The Demons Beneath Read online

  The Demons Beneath

  A DI Graves thriller

  WD Jackson-Smart

  Copyright © 2022 WD Jackson-Smart

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  The right of WD Jackson-Smart to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2022 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.

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  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

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  Print ISBN 978-1-5040-6864-2

  Contents

  Love best-selling fiction?

  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

  A note from the publisher

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  To Luke and to my parents, for all their support and help with my writing, and for making The Demons Beneath as fun, thrilling and tense as it could be.

  Chapter One

  Janine Morris was wide-eyed and pale, her body shaking. Her mouse-grey shoulder-length hair was a mess, and the dark circles under her eyes pronounced. Her brain throbbed and she felt weak. She was aware of the neighbours hovering nearby, all eyes on her, and the small, but noticeable, camera crew outside her house. Her stomach churned. She wanted to sit down, worried she would pass out at any moment. She regretted not having made herself more presentable, then dismissed the thought. There were far more pressing matters at hand.

  ‘Thanks, Bobby,’ the maroon-suited woman holding the microphone suddenly piped up. The early morning sun glinted off the huge lens of the cumbersome video camera next to her. Janine snapped her attention back to the professional vlogger and tried to rally herself for the task at hand as the woman continued.

  ‘I’m here in Arnos Grove, north London, with local resident Janine Morris, who claims that her family is being haunted after a string of mysterious events. Thank you for speaking to us, Mrs Morris. Tell me, what exactly have you and your family experienced?’

  The microphone was thrust into Janine’s face. Her mouth was suddenly as dry as the cracked paving and browning sprigs of grass underfoot, and she struggled to get her words out.

  ‘Well, erm, it … it began last week – last Saturday. My youngest daughter, Emma, came running into our bedroom screaming and crying. She said there had been something in her room with her, something watching her.’

  ‘Oh my,’ the interviewer answered dramatically, her lips a ring of glossy lipstick. Janine felt horribly self-conscious, could feel the blood hum around her body. She flexed her fingers, trying to push out the nerves.

  ‘She was terrified. Wouldn’t go back in her room. In fact, she hasn’t been in there since. My husband Darrell checked it over but there was nothing there. We dismissed it at first, but she just wouldn’t go in there after that. Then the rest of us began to feel things in the house too.’ Janine could feel beads of sweat dripping down her back and wished the interview was over already, but she knew she must finish. It was too important.

  ‘What sort of things?’ was the natural question. A few of the neighbours edged closer to Janine’s front garden. From somewhere Janine registered a camera flash, and she squinted as she tried to maintain a semblance of composure.

  ‘Freezing cold chills, even though the windows were closed or it was sunny outside. Strange smells that we couldn’t find the source of. And you know when you see something out of the corner of your eye, but when you look there’s nothing there? We found strange marks in the back of Emma’s closet, like scratches made by an animal, but we couldn’t find any trace of an animal that might have done it. We’ve been trying to ignore it all, but the kids are so worked up and it’s really starting to affect us. We’re barely sleeping and now the kids will only sleep in our room. It’s a nightmare, truly.’

  The interviewer pulled a face of exaggerated mock-fear as she glanced at the camera. Janine could tell that the woman thought she was crazy.

  ‘Wow, that does sound scary, like a horror film or something. But don’t you think there’s a simple explanation for everything?’

  The camera whirred as the lens zoomed in on her. She knew people would doubt her, doubt her stories, maybe think she had lost the plot entirely, but she couldn’t let that get in the way.

  ‘No. No, I don’t. I can understand why people wouldn’t believe us. I really can, it sounds, well, nuts, but I can’t shake the thought: what if Emma didn’t imagine it? What if something really was in her room? We didn’t imagine those smells, the cold chills, the marks.’ The muscles in her shoulders were rigid with tension. As the interviewer turned and spoke to the camera once more, the breeze lifting her curled blonde hair, just one thought spun around Janine’s mind.

  Someone, please help us!

  Detective Inspector Daniel Graves stood watching one of the crime scene examiners lean in close to get a better look at the bloodied cadaver. His stomach was a bubble of anxiety at the state of the body and he swallowed, tasting bile in the back of his throat. He ran his hand through his short brown hair.

  Since accepting a promotion and transferring to the Homicide and Serious Crime Command of the London Metropolitan Police Service permanently four months ago, he had already worked on three murder investigations. His mind had settled into the new position quickly but his gut was yet to adapt, and the sight of a dead body was still enough to make him gag. The heaving city was a world away from Buxton in Derbyshire, where he had been based before. It already seemed like decades ago. His skill on four homicide cases in Buxton, three domestic and one related to an individual with severe mental health issues, had earned him the transfer, but his new position had forced him to get used to seeing dead bodies far more regularly than he had in his previous role. But he wasn’t even close to getting used to it. He wasn’t convinced anyone ever really did – except perhaps for morticians. For now, he was content to work on not being sick at every crime scene. He had done exactly that more than once at the start of his career and knew it was not the best impression to give. So far, today he’d kept his breakfast down. That was progress. He was keen to play down just how badly he was affected by proximity to dead bodies. It didn’t look good if the detective on scene looked pale as a sheet. He was also in no rush to share with his colleagues the flashbacks he had whenever he saw a body.

  ‘Hi, I don’t think I introduced myself. DI Graves. What can you tell me abou
t this guy, then?’ he asked the woman kneeling over the body. He kept the back of his hand over his mouth as a precaution, if nothing else. The woman gently prodded a piece of bloody flesh around the edge of a horrific stomach wound, pursed her lips and turned to look up at him, squinting in the sunlight. She did not seem bothered by his evident reluctance to get closer to the body.

  ‘Well, we can rule out a stabbing – a traditional one, anyway. The wound is too ragged, too large. There are some small striations along the costochondral junction here,’ she said, pointing to glimpses of white visible through the gore. Daniel risked a fleeting glance at where she was pointing.

  ‘Possibly a crowbar, based on the striations, but I can’t say for sure yet, since we haven’t found the weapon. It was a violent attack, though. Likely happened in the small hours of this morning, maybe around six hours ago judging by the state of the body and the minimal insect activity. I’d say it was quite spontaneous, certainly not done with any precision, probably fuelled by a burst of extreme anger.’

  Daniel looked out across the running track of the Finsbury Park Athletics Centre. The sun forced him to shade his eyes with one hand as he surveyed the scene. A high green fence surrounded the place. He could see no obvious gaps, but the fence would be fairly easy to climb over. Surely neither the victim nor the attacker would have had keys to the gate. A movement to the right caught his attention, and he turned to see his partner walk past the stand next to the entrance and head towards him. DI Charlie Palmer’s perfectly styled hair shimmered in the sunlight.

  Daniel hadn’t believed that Charlie Palmer was a real police officer when they first met. He thought it was some sort of joke. Play tricks on the new guy. Team the skinny guy from the countryside with someone who looked like Henry bloody Cavill – hilarious. When Daniel had realised that he truly was partnered with the tall, charming man, who also happened to be intelligent and kind-hearted, he had felt inferior. He had been forced to push down his own numerous insecurities for fear that if he didn’t, he’d be back in the countryside in no time. He had continued to do so ever since. It was hard enough moving to a position of more responsibility in a big, overwhelming city like London when he was used to small-town life. He couldn’t let the fact that he looked like an underdeveloped teenager when standing next to Charlie get the better of him either. Knowing that this was not the time for an attack of self-doubt, he pushed down his jealousy at Charlie’s stereotypically good looks.

  ‘Do we think it’s a body dump?’ his partner asked as he joined Daniel and the anthropologist, who was now accompanied by a colleague also dressed in overalls and rubber gloves. The younger woman was collecting small pieces of bloodied grit with a fine pair of tweezers, dropping them into a clear plastic tube.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Daniel shook his head slowly. ‘There’s too much blood around the body. It looks like he was killed here. It’s quite secluded in terms of passers-by – might have been a meeting, a deal of some sort. We’re pretty much in the middle of the park so there are no houses close by, the athletics track would have been deserted at night, and as far as I can see there are no cameras around either. Would work well as a spot for a deal, although they would have had to climb the fence to get in.’ Daniel pointed to the fence. Charlie nodded as he took a good look around.

  Daniel cast his eyes back down over the dead man a few metres from his feet, trying not to focus on his injuries. The victim was white, wearing jeans, a grey checked shirt and brown boots, all smeared with blood. His sleeves were rolled up, showing tattoos on his right forearm, but they didn’t immediately stand out as unusual. Not many people in the UK had gang-related tattoos these days; tattoo sleeves were far more common.

  ‘He looks pretty ordinary.’ Daniel huffed.

  ‘Ordinary people still do drugs, still do stupid things,’ Charlie pointed out. ‘You can’t tell much by just looking at someone. Do we know who he is?’

  A nearby CSI overheard the question and joined the conversation. He held up his clipboard and read off the paper sheet. ‘Rogan Simmons, thirty-six, lives in north London. He had his driving licence on him.’

  ‘So whoever killed him either wasn’t bothered about him being identified or was too stupid or panicked to try and hide the evidence,’ Daniel said.

  ‘Let’s see what we can dig up on Mr Simmons here,’ Charlie said, nodding towards the body. ‘I wonder if he’s got a few skeletons lurking, given how gruesome his death was.’

  Daniel glanced back at the body one more time, swallowing hard.

  Charlie slapped him on the back. ‘Aren’t you glad you moved to London?’ He grinned as he started off towards the entrance to the track, his hands outstretched, signalling for Daniel to take it all in. Daniel wrinkled his brow in a mock frown. He was glad he had moved; he didn’t regret it for a second. His life had changed dramatically, but all for the good. Murder investigations were rare back in Derbyshire, and Daniel was extremely thankful he been able to transfer to the Met. He was starting to find a level of job satisfaction that he had only dreamed of before moving. It had given him a new lease of life. Nothing felt greater than the thought of putting a killer behind bars or giving a grieving family the answers they so desperately needed. This case was no different. He would find the person responsible and he would put him or her to justice. Superman Graves, he thought before following Charlie, his skin tingling with adrenaline.

  What had started off as a hot-desk had evolved into Daniel’s permanent station in the department. He slouched in the swivel chair, iced raspberry frappe in hand. Pushing folders and paperwork out of the way, Daniel logged onto the intranet and scanned his inbox. After reading his unread messages, he grabbed his drink and headed over to Charlie, who was standing talking to another officer.

  ‘So where are we at with our victim?’ Daniel asked, perching on the edge of a vacant desk. The other officer smiled and headed off across the office.

  ‘According to driving licence records, our dead guy lived on Morley Avenue in Wood Green. He worked at a garage a few minutes from there. He was arrested for a drunk and disorderly two years back, but nothing else. Single, never married, no kids.’

  ‘Okay. That doesn’t give us much but at least we now know where he spent his days. Trip to the garage?’ Daniel guessed.

  His partner nodded. ‘Yep, someone there must be able to tell us a bit more about him.’

  ‘Hopefully they can tell us who gutted the poor guy!’ Daniel pushed off the desk. He took a last slurp of the melting frappe, dumped the cup in the bin, and together they headed for the lifts. ‘I’m driving.’ Daniel patted the keys in his pocket.

  Catherine Delamar’s rented flat was small but bright. More importantly, it was close to the Thames, giving her the impression that she didn’t live in a huge, smog-filled city. She had no view of the river but the scent of the water lingered in the breeze coming through the open window she sat next to. There was no time to linger in the moment, however, and after a few seconds she came back to reality and flipped the cover off her iPad to begin her daily routine.

  Catherine was looking for something specific: a story, article or news piece that might fit into her line of work. Although sometimes opportunities were offered to her, being a freelance demonologist meant she often had to look for jobs. It was a career that required her to be proactive. After all, reports of demonic activity were not exactly the norm. Having spent twenty years in the business, though, she knew how to find the good stuff.

  She had travelled all over the UK and Europe over the years, moving from case to case. She never chose huge jobs. No, the smaller, family-size opportunities were what paid her bills. Despite a fall in the number of real-life stories of the supernatural being reported in the news, there were still hundreds of official – and unofficial – reports of hauntings, possessions and pissed-off poltergeists that emerged every year across the UK and Europe. Catherine often had plenty to choose from. Very occasionally she would help two or three families in one place be
fore moving on, but she never stayed anywhere too long. She liked the countryside and she loved to travel, given the opportunity – in fact, she needed to. She sometimes joked that she must have some gypsy blood in her from relatives long since departed.

  London was the fourth place Catherine had stopped in this year, and she was loving it. After helping a single mother on a farmhouse near Satley in County Durham who had been convinced her son was the devil reborn, she had decided she would take a few days of holiday to release some stress. The boy, it turned out, had been severely autistic, but his school and doctor had failed to recognise his condition and his mother admitted that she herself had a penchant for the supernatural and, in hindsight, had perhaps been looking for something else to explain her son’s behaviour.

  A gang of teenagers in his school had begun to torment the boy every day. He’d eventually snapped, and anyone who got in his way felt his anger and violent nature, including his mother – and Catherine, numerous times over the few weeks she had worked with the family. Everyone involved was glad that the devil was in fact not walking the earth in County Durham, but it had taken a lot of Catherine’s energy to prove this. Thankfully, the job had still paid. That was one of her conditions: whether or not she found a demon, her time was valuable and billable.