The Hollow Woman Read online

  The Hollow Woman

  Philip Saunders

  Private Investigator, Fred Sorensen, thinks it’s his lucky day when

  he’s hired by a beautiful, wealthy woman,

  Rachel Sterling, to find her missing “friend”, Grahame Kingsley.

  However, as Fred begins to investigate this seemingly straightforward case, he soon realises that it is anything but...

  After discovering a mutilated corpse, Fred finds himself on the trail of

  a sadistic murderer and getting tangled up

  with a knife-wielding maniac,

  a mysterious, petite blonde,

  and a debonair, successful financier with a dark side.

  Navigating a web of lies and deceit, Fred knows that he’ll have to use

  every trick in the book to catch

  the culprit and unmask

  the disturbing truth lurking behind it all...

  Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  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

  Prologue

  I’ve always known that I would die a violent death. Strangely enough I never questioned why I believed this, choosing to acknowledge and accept it as inevitable. I didn’t know how, when or where it’d happen, until now, in the darkest of hours, my macabre fate had finally been realised.

  Lying on my back, languishing in a pool of blood, and staring up at the stars above, as my life ebbed slowly away, I began to recall the series of events that set this night in motion whilst I waited for Death to materialise, cloaked in black, swinging his scythe, to drag me down to Hell.

  Sat aimlessly at home, overcome with boredom and feeling horny, I spent a solid 20 minutes swiping through Tinder, before giving up on the app and scrolling through my contacts instead, searching for fuck buddies, whom I kept stored by their first name and the area in London they lived in. I decided to message the one who I knew was a sure thing, and, sure enough, I got a response. After exchanging a string of explicit sexts via WhatsApp, supplemented by naked pics, throughout the fading hours of that rainy afternoon in February, we agreed upon a time and place.

  Later that evening - shaved, showered and spritzed with Paco Rabanne - I travelled across to the other side of the city, to the Isle of Dogs, for my sordid rendezvous.

  Not long after we’d finished the second round, riding bareback both times, and smoked two cigarettes, I was unceremoniously kicked out of the Queen-size and curtly asked to leave, with the flimsy excuse of an “early morning meeting”. This triggered the briefest and most pointless of rows, which ended with the clichéd, but always therapeutic, slamming of the door. Shut outside of the council flat, I was faced with no alternative but to wait outside in the freezing cold for an Uber.

  Whilst I waited for the thirteen minutes to slowly tick by until Mohammed rocked up in his red Toyota Prius, shivering and leaning against a lamppost, I decided to have a smoke. Patting down my pockets, it slowly dawned on me that I had left behind my half-finished pack on the bedside cabinet. I cursed aloud, venting my frustration, at myself for being such a hot-headed twat. There was no way I was going back to retrieve them, so I crossed the road and went into a convenience store to buy a new pack.

  Inside the brightly lit store there was a bored, remarkably hairy, Indian teenager bent over the counter. The young Sikh wore a yellow turban and was seemingly singularly manning the till and the store, whilst flipping through the pages of a magazine. The door chimed on entry, he looked up at me and gave me a small nod. I reciprocated the gesture and, with time to kill, wandered down one of the three narrow aisles, aimlessly browsing the shelves as I went. At the end of the aisle, I noticed one of my shoelaces had come undone. I crouched down, and as I was tying the knot, I heard the store’s door chime shortly followed by a man’s loud, gruff voice shouting:

  ‘Gimme cash! NOW! You fuckin' deaf or summat! Open the fuckin’ till! NOW! NOW! Or I’ll blast ya fuckin’ head off, stupid, fuckin’ Paki!’

  I saw in the reflection of the convex mirror that there was an armed hold-up in progress.

  The robber was wearing a black and grey striped hoodie and light grey joggers, with his face partially concealed by, what looked like, a paintball mask. He held a long-barrelled handgun, tightly wrapped in a plastic carrier bag, and was waving it in the boy’s terrified face.

  Remaining crouched, I stealthily moved along the aisle and positioned myself out of sight, behind a display stand, waiting there, as the criminal hastily stuffed notes into his pockets.

  Using the mirror, I watched the robber turn and run, and timing it to perfection, stuck out my leg and successfully tripped him. He fell hard to the laminated floor with a satisfying smack and the gun flew out of his hand, landing by the door. Before he had the chance to get up, I was on top of him and pinning him to the ground.

  ‘Getoffa me!’ The masked man barked whilst struggling to get free.

  As I was wrestling with him, I yelled over my shoulder to the teenager, who had sunk below the counter to take cover but was peering over it.

  ‘I’m a Met officer. Call 999!’

  ‘Fuckin’ pig!’ The robber snarled at me with all the hateful spite he could muster.

  Summoning strength, the criminal somehow managed to roll us and shake off my hold. After landing a few blows to my face, the robber scrambled to his feet, grabbed the gun and scarpered.

  Having spent most my life brawling, it didn’t take me long to recover. I stood up, used the side of my hand to wipe the blood from my nose, and looked back at the cowering Indian, who hadn’t moved an inch.

  ‘What are you waiting for? Call ‘em!’ I ordered again, louder this time, trying to rouse him out of his shock and into action, before running out of the store in pursuit.

  Back outside, I witnessed the robber fleeing on a neon green BMX, cycling across Westferry Road, evidently oblivious to the fact that he was on a collision course with a speeding, white BMW. The inconsiderate boy-racer, rather than hitting the breaks, opted to blast the horn instead. Suddenly gripped in a blind panic, the criminal twisted the handlebars, which resulted with the front wheel hitting the curb at such an angle to topple the bike, and consequently sent him tumbling to safety on to the pavement.

  The robber, who must have seen me coming, wasted no time, as he leapt up, abandoning his BMX by the roadside, and sprinted off in the opposite direction.

  As I began to gain on him, the perp veered down an unlit alleyway.

  The alleyway was formed by weather-beaten, wooden fences, belonging to a row of terraced council houses, and the red brick wall of a derelict Presbyterian church, which was heavily tagged with graffiti of varying artistic quality.

  Halfway down the dark alleyway the armed robber suddenly stopped, swiftly spun around, whipped out his gun, aiming at me, and letting the plastic bag float away. It was enough to make me stop dead in my tracks and lift my hands up.

  ‘Whoa! Whoa!’ I shouted.

  ‘I ain’t got no job! No fuckin’ money! Cut my benefits in ‘alf!’ The masked criminal barked out every word in quick succession. ‘I ain’t got nuffin’! No hope! No life! Nuffin’! Nuffin’!’


  I could hear the desperation in his voice and even understood it. The recession that had gripped the country, causing rioting on the streets, incidents of arson and high street shops were ransacked. The crime rate was soaring in the city because of the economic crisis.

  ‘I know what its like. I’ve been there myself. I can help you,’ I tried empathising with him.

  ‘DON’T MOVE!’ The hand that was holding the gun was now shaking. I swallowed hard and took another step closer. ‘I MEAN IT!’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be this way. Trust me, you don’t wanna be a cop killer.’

  ‘BACK OFF!’ His hand was shaking violently now. ‘Just…lemme go, lemme go.’

  ‘Listen, don’t make things worse for yourself. C’mon mate, hand over the gun.’

  ‘I’m NOT ya mate! And I’m NOT going back in there! I can’t! Not again! Not again!’ The ex-con shook his head adamantly. ‘I won’t! No way! NO FUCKIN’ WAY!’

  I bravely took another step forward, holding out my hand, introducing myself, ‘I’m DS Fred Sorensen. I understand your situation, believe me. It’s tough out there right now but you’re not alone. You don’t have to resort to this. I can get you help. You can trust me.’

  My hand remained offered to him, the upturned palm coated with a fine layer of sweat and the fingers outstretched. I noticed that his hand had stopped shaking. I genuinely believed he was about to surrender the weapon, when our connection was severed by an all too familiar, loud noise. It was the unmistakable wail of a police siren.

  BANG!

  I staggered two steps backwards. At first I didn’t feel a thing, as if nothing had happened, a surreal sensation, which was only to last for a few seconds more, before I felt the excruciating fire take hold, as the bullet had burned its brutal path into my body.

  Tentatively touching the open wound, I looked down at the blood on the palms of my hands and then up at the man who had shot me. The robber took off his mask and revealed the dumbstruck face of boy.

  In sheer desperation, I appealed to him to, ‘Help me.’

  His mouth hung open but no words formed on his thin lips. I knew then, it was futile.

  My entire body suddenly felt very heavy and I dropped down to my knees. When I looked back up, I saw the bastard running away.

  I fell backwards and smacked my head on the concrete so hard that it bounced on impact. Given that bump, I was surprised to have remained conscious and lucid enough to recall everything that had happened this evening.

  Laying there, in that alleyway, I knew the chance of being found was slight. I thought, Nobody would choose to take such a route, especially in this rough area, at this time of night? And what person, in their right mind, would leave the safety and comfort of their home at the sound of a gun firing? I pictured the occupants of the council houses, tucked up in their warm beds, some half-awake, the light sleepers, roused by the sound of a bang, and then convincing themselves that it was nothing more than a car-backfiring in order to lull themselves back to a blissful, ignorant slumber. I didn’t judge them because, if I was one of them, cosy in bed, I probably would have done the same thing myself.

  With my hope forever fleeting, I heard sounds of life, a cacophony of overlapping voices yelling: ‘No!’, ‘Where?’, ’Thataway!’, ‘Here?’, ‘Which way?’, ‘Down there!’.

  Moments after all the shouting ceased, there were two people, uniformed policemen, one crouching beside me, trying to keep me conscious, and the other standing over me, radioing for an ambulance, but their efforts were in vain, I knew it’d be too late to save me. Before my sight began to fail, I saw that the teenage boy was also there, the one from the shop, and there was also another man, of Middle-Eastern descent, bearded - it amused me to think it was Mohammed.

  Disappointingly, there was no dazzlingly bright light summoning my body upwards to those white, fluffy clouds, with beautiful, blonde angels floating on them, dressed in white gowns, smiling and playing harmonious melodies on golden harps, all that appeared was a soulless black hole, which began to slowly open up underneath me and then, when it was large enough, swallowed me whole.

  From that moment on there was nothing; no blood, no stars, no voices, no pain, no fear, just pure darkness stretched out before me for an eternity…

  Chapter 1

  BANG!

  And then everything in the room went quiet. The loud noise reverberated through my entire body, making it physically shake. The sound conjured a sense memory within me, one I’d long tried to bury. Caught up inside that moment, I was dragged back ten years, to a place void of hope, full of darkness and pain. I tentatively placed my trembling hand upon my scar. When I felt nothing but the dry, cotton fabric of my maroon-coloured shirt, a wave of relief washed over me.

  Turning around I saw everyone in the room looking at Sean O’Flaherty, who was holding a bottle of champagne with both hands, crudely positioned level with his crotch. He’d shot the cork across the hotel’s palatial Versailles Suite, and by the looks of it, had sprayed some of the guests standing nearest him, who were not amused by the groom’s uncouth shenanigans. Sean, gripped by a fit of laughter, was neither remotely embarrassed nor apologetic, and clearly too drunk to care what anyone thought of his behaviour.

  I’d known Sean for a long time, longer than I’d care to admit to. We had once been partners, when we worked together on the Force, until we both decided to quit and pursue other careers with varying degrees of success.

  Sean had the balls, contacts and business savvy to establish his own construction company, grossing an annual turnover of millions, and I was working as a lone private investigator, operating out of my basement flat in Paddington, earning considerably less.

  Naturally, after going our separate ways, we’d inevitably drifted apart and gradually, over the years, we lost contact completely. Then one day, about two months ago, totally out of the blue, Sean sent me a DM via Facebook. We quickly reconnected on Messenger and he invited me to his wedding reception at Danesfield House Hotel out in Marlow.

  After all of the time that had lapsed since we’d last seen each other, I was curious to see if Sean was still the same man that I’d known back in the day, and I was delighted to discover, despite accumulating a fortune, he’d not changed in the slightest. He was still the gregarious, ginger Irishman with an immature sense of humour, who couldn’t resist playing a practical joke, even at his own fancy wedding reception.

  Sean’s not-so-blushing bride, Catherine O’Flaherty, clearly didn’t find the joke as amusing as her husband did and sent him a scathing scowl from the other side of the mirrored ballroom.

  Catherine was a type of woman I knew all to well, thanks to my chosen profession. She was one of those cool, blue-eyed blondes with a toned, tanned body and gold-digging mentality.

  I’d been watching Catherine from afar since I had arrived, and I had observed that she had spent the evening moving effortlessly from guest to guest making polite conversation but never staying for more than ten minutes with anybody which, after they had danced their first dance beneath the chandeliers, included her husband.

  ‘Freddy!’ Sean shouted, spotting me smiling amongst the crowd of disapproving faces, and began zigzagging his way over. ‘There ya are!’ He raised the champagne bottle to signal a greeting. ‘Whatta craic, huh?’ He didn’t wait for a response. ‘Thanks for coming boy-o!’ Slapping me on the back, harder than what was necessary.

  ‘Wouldn’t’ve missed it for the world, partner.’

  He laughed. ‘Partner! Ah, those were the days, eh?’ Sean shook his head. ‘Looks like you’re the only one who showed.’ Sadly this was true, nobody else from the Met had put in an appearance, but then again he had left under a black cloud, and that was putting it mildly. ‘Ah, who cares, right, bunch of tossers, the lot of ‘em!’ Sean took a swig from the bottle before sliding his arm around my shoulders. ‘It’s been far too, too, too long, errr…’ I could see him trying to think, his cognitive faculties failing in his drunken stupor, �
�How long has it been, Freddy?’

  ‘Must be over seven years, mate’ I answered him soberly.

  ‘Fuck me!’ His blue eyes enlarged with the realisation. ‘Its been donkeys years, so it has, so it has…’ Sean trailed off, taking multiple gulps from the bottle and staring at Catherine.

  She was currently entertaining two guests, who I assumed, by appearances alone, I guessed were part of the decidedly eccentric O’Flaherty clan; an old crone with a blue rinse and bony fingers bejewelled with an assortment of rings, whose bright red fascinator had gone askew as the day had worn on, and a short, morbidly obese, middle-aged man, possibly the woman’s son, visibly perspiring in a navy blue, pinstripe suit, which was straining at the seams to contain him.

  ‘Congratulations by the way.’ I added, ‘You were always a lucky bastard.’

  ‘Isn’t it grand, Freddy. Hot wife, shitloads of money and a whopper house!’ He unashamedly boasted, growing louder in volume as he did so. ‘What more could a man want?’

  ‘You’ve got it all,’ I put dryly.

  In that moment, I reflected, thinking that perhaps, I was jealous of his life, especially when I compared it to my own.

  ‘And what about you, huh? Still working as a private dick?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I didn’t care much for being called a “private dick” but, as it was Sean, so I let it pass. He wouldn’t take any notice if I told him not to use the term anyway, in fact, knowing him as well as I did, he’d probably deliberately say it more, being a windup merchant.

  ‘How much ya raking in these days, huh?’

  I shrugged and said simply, ‘I get by.’

  ‘You can’t be earning much, to be sure,’ Sean put rather condescendingly.

  ‘At least I’m my own boss now.’

  ‘To be sure, to be sure. You always did have authority issues didn’t ya, Freddy. What did the guys use to call ya…’ He began simultaneously shaking his head and rapidly clicking his fingers, and this time two of his brain cells made contact and came up with the goods, ‘Red Fred!’ He laughed heartily.