Chameleon Read online

  CHAMELEON

  by

  Michael K Foster

  First published in Great Britain as a soft back originated in 2019

  Copyright © 2019 Michael K Foster

  The moral right of this author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved

  All characters and events in this book, 0ther than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Editing, design, typesetting and publishing by Remobooks

  Cover images:

  ©Robert Barnes – https://www.robertbarnesphotography.com/

  By Michael K Foster

  DCI Jack Mason Crime Thriller series

  THE WHARF BUTCHER

  SATAN’S BECKONING

  THE SUITCASE MAN

  CHAMELEON

  Acknowledgements

  All my DCI Mason and David Carlisle novels are works of fiction based in the North East of England. There are so many people without whose help and support it would have been difficult, if not impossible, to write with any sense of authenticity. Suffering from dyslexia as I do, my grateful thanks go out to the late Rita Day and my dear wife Pauline, whose belief and inspiration has never waned.

  I am indebted to Detective Constable Maurice Waugh, a former member of the Yorkshire Ripper Squad, and Ken Stewart, a former member of South Shields CID. Their technical assistance of how the police tackle crime has allowed me a better understanding of what takes place. Their efforts have helped me enormously.

  To single out a few other names who helped make a difference to the book, I would like to thank Robert Barnes and Lynn Oakes for their encouragement and unqualified support in developing the initial cover graphics. Finally, I would express my heartfelt appreciation to the Beta reader team: Jan Duffy, Maria Jones, Mark Duffy, Daniel Inman, and Brenda Forster, without whose help this book would never have made the bookshelf.

  Michael K Foster

  michaelkfoster.com

  For Margaret

  CHAPTER ONE

  Chopwell Wood Monday 13 June 2016

  The boy stood on his tiptoes and peered in through the car’s passenger window. Nobody inside – all the doors were locked but the engine was still running. Curious, he inched his way forward through the thick undergrowth and thought he could hear a man’s voice, not too far away, and close to the footpath. Oblivious to the dangers now surrounding him – the dim and vaulted green woods always had a magical appeal.

  Earlier, having built a secret bird hide close to the river and just off the beaten track, he was hoping to spot kingfishers. Fledglings had been seen on the banks. Wild, spectacular, kingfishers in flight always filled him with joy. Not that he was expecting to see any, but he might if he kept quiet.

  Eyes peeled through a gap in the treeline, he could just make out a dark silhouette beyond the ridge. He knew it was risky, knew he shouldn’t, but he crept forward anyway. There was a man. Not tall, but portly, with a rounded face and balding hairline that reminded him of his late Uncle Arthur. What was he doing here? Who was he talking to? He was eager to find out.

  Crawling forward on all fours, twigs snapped beneath his fingertips and the long knobbly ferns dug deep into his scrawny knees and caused him to wince. He didn’t want to get too close as he might be seen, but curiosity had unquestionably got the better of him.

  Then, through the thick undergrowth he spotted a woman’s face. Motionless, eyes wide open in a look of terror, she was staring out into space as if searching for something. He could see her lips were tinged blue and her mouth wide open in a cry of revulsion, but still it didn’t register. Next, he noticed the yellow cord attached to a branch and tied taut around her neck. She was bent forward slightly, knees buckled, with her feet touching the ground. She wasn’t a tall woman, slim with long shoulder-length blonde hair that clung to her cheeks like ripe summer corn. Wearing an ankle-length skirt, blue cotton blouse and flat leather shoes, he noticed her fingernails were painted a bright orange colour reminding him of pyracantha berries in autumn.

  Who was she?

  Shifting his weight, he watched as the man extended his arms towards the heavens as a priest offering prayers. The boy had never seen a person this close to death before, and never wanted to see one again.

  Without warning, the man’s eyes shot sideways suddenly. His voice was threatening, cold. ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded.

  Scared out of his wits, the boy pressed his face hard against the damp woodland soil and tried to make himself small. He should never have skipped off school lessons; it was a stupid thing to do. Now caught in something he no longer wished to be part of, he didn’t feel safe anymore.

  Warily, he opened one eye and caught the resolute expression on the man’s face.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ the man said unconvincingly. ‘Why don’t you come out?’

  The boy wanted to say something, anything, but the words got stuck in his throat. Too scared to move, he was looking for a way out. To his right was a woodland path. Beyond that, a tangled mass of branches swayed leisurely in the sweltering summer breeze making a whispering sound. What if he ran towards the mass of woodland ferns? He was brave enough, and he might even lose him there.

  What if he fell?

  With every sinew in the boy’s body now straining, he lifted his head a tiny fraction; enough to peer out of one eye. Closer, closer than ever before, the thought of what the man might do had put the living fear of God in him.

  ‘I know you’re in there,’ the man shouted out.

  Coiled like a spring, blood drained from the boy’s face as the woods began to spin. His heart was pounding so fast, he thought it was about to explode. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and he felt wet fluid running down his legs.

  Motionless, the man shot him another sideways glance. There was evil in his eyes, the likes of which he’d never seen before. After a few deep breaths, the boy pulled back into the thick undergrowth and hid behind a tree. He was desperate to get away from him, but nowhere felt safe anymore.

  Terrified, the boy rose to his feet and ran towards the woodland footpath. Head down, shoulders slightly hunched, he sprinted as fast as his legs could carry him. He was heading for the river and the safety of the bird hide he’d built. Twenty metres, fifty metres; he thought he was going to be sick. If only he could run faster the man might give up on him. Then, reaching a bend in the footpath, it ended abruptly, and for one split second he’d lost all sense of direction. As his eyes searched for a gap in the undergrowth, he shuddered at the hopelessness of escape. He’d taken a wrong turning and there was nowhere else to run.

  Then he heard footsteps approaching.

  Panic came in waves as he felt the man’s strong hand grab the back of his neck. He remembered the woman’s face and imagined himself in her place. Somehow, he wriggled free, dropped to one knee and scrambled through a gap in the undergrowth. Thorns tore into him, like a werewolf’s talons gouging through flesh. He tried to scream out, but the pain was excruciating and his voice pitiful.

  Then daylight appeared, and he was standing at the top of a steep ravine searching for his next route of escape. There was none, only the sound of running water deep in the valley below. Caught in two minds, he plucked up enough courage to slide down a steep slippery slope. Everything was a blur, and his head was pounding so hard that he thought he was about to die. Tu
mbling headlong to the bottom, he turned. But all he could hear was the man’s ragged breathing and the sound of falling rocks.

  What to do next? His mouth felt dry, and the hairs on the back of neck were standing on end. Gripped by uncertainty, he decided to make a dash for it. It wasn’t far, but on nearing a bend in the river he doubled back on himself and ducked inside his secret bird hide. It was dark inside – eerie – only the afternoon sunlight streaming through the tiniest of gaps in twisted branches. Then he heard the man’s ragged breathing again, like the wind along a knife.

  Crouching low, the boy held his breath and listened. Less than a metre away sunlight danced on the man’s mud-spattered shoes. They were brown, with sharp pointed toes and his shoelaces had been tied in a criss-cross pattern. How much longer he could hold out he had no idea. What if he made another dash for it – ran towards the river and swam to the other side?

  Then the man’s ragged voice again.

  This time he was goading him, wielding a heavy stick above his head and shouting out profanities. Half expecting it to come crashing down on top of him, the boy closed his eyes and wished himself invisible.

  Only the man’s irregular breathing now, and the sound of running water.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was six o’clock when ten-year-old Martin Kennedy finally arrived back at his father’s house. Carrying his mud-spattered shoes in his hand, the young boy didn’t know what to think. Scared out of his wits, he crept up the hallway stairs and quietly pulled the bedroom door shut behind him. The room was small and cluttered, tucked away towards the back of the house. Posters filled every wall, some of wildlife but mainly birds of prey. A central window looked out onto small factory units; it wasn’t a particularly pleasant view. At least it was home and Martin felt safe here.

  Quietly, not wanting to disturb his father, he stood in front of the mirror and wriggled free of his mud-spattered school uniform. There were so many unanswered questions on his mind, questions he didn’t want to talk about. If he had known then what he knew now, he would never have skipped off school in the first place.

  Exhausted, he flopped down on his bed and buried his head in his pillow. He’d been in some terrifying scrapes in his life, but nothing compared to this. As he let his mind drift, all around him the wind began to howl in his daydream. Fear gripped him, and he was thrown into utter turmoil again. He was running through a forest, and a wicked beast was chasing after him. It was huge, bigger than anything he’d ever witnessed before. As the illusion intensified, so did his sense of judgement. He knew it was evil, knew it was out to kill him, but there was little he could do to stop it. Then, just when he thought it was going to devour him, his dream took a different form. He was standing in a tunnel, and the ghostlike image of his mother was walking towards him. Arms outstretched, head bent low, she was pleading with him to follow her to safety and away from the wicked beast. All the while he could hear heavy footsteps approaching, and knew the beast was getting closer.

  Then, in the darkest corners of his mind, he heard his father’s voice. Not daring to breathe, fear ripped through him as never before. This wasn’t a dream, this was reality and his father’s voice was angry.

  ‘Is that you up there, Martin?’

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ Martin called out.

  ‘What the hell have you been up to this time?’

  ‘Nothing, Dad. I swear it!’

  ‘What do you mean nothing?’ his father yelled back at the top of his voice. ‘There’s mud all over the hallway carpets and all the way up the stairs.’

  Martin peered down at his bed sheets and cringed. Muck everywhere, footprints all over the floor, and his bedside cabinet was in a right old mess. His father would kill him if ever he saw his bedroom in this state – but what was he to do? He didn’t have a clue how to operate the washing machine, and the bed sheets were far too big to wash in the sink. He knew his mother would have helped him, but she no longer lived at home.

  His mind running amok, Martin picked up his mud-spattered shoes and slid them under his bed.

  ‘Did you hear me, son?’

  ‘Yes, Dad, and I took my shoes off the minute I stepped into the house.’

  ‘Really!’

  ‘I swear on my grandmother’s life!’

  The moment he caught his father’s ominous shadow through the gap under the door, his heart sank. It wasn’t his fault he’d messed up badly; it was Miss Crawshaw, his lousy English teacher who was to blame. Why couldn’t she be nice to him like all the other teachers in school, instead of constantly picking on him all the time? He should never have peered in through the car’s windows, he should have gone straight to the bird hide just like he’d planned. He hadn’t, and now he was up to his neck in serious trouble.

  The moment his bedroom door flew back on its hinges, Martin winced. The next thing he saw, after his father had stormed into the room, was the furious look on his face. He wanted to cry out, say he was sorry for the terrible mess he’d got himself into. But how could he possibly explain what had happened to him that afternoon, where would he even begin?

  He watched as his father puffed his cheeks out and expelled a long blast of air.

  ‘What in hell’s name have you been up to this time, young man?’

  ‘Nothing, Dad––’

  ‘Nothing,’ his father shrieked, ‘just look at the state of your room.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad.’

  ‘Sorry!’

  Tears rolled down Martin’s cheeks, and he couldn’t stop shaking. Then, in a moment of inspiration he started to count to one thousand and ten – just as he always did in times of trouble. It diverted his attention from unwanted thoughts, helped him cope in a grownup world. But nothing could save him from the beast in his nightmare, no matter how hard he tried.

  ‘There was this stranger, Dad,’ Martin began.

  ‘What stranger. . . who?

  ‘The man who chased me through Chopwell Wood.’

  His father stared at him oddly, as he moved towards the bottom of his bed. There was nothing more frightening than an angry dad. Then, when he was least expecting it, his father lifted one eyebrow and shot him a piercing glance. ‘What were you doing in Chopwell Wood. . . I thought you were supposed to be at school all day?’

  ‘I was––’

  After his father had asked him a zillion questions, he finally broke down and cried. He should never have gone there in the first place. He’d been spooked, and he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

  Then silence – only the nightmare still playing on his mind.

  ‘What did he look like?’ his father asked, softy now.

  ‘Who, Dad?’

  ‘The man who chased after you through Chopwell Wood?’

  ‘Just like my Uncle Arthur!’

  He watched as his father’s eyes darted back to the bedsheets for an instant; then returned to him, silently, resolutely for some moments. ‘You’d better be telling me the truth, young man. If not, I’ll stop your pocket money for the rest of your life.’

  What was he to do?

  He was trapped, and his mind had splintered into a thousand pieces. Nothing made sense anymore. As he pulled the bed sheets over his head, he wished he was invisible. Too scared to even close his eyes; sleep didn’t come easily that night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  David Carlisle pocketed his iPhone and pondered his options. It was that time of year again, and trade in the unfaithful husband and wife department was booming. Sometimes he wondered where time went. Being a private investigator could be very demanding at times, and this summer was no exception. Not since his days with the Metropolitan Police had he been so busy. The trouble was, as government cutbacks cut deep into police numbers, petty crime was on the increase. It was a never-ending cycle, and one that the politicians were struggling to cope with.

  Drinks arrived, brought in on a tray by his business partner Jane Collins. He cleared a few files away and watched as Jane placed a mug of steaming hot
black coffee down on the corner of his desk. She was an attractive woman. Tall, witty, with a warm, bubbly personality that seemed to resonate with everyone she met. There was a darker side, though, and one that a lot of people knew nothing about. Hers was a well-kept secret, and one that Jane never talked about. Not even to him.

  Outwardly assertive and self-assured, inwardly Jane was haunted by a troubled past. A broken relationship with a married man who had presented himself as single at the time, had totally shattered her confidence in men. The scars ran deep, as if indelibly etched on her soul. Carlisle despised the man who had cheated on her and swore quietly that one day he would get even with him on her behalf.

  ‘There’s a Mr Kennedy wishing to speak with you,’ said Jane with an element of urgency in her voice. ‘His son’s in a spot of bother, it would appear.’

  Carlisle put his pen down and pushed back in his seat. ‘A stocky guy with a large black moustache and unruly mop of hair?’

  ‘I believe so,’ she replied.

  ‘Does he happen to look a bit like Boycie off Only Fools and Horses?’

  ‘Yes, he does now that you mention it.’ Jane flashed her ice blue eyes at him as she peered out of the office window. ‘Shall I tell him to make an appointment?’

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary.’

  Carlisle stepped out of his office and returned seconds later. Pleasantries exchanged, there was no laughter in Phillip Kennedy’s eyes, only emptiness. The man looked ragged, as well he might have been. His son’s harrowing account of what took place in Chopwell Wood the previous day was enough to send shivers down any father’s spine.

  ‘So,’ Carlisle began. ‘Why haven’t you gone to the police with your son’s story before now?’

  ‘You know I can’t do that. Not with my criminal record, David. Besides, I’d rather you dealt with it. . . at least I know where I stand.’