The Liar's Promise Read online

  The Liar’s Promise

  Mark Tilbury

  Copyright © 2017 Mark Tilbury

  The right of Mark Tilbury 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 2017 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

  Contents

  Also by Mark Tilbury

  Praise for The Abattoir of Dreams:

  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

  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

  Epilogue

  A Note from Bloodhound Books:

  Acknowledgments

  The Abattoir of Dreams

  Also by Mark Tilbury

  The Ben Whittle Investigations Series

  * * *

  The Revelation Room

  * * *

  The Eyes of The Accused

  Stand Alone Psychological Thriller

  The Abattoir Of Dreams

  For Cassie,

  who makes everything possible.

  Praise for The Abattoir of Dreams:

  "This was a gritty and twisted read with so much heart and now if you’ll excuse me I’ll be on Amazon buying Tilbury’s other books." Amy Sullivan - Novelgossip

  "In terms of the plot, well OMFG, my curiosity was piqued from the start – and the pace was perfect for this type of story, racing when required and slowing down at the moments where I needed it to!" Noelle Holten - Crimebookjunkie

  "Hells bells what a book! Abattoir Of Dreams by Mark Tilbury Is definitely going to be one of my top reads of 2017..." Lorraine Rugman- The Book Review Cafe

  "Fantastically written and chilling to the bone, this novel will sit with you longer after you have turned the final page." Samantha Ellen - Clues And Reviews

  "Excuse my language but this book grabs you by the balls from page one and doesn't let go!" Helen Giles - Life Of A Nerdish Mum

  "The Abattoir of Dreams is a very dark, disturbing read. It's a shockingly powerful work of fiction." Joseph Calleja - Relax And Read Book Reviews

  Prologue

  Peter King regarded the young woman handcuffed to the brass headboard with a mixture of contempt and anticipation. It was clear she lacked breeding, and her coarse tongue left a lot to be desired, but these matters were of little consequence. This wasn’t a young ladies’ finishing school; not unless you took the finishing part literally. Her name was Tanya, but she would be assigned a colour and a number for the rest of her days: Purple-six. Her predecessor, Purple-five, would be a hard act to follow. Impossible, even, but now was not the time to cry over spilt blood.

  Purple-six was now at the mercy of several glasses of Chardonnay and four crushed sleeping tablets. Enough to fell an average horse, let alone a lame foal like Purple-six. It was almost ten hours since she’d fallen asleep at the dining table, head resting on a plate of leftover chicken sandwiches and sweet pickled onions.

  King had abducted her from his usual stomping ground at Paddington Station. He’d almost been resigned to giving up after hours of fruitless watching and waiting when she’d stepped off an incoming train from Reading like an answered prayer. The first sign she was the right girl for him had been her obvious lack of direction. After several minutes wandering around in circles, she’d sat on a bench, hunched over, hands fidgeting with just about anything they could, well, get their hands on.

  King had waited a while before approaching her. His fake beard was irritating his skin, and the padding around his midriff had slipped, but these minor inconveniences would be soon forgotten once he focused on the task in hand. He adjusted his dark-grey trilby hat and sat down next to his prey, careful not to engage her in conversation too soon.

  Purple-six helped things along by taking a tobacco tin from her blue coat and plugging a thin roll-up between her lips. He offered her a light with Yellow-one’s Zippo lighter. Yellow-one no longer smoked. Or breathed, for that matter.

  After introducing himself as Thomas Kowalski, of Polish descent, King learned that Purple-six had come to London to pursue her dream of becoming a dancer. Raised by a single mother, it was hardly surprising that she courted ambition, but, like so many before her, she would soon learn that dreams could quickly turn into nightmares.

  King had invented an elderly sister, Shona, who lived in Oxford. Said he was off to visit her, and that Shona would be delighted to meet such a lovely young woman. After almost an hour’s deliberation, King had finally managed to clinch the deal by telling her that Shona used to be a dancer. That she had friends in the Oxford School of Dance. Purple-six had looked like a stray dog who’d just learned its new master was a butcher.

  And so they had caught the train and headed to his house on the outskirts of Oxford. He’d explained Shona’s absence by telling Purple-six that his sister was likely visiting a friend. No matter. He had a key. Shona was happy for him to let himself in.

  Three glasses of wine laced with sleeping pills later, Purple-six was having the longest sleep of her short life. If she’d been awake, she might well have registered shock upon learning her hands were handcuffed to a brass headboard. He hadn’t bothered gagging her; the nearest neighbour was over two hundred yards away and rendered deaf by distance.

  Purple-six was also unaware that her predecessor’s severed head was sitting on a Queen Anne chair in the corner of the room, death lending her complexion a colour to match her name. Purple-five didn’t look in great condition, which wasn’t surprising considering she’d spent five days in the stocks and two days at the whipping post before death had claimed her for a soulmate. She’d lost an eye courtesy of a stone in the centre of a rotten plum, and three of her front teeth were missing after a rather nasty piece of dental work with a baseball bat.

  The head was bound for a freezer in the basement as soon as it had made its acquaintance with Purple-six. The rest of her body had already been cut up in the bath and deposited in bins around Oxford.

  Purple-six stirred and moaned. Her breath smelled like a bog. King folded his bony frame into a c
hair beside the bed, relieved to be free of the restrictions of his padded disguise. He was also now clean-shaven, his thinning grey hair slicked back with Brylcreem. He bore no resemblance to the man who’d enticed her to join him on a visit to the fictional Shona’s house.

  ‘Sesame Street,’ Purple-six muttered. One of her eyes opened a crack, peered left and right, closed again.

  ‘Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead.’

  She muttered something about a lettuce, and opened her eyes. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘On the road to salvation.’ He waited as she grew accustomed to her new surroundings.

  Suddenly aware of her cuffed hands, she tugged on the restraints and kicked her legs. ‘What the fuck…?’

  ‘Please don’t swear. It’s both vulgar and unnecessary.’

  She tried to sit up. Defeated, she flopped back, head banging against the headboard. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Your saviour.’

  Something dawned in those muddy puddle eyes. ‘Where’s Thomas?’

  ‘The Polish guy?’

  She nodded.

  ‘He had to go back to his flat in Islington.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘No; I don’t suppose you do. Let me help your brain to acclimatise. You belong to me now.’

  ‘What the fuck…?’

  ‘I have saved you from the wolves and the vultures.’

  She rattled her restraints. ‘What the fuck is this?’

  King tried not to rise to the bait of profanity. ‘All in good time, dear. All in good time. There’s someone I want you to meet.’

  She suddenly caught sight of Purple-five’s head. Opened her mouth as if to scream, but no sound came out. Just frothy rabid dribble.

  ‘That’s Purple-five. I’m afraid her better days are behind her.’

  Purple-six twisted her head to one side as if at the mercy of demonic possession.

  ‘If you turn out to be half the girl she was, you’ll go a long way.’

  Purple-six responded by making a horrible gurgling noise in the back of her throat and belching vomit down her chin. She treated King to a revolting whiff of pickled onion and gut rot. To make matters worse, her bladder abandoned restraint and turned the crotch of her jeans from pale blue to dark blue.

  Not a good sign. Unlike Purple-five, the girl lacked backbone.

  1

  Chloe Hollis looked at her mother, a tear hatching from the corner of one eye, breath forming foggy clouds in the freezing December air. ‘I don’t want to go inside, Mummy.’

  Mel tried her best to dredge up a smile from that sacred place where love trumps all. It had been a long day. Nine hours working at Feelham Primary School trying to stop twenty kids from exploding with the excitement of Christmas. Not to mention a pile of marking when she got home, making dinner, and getting Chloe ready to watch the Christmas production of Jack and the Beanstalk at Feelham Theatre.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Be-cause.’

  Mel bent down so she was at eye level with her daughter. One of her knees cracked; a painful reminder she was fast approaching forty. ‘But it’s Jack and the Beanstalk. You’ve been looking forward to it.’

  Chloe shook her head. ‘I want to go home.’

  Mel tried another tack. ‘Mummy’s been looking forward to this all year.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So… could you be a big girl and do Mummy a favour?’

  ‘I’m not a big girl. I’m four.’

  Mel wiped a tear from Chloe’s cheek. ‘And a half. You’ll be starting school next year.’

  ‘That’s aeons away.’

  Mel smiled. ‘Aeons’ was one of her husband, Tony’s, pet words. ‘Tell you what. You watch the pantomime with Mummy, and we’ll get pizza after.’

  Chloe sniffed. ‘Tuna and sweetcorn?’

  Mel moved in for the kill. ‘And hot chocolate before bed.’

  ‘Marshmallows, too?’

  ‘Okay.’

  They walked into the foyer, Chloe gripping her mother’s hand tight enough to pinch. Several posters advertising a future production of Macbeth were pinned to the sage-green panelled walls, along with signed pictures of actors who’d made guest appearances at the theatre. Mel bought a ticket at the kiosk. She was both surprised and grateful her daughter made no demands for the sweets on sale next to the kiosk. They walked hand-in-hand across the thick red carpet to the staircase leading to the main theatre.

  Half way up, Chloe stopped, jerking her mother’s hand. ‘Please, Mummy! I don’t want to go.’

  Mel summoned patience. ‘But it will be fun.’

  ‘I don’t want to die.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  Chloe looked at the stairs as if a mad axeman might be standing at the top waiting to attack her.

  ‘Chloe?’

  ‘I’m going to die.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Of course you’re not.’

  ‘I am.’ This came out as ‘Yam.’

  ‘That’s a daft thing to say. You’re with Mummy. No one will hurt you.’

  ‘The… Tall… Man…’

  Mel stepped aside to let a couple past with a boy who looked as if he might be running on rocket fuel. She bent down and gripped Chloe’s hands, looked deep into her eyes. ‘What’s brought all this on?’

  Chloe stared at the floor.

  ‘Chloe?’

  Chloe looked up. ‘I… don’t… want… to… die.’

  Something in the child’s eyes made Mel think of possession. ‘Listen to Mummy. You’re not going to die. I promise.’

  A voice boomed out over a microphone announcing the show, teasing the kids, getting them whipped up into a frenzy of anticipation.

  Chloe screamed and dropped to her knees. She put her hands over her ears and shook her head. ‘No. No. No. Go away.’

  Mel’s legs went weak. She reached down and tried to pick her daughter up. Chloe responded by banging her head against the floor. ‘No. No. No.’

  Mel remembered Chloe throwing a tantrum once in a supermarket. Refusing to get up off the floor because Mel refused to buy chocolate flakes or some such rubbish. She remembered the humiliation of all those other shoppers looking at her, waiting to see how this unfit mother would deal with her unruly little brat. That incident had been embarrassing. Humiliating, even. But this was a hundred times worse.

  Mel grabbed hold of her and hauled her up into her arms. ‘Stop it, Chloe. Stop it. You’ll hurt yourself.’

  Chloe shook her head, blonde hair flying, whipping Mel’s face. ‘He’s going to kill us.’

  Mel hugged her as tight as she could. Chloe brought her head back and looked at the ceiling.

  ‘Are you ready?’ The announcer said.

  For a moment, Mel thought Chloe’s outburst had subsided.

  Dozens of excited voices confirmed they were more than ready.

  ‘I can’t hear you!’

  ‘Yes.’ Louder.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ Louder still.

  And then Mel’s world exploded as Chloe’s head smashed into her nose, full force. A hot spurt of blood gushed over her lips and down her chin.

  ‘I want to go home, Mummy! I want to go home, Mummy!’

  Mel could hear the voice echoing around her head. She fought an overwhelming urge to drop Chloe and clutch her throbbing nose.

  ‘Then let the show begin…’

  ‘The Tall Man’s coming. The Tall Man’s coming.’

  Blood ran into Mel’s mouth, warm and coppery. Tears cast a veil across her eyes. Chloe was an undefined lump. She could feel the child’s fingernails digging into her neck.

  ‘Mummy… Mummy… Mummy…’

  ‘Stop it!’ Mel shrieked.

  ‘The Tall Man’s coming.’

  Mel spat blood. ‘All right! We’re going.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Someone at the bottom of the stairs. Blurry. The woman from the kiosk. ‘Are you all right, madam?
’

  ‘Yes. I…’

  The woman walked up the first few stairs, stopped, mouth hovering in a no-man’s-land between shock and speech.

  ‘My daughter accidentally headbutted me. I’m fine.’

  ‘Your nose might be broken. Would you like me to get you some tissue?’

  ‘I want to go home, Mummy. NOW!’

  Mel put Chloe down and reached into her handbag. ‘It’s fine. I’ve got some in here.’

  ‘Please, Mummy,’ Chloe shouted, clutching Mel’s coat.

  Mel held a wad of tissues over her nose. ‘All right. We’re going.’

  The look in Chloe’s eyes, that threatening storm, seemed to lift. ‘Promise?’

  ‘Yes. Come on. Let’s go.’

  By the time they reached the foyer, Mel felt sick and dizzy. Jesus Christ, all she needed now was to pass out and her day would be complete. The woman held the door open for her, a mixture of concern and pity in her eyes. As they stepped outside, an icy gust of wind slashed Mel’s injured face. Chloe gripped her hand as if letting go might see her abducted by the Tall Man. By the time they reached the carpark, Chloe had relaxed.