Family Reunion Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Also by ROBERT F BARKER

  Free Download

  Dedication

  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

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  Addendum

  Further Reading

  Death In Mind Chapter One

  DIM Chapter Two

  Death In Mind Chapter Three

  Free Download

  About The Author

  Kindle Version first published in 2018

  Copyright@Robert F Barker 2018

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book

  may be reproduced in any form other than that in

  which it was purchased, and without the

  written permission of the author.

  Your support of authors’ rights is appreciated.

  All characters in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead is purely coincidental.

  By The Author

  The DCI Jamie Carver Series;

  LAST GASP

  (The Worshipper Trilogy, Book One)

  FINAL BREATH

  (The Worshipper Trilogy, Book Two)

  OUT OF AIR

  (The Worshipper Trilogy, Book Three)

  Get a free copy of, THE CARVER PAPERS, - The inside story of the hunt for a Serial Killer, - as features in LAST GASP

  Click on the link below to find out more and get started

  http://robertfbarker.co.uk/

  To all those family and friends who are so generous with help, advice, support and encouragement. I hope I do it all justice.

  CHAPTER 1

  Armenia, close to the border with Azerbaijan

  A second after the high-pitched whistling stopped, the shell hit with a heavy, double 'WHUU-UMP.”

  The other side of the field, beyond the Institute’s perimeter wall, a clump of olive trees rose into the air, seeming to hang there a split-second before exploding into a maelstrom of soil, rock and splinters. As the thunderous boom reverberated, the deadly cloud rushed towards the concrete building that now stood alone in the middle of the bleak landscape. But even as it spilled over the wall, through the pitted railings topping the brickwork, its momentum slowed, sharply, its lethal cargo discharging back to earth in a clattering hail of debris and charred timber.

  Even before the dust settled, manic whoops of fear-tinged glee erupted from the building’s third-floor windows. Covered only by chicken-wire - the glass had gone long ago – the yells and cat-calls echoed over the once fertile river valley that day by day was turning into a war-zone.

  'Fuck ME, Melkon, did you see that?' Antranig Koloyan’s cry mingled with the others as he turned to address his friend. But Melkon was down on his haunches, cowering against the wall, hands pressed to his ears.

  Apart from The Monster himself, young Melkon was the only other inmate Antranig ever bothered with. Though his behaviour could be erratic, sometimes even as disturbed as the other shaven-headed residents of Ward G19 - particularly when he started with the howling - there were periods when he could pass for being as sane as Antranig himself, almost.

  'Now THAT was CLOSE. Come see, Melkon.'

  But rather than accept the wild-eyed Armenian’s invitation, Melkon simply wrapped his arms even more tightly about his body and rocked back and forth on his heels. At the same time, a half-strangled wail – not quite the wolf thing - escaped him. When he looked up, his young face was full of fear.

  'Come away from the window, Antranig,' he croaked, barely able to make himself heard over the clamour that had reigned since the shelling started up again. 'You’ll get yourself killed.'

  Intent on proclaiming his defiance, Antranig turned back to what was happening beyond the boundaries of what was the nearest thing to home most of them had ever known.

  'I don’t CARE. Come ON you bastards. I’m WAITING. Blow me up, you FUCKERS.' As if in answer to his prayer, another blast, closer this time, rocked the building.

  Antranig threw himself to the side as a hail of dirt and debris hurtled through the windows, bouncing off the ceiling and walls to shower down over beds already covered in dust and ceiling plaster.

  Not quite as ready to welcome death as he was making out, Antranig decided a few moments respite were called for. He back-slid down the wall to squat next to his friend.

  'What do you think Melkon? Is this what we’ve been waiting for? The divine retribution that will cleanse us of our sins?' His eyes rolled as he laughed and he threw his head back to reveal a mouthful of stained ivory.

  'Don’t say that,' Melkon lamented. 'Someone will come. They wouldn’t just leave us.'

  The older man gave Melkon a pitying look. 'Of course they would you crazy bastard. Where do you think the orderlies are? Do you see them?'

  Melkon turned to look towards the barred gate that separated the ward from the corridor leading to the stark offices and barely-equipped treatment rooms. There was no one in sight.

  'I tell you,' Antranig continued. 'The cowardly bastards have legged it. That’s fucking Kurds for you.'

  'But what if we escaped?' Melkon grasped at another straw. 'What if, He escaped?'

  As if reminded to check there was no immediate prospect of such an unthinkable event happening, they both turned to look down the other end of the ward. The gate to the purpose-built cell in the far corner was still locked, its single inmate clearly visible through the bars.

  Vahrig Danelian, known to them all as simply, 'The Monster', was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, head down, sunken eyes closed. His grey-flannel covered legs were stretched out in front, arms loose at his sides. To all intents and purposes he was sleeping. But even from here, Antranig could see the thin smile he recognised as marking the man’s ‘meditations’.

  For a couple of seconds, the smile Antranig had stitched to his own face when the explosions resumed, flickered and almost died. But he forced himself not to dwell on the potential dilemma Melkon’s question had raised. What did it matter? Even if He, or even any of them, did manage to get out, chances were they wouldn’t last five minutes. The Azerbaijanis roaming the countryside didn’t care who they killed. And a mad Armenian was still an Armenian.

  So much for promises, Antranig thought.

  'What do they care?' he said, dismissing his friend’s hope. 'The only thing on their mind is st
aying alive. They don’t give a shit what happens to the likes of us, certainly not Him.'

  'But I don’t want to escape,' Melkon pleaded. 'I just want the noise to stop. Make it stop Antranig, please make it stop.' With that he curled himself into a ball and started to let out a long wail that Antranig knew heralded the wolf-howls that always reminded him of the mountain forests outside Odzun where he had grown up.

  For a moment, the haunting sound rose above the cacophony of yelling and yowling and everyone stopped. But when they realised it was only young Melkon, they all returned to what they had been doing, responding to the situation in their different ways, praying, crying or simply shouting obscene defiance at the yet-to-be-seen Azerbaijanis. Some had already retreated into themselves in the way they did when the world around became too much to bear, crawling back into their cots and wrapping themselves in the thin, grey blankets that years of washing had made transparent.

  'That’s it, Melkon,' Antranig said, grinning down at his friend. 'Howl like the devil. That will stop them.' But as he looked up, his gaze fell again on the cell at the far end of the room. A chill ran through him and his mood changed.

  Though The Monster’s head was still bowed, the black eyes Antranig was sure were the devil’s own were staring right at him in a way he had seen only twice before.

  The first was just before that time he went for the new orderly. It was the young man’s first day on the ward and no one had taken the trouble to warn him properly. Or so they all thought at the time. It was only later that someone said that the man’s mother was half-Azerbaijani. They never saw him again. Word was, he never recovered. The second time was the day they were visited by some Government Inspectors. Unusually, one was a woman. She looked good for her age and smelled nice in her neat grey suit and black shoes. As she stood outside the Monster’s cell with the other inspectors, the man they had made an excuse to come and gawp at, came up to the bars, pressed his face between them and stared at her, fixedly, as he was now doing to Antranig. Without him even saying anything, the woman fainted away and had to be carried out. She didn’t return either.

  Over recent weeks, as rumours of trouble outside had grown, Antranig had finally succeeded, much to his surprise, in engaging The Monster in what could almost have passed for conversation. As far as he knew he was the only person in the place to have done so, save perhaps for Doctor Kahramanyan. But despite the dark matters they discussed, the gravity of undertakings given, Antranig now found the Monster’s gaze as unsettling, terrifying even, as anything he had ever seen. He was sure it contained a message, one that right now, he didn’t care to think about. It stirred him to action.

  Jumping to his feet, he left Melkon to his howling and ran across to the entrance gate, remembering to keep his head low as he passed the windows. Grasping the cold iron in both hands he shook it as hard as he could so that it rattled, loudly, on its frame. At the same time he yelled down the corridor.

  'SOMEONE GET US THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.'

  CHAPTER 2

  The hills of North Wales, above Colwyn Bay

  The metallic clunk brought Carver awake with a start. For a split second, he wondered what in God’s name was happening. But as the familiar low rumble kicked in and he recognised the sound he had already come to hate with a vengeance, he let out a long, low groan. Within seconds the noise changed, settling into a sequence of harsh growls interspersed with nerve-cringing grating noises. A dark-haired forearm stretched out from under the duvet to grab at the alarm, turning it towards the bed.

  'Six-a-bloody-clock? I don’t believe this.'

  Driven by the annoyance surging through him, he swung his legs out of bed, got up and padded over to the window. As he went he trod carefully to avoid splinters, which was another thing. How long does it take to decide on flooring for Christ’s sake?

  The last few nights had been unusually warm for spring and he had discarded his usual cotton shorts after noticing they seemed more snug round his waist than previously. It had made him think again about getting back to the weekly badminton sessions that used to help counter Rosanna’s cooking – as well as being a diversion from other things. Much as he enjoyed the succulent meat dishes and hearty soups that are the mainstays of Portuguese cuisine, he had long ago learned the truth of the phrase, ‘too much of a good thing.’

  Not bothering to cover himself, he pulled back the curtains. Dawn’s early light flooded the room.

  As he gazed down on the building site they hoped may one day be a garden, Alun Cetwin-Owen, Master Builder - or Odd Job Man, depending on who you spoke to - lobbed another spadeful of gravel into the mixer. About to stoop for another, the Welshman stopped and looked up, as if some Celtic sixth sense had alerted him to the fact he was being watched. Seeing the naked man at the window, he lifted an arm and mouthed what Carver knew would be, had be been able to hear it over the machine’s incessant gloppetter-gloppetter - an excruciatingly cheery, 'Morning Mr Carver.'

  'YOU WELSH BASTARD,' Carver mouthed back through the glass. The older man smiled and waved.

  Carver was certain now that Alun’s ‘other project’, the one he’d hinted about working on during the afternoon - hence the early starts - was a fiction. A few days before, he had mentioned it to Gwynn Williams at the farm where they got their eggs. Carver had gone to ask if Gwynn was interested in the hay-making opportunity the overgrown field at the back of the house presented. Carver had never suffered with hay-fever in his life but the past few weeks his sinuses had become increasingly irritated. During his last weekend off, his eyes had turned painfully red. When Gwynn asked how the building work was going, Carver had lamented over how Alun’s other commitments were hampering progress.

  ‘Work?’ Gwynn had said. ‘In the afternoon? Alun? Noohhhh. It’s just he doesn’t sleep, see? And if he’s not in The Three Dragons by two o’clock, then something’s wrong isn’t it?’

  At first Carver had wondered how it was that his supposed ‘Wizarding Abilities’ hadn’t caused him to spot the lie. Then he realised. When Alun spoke of having, 'other things to do in the afternoons,' he hadn’t actually mentioned building work. And whilst it would have been obvious to Alun that Carver assumed he was talking about another project, maintaining the illusion required nothing more of him than he keep his mouth shut.

  Shaking his head, Carver thought on his options. If it wasn’t for the fact that builders in that part of Wales were scarcer than the country’s legendary gold mines, he’d have sent Alun packing long ago. They were already three weeks behind the ‘rough schedule’ he had let the man talk him into when they discussed the job. And just that weekend he had spoken of having to, ‘Revise the original estimates.’

  Then there were the rest breaks.

  To begin with, Carver thought Rosanna was joking when she told him the boxes of tea bags he came across whilst rooting for his coffee one morning were just one week’s supply.

  ‘I didn’ realise these Wales-,’ – she still had difficulty with ‘Welsh,’ - ‘These Wales drin’ more tea than you Engleesh,’ she had said, shaking her head.

  That said, Alun’s brickying was as good as any Carver had ever seen, and he was regular as clockwork.

  A bit too regular, he thought.

  But even as the thought came that it may be time for him and Alun to sit down and thrash some things out, maybe over a pint in The Three Dragons, he felt the urge arriving that standing at the chill window had brought on. But as he turned from the window, the duvet over the still-occupied half of the bed stirred and he stopped. A face, bleary-eyed but beautiful enough under the gauze of flame-red hair stuck to it to remind him of what he stood to lose, poked itself out.

  'No’ again,' she said. It was followed by the string of expletives Carver had heard many times but was yet to discover their true meaning.

  In that moment, the incongruity of her tirade, her natural beauty, their still-new environment and the awareness of what he, they, had been through the past couple of years, conspired to
bring on a rush of emotion that stopped him in his tracks. Caught out, he gulped air to get over the catch that was suddenly in his throat. Still not strong enough to throw off the clawing memories, he looked back over his shoulder.

  Away across the valley, through the morning mist and filling the gap between two mountains, he could just make out the stretch of the lake - Llyn Geirionydd, according to the map - that every now and then pulled his thoughts in the direction of another body of water. This one, also inland, was many miles away, mainland Europe, in fact. And as always happened when his thoughts turned in that direction, the image of a woman’s body, hanging in the dark depths came to him. But even as his pulse started to quicken, Rosanna’s tirade continued. For once, he was grateful.

  'You mus’ tell heem, Jamie. This is getting ridiculous.' As always first thing in the morning, her accent was thicker than it would be later.

  'You wanted it finished,' he said, as he crossed to the still doorless en-suite.

  Having come round a little, he was beginning to feel more forgiving about their early wake-up call. Besides, he’d set the alarm for six-twenty anyway, to give him time for one last run through the paper he would be putting before the Crime Committee later that morning. Times past it would have been an Operational Briefing. And he’d decided to call at Sarah’s on his way in. His elder sister hadn’t sounded good the previous evening. Despite her insistence that she was, 'alright,' he wanted to see for himself. But, turning the cold tap off, he forgot to do it slowly. As water-hammer triggered the juddering that echoed around the bare pipework and unfinished walls, his lighter mood evaporated.

  'Shit,' he said, turning the tap back on. He waited for the jarring noises to stop before turning it off again, more slowly this time. Not for the first time, he wondered if maybe they hadn’t bitten off more than they could chew.

  At the time of course it had made good sense. At least it did to him. Given the associations parts of the North West still had with events he hoped to one day forget but suspected he never would, an abandoned barn conversion in the North Wales hills above Colwyn Bay seemed ideal. It was close enough for work – barring accidents the A55 and M56 were good roads and most mornings he made Salford well before half-seven. But, crucially, it was far enough away so he didn’t have to live surrounded by reminders of what lay beneath the surface of a city that liked to talk up its cultural and ‘cosmopolitan’ aspects, and a county - Cheshire - that revelled in its reputation for ‘poshness’. Given the problems they’d been having around that time, he also thought it would be good to have something they could pour their energies into as a couple. Something that might finally expunge both the memories and Rosanna’s doubts about moving away from the cottage they’d both once loved, but was now contaminated by nightmarish memories neither would ever forget.