible with a mouth crammed full of towelling.

  He’s going to hurt himself, if he’s not careful.

  I reach into the bag and pull out a three-inch square black box with a rotary dial on the top and wires dangling from terminals on two sides. I remove a plug from the wall socket and replace it with my own. The man stops making a fuss and watches me. The red LED on the box tells me we have lift-off and I sit cross-legged in front of him. His eyes are the size of snooker balls popping out of his face. I attach a sticky pad to his left temple and another to his right. He flails his head around but it’s no use.

  He screams and resumes his jack-knife acrobatics. I flick the toggle switch and the green LED comes on. My fingers ease the dial off the zero back-stop and the screaming intensifies.

  The dial goes all the way up to ten. By the time I reach three, he will be much calmer.

  2

  Acting DCI Roz Kray nosed her car into the driveway of sixteen Farnham Close and came to an abrupt halt. Two police cars and a crime scene investigation van were blocking her path. The doors to the van were open and a white boiler suited person was leaning into the back. Kray jumped from her car and flashed her warrant card at the sergeant holding a clipboard and pulled on a similar cover-all and over shoes. She drew the zip all the way up to the top, hoping it would help keep out the cold.

  She hated October; it heralded the onset of dark nights and cold mornings at a time when the roads were teaming with tourists. The arrival of over one million lights spread across six miles of coastline was enough to ram Blackpool until it was bursting at the seams. A tradition that had come a long way from when it had consisted of eight carbon arc lamps and, when it was billed as the greatest show on earth, they convinced the world it was artificial sunshine.

  She also hated it because the eighteenth day of the month marked the anniversary when Rampton stuck a knife into her husband’s neck and took his life. Today’s date was the seventeenth. October was shit month.

  Standing in the doorway of the house was Mitch, her favourite coroner’s office doctor. He was approaching fifty with a bald head and a straining waistline, he was old-school and well respected. His style was business-like and to the point, bordering on rude. But that was just the way Kray liked it. He always wore the facial expression of somebody who had just stepped in dog shit, but this morning, even from this distance, the look on his face said – this is bad.

  Kray felt the gravel crunch beneath her feet as she walked up to the imposing double-fronted property. She ran the numbers in her head.

  This sized house, in this type of neighbourhood, gotta be pushing a million pounds plus.

  ‘Morning, Roz,’ Mitch said in his usual I-got-a-sore-throat voice.

  ‘Mitch,’ Kray replied.

  ‘I hear you got Acting DCI, congratulations.’

  ‘Yeah, though I’m not sure congratulations is the word I would use.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Jackson?’

  ‘No.’

  DCI Jackson had been her fuckwit of a boss before he signed himself onto the sick with stress, claiming the behaviour of ACC Mary Quade as the reason for his breakdown. In Kray’s view, the two were made for each other – he was bloody useless, and she was a corporate sadist with epaulets. It was a match made in heaven.

  ‘How have you been since you got back to work?’ Mitch asked.

  ‘Oh, you know, plodding on, putting things behind me. Anyway, since Jacko’s wheels fell off I haven’t had two minutes to myself, let alone time to dwell on things. And from the look on your face, you’re not about to make that any easier.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  He beckoned her over the threshold into a cavernous hallway with long tapestry curtains framing the windows and pictures on the wall.

  ‘What have we got?’ Kray asked taking in the opulence.

  ‘Take a look.’ Mitch waved his pudgy hand. Behind him, through the archway, she could see a naked body, suspended upside down by his ankles, hanging at the base of the stairs. She pulled on a pair of blue medical gloves. Mitch continued, ‘His name is John Archibald Graham, fifty-four years of age, lived here for ten months or so.’

  She stood under the arch. The ornate chandelier hanging from the ceiling above sprayed pockets of bright light across the walls giving the place a dance hall feel. The kitchen, lounge and office led off from the space like the spokes of a wheel. Ten feet in front of her, the grey carpet gave way to a dark brown colour. Stretching out along the floor was a patchwork of twelve-inch square, aluminium checker plates with corrugated tops. The stench of oxidising metal filled her senses. Kray made her way towards the body, stepping carefully on the plates.

  She came to the break in the carpet where the colour changed.

  ‘Is that …?’

  ‘Blood, yes, it is. By the size of our vic, I would estimate about thirteen pints.’

  ‘Any prints in the carpet?’

  ‘Only the size fives of the housekeeping lady who found him at eight-thirty this morning when she turned up to do a little light dusting. She’s sat in the front room on her fourth cup of tea, still in shock.’

  ‘Not surprised. This is way above her pay grade to clear up.’

  Roz reached the bottom of the stairs and stared at the dead man. His arms were secured behind his back with black cable ties and the edges of what looked like a tea towel were poking from the corners of his mouth. His eyes stared straight ahead, crazed red with ruptured blood vessels.

  His face was the colour of uncooked pastry, but the rest of his body was red raw. Kray sniffed the air.

  ‘Not only blood,’ she called out to Mitch.

  ‘No, I think there is urine soaked into the carpet as well.’

  Kray flicked on a pencil torch and the piercing beam sliced into the translucent face. She moved the cone of light over his chest, stomach and genitals. Patches of skin
were missing while in other areas, large blisters covered the flesh.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Kray asked.

  ‘Some sort of burning, not sure with what but it was hot enough to cause the skin to peel away.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Kray said under her breath as she trailed the cone of white light around the body.

  ‘And this?’ she asked shining the torch onto what looked like confetti on the stairs.

  ‘I think it’s his skin,’ replied Mitch. ‘There are two circular burn marks on each temple, and the jugular vein on the right-hand side has been severed.’

  Kray shifted her position to see the single stab wound to the victim’s neck and two circular blemishes stood out black against the colourless skin.