Caught in a Trap Read online

  Also by Trevor Burton

  Troubled Waters

  Tangled Roots

  Countdown to Terror

  www.trevorburt.wordpress.com

  Caught in a Trap

  Trevor Burton

  Published by Trevor Burton

  Copyright © 2017 Trevor Burton

  This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance of characters to real persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Acknowledgements

  All thanks to family and friends who read draft copy manuscripts and provided invaluable advice on titles and names of characters and their characteristics.

  To my wife Sue who once again served as proof reader throughout the whole process. To Rebecca Keys for her professional editing service.

  Quotes by Elvis

  The Lord can give, and the Lord can take away. I might be herding sheep next year.

  Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time, but it ain't going away.

  Don't criticize that man unless you have walked in his shoes.

  Elvis Presley

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Quotes by Elvis

  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

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  One Friday in late May in downtown Manchester, the afternoon had been unusually hot. It was now evening, and backstage in a large music arena the main act of the evening – Streetsound, an up-and-coming rock band – were preparing for their top-of-the-bill performance. Hair was being coiffured, guitar chords practised, final clothing decided upon, and Julian Hampson, band manager, was issuing final instructions. Matt the drummer was fortifying himself with some drug or other.

  ‘No more of that before you go on,’ Julian ordered.

  Matt’s disdainful look conveyed the same disrespect he showed the many homeless people camped in doorways across downtown Manchester. Heartbreak Hotel, the penultimate number by the Elvis impersonator warm-up act, was being played out to a full house in the hot, steamy arena. An official rapped on the dressing room door of Streetsound, and opened the door.

  ‘Ten minutes to go, Mr Hampson!’ the official shouted.

  ‘OK, boys, look lively,’ Julian Hampson relayed to the band, as they began their final checks before readying themselves to leap onto the stage for their first number.

  ***

  Brian Hampson, father of Julian, was the best Elvis impersonator in the business. The Friday-night crowd in the concert venue are eating out of his hand. He launches into his last song, confident of a standing ovation and encore. It is an old Elvis favourite, An American Trilogy.

  Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton,

  Old times there are not forgotten,

  Look away, look away, look away, Dixieland!

  In Dixieland, where I was born,

  Early Lord one frosty morn,

  Look away, look away, look away, Dixieland!

  Just then a pair of knickers hit him square in the face, and Brian woke up on the hard-wooden floor of the traditional narrowboat – aptly named Memphis – that he lived on when he was in town. It was berthed in Castlefield Basin, a former commercial site dating back to the start of the industrial revolution, but now an inner-city conservation area in the centre of Manchester.

  His head ached, having had a skinful the night before after his performance at a local venue, supporting a young up-and-coming rock band called Streetsound. The bass player Jake was a good deal older than the other members of the band, and closer in age to Brian. An American from San Diego, California, he was a throwback to the 1960s Beach Boys era, with a bright shirt, beard, and red bandana. Jake had clearly been off his head on the latest type of roll-up cigarette and had insisted Brian share a bottle of Jack Daniels bourbon whiskey with him at the band’s hotel. Brian had gone along hoping to find a mature female Elvis fan who he would have a chance of pulling. No such luck: the girls were all young, and one had referred to him as Pops! Disappointed, he’d drunk too much, and later Jake had insisted escorting Brian safely back to his narrowboat. They’d staggered and weaved their way the short distance along Deansgate and down Liverpool Road, with Jake taking occasional slugs from his bottle of Jack Daniels. Along the way, Jake had needed to take a piss, and slunk into an alleyway. Having inadvertently been abandoned Brian had staggered on, singing to himself and forgetting all about his friend.

  Meanwhile Jake had returned to the street and seeing Brian yards ahead, had hollered, but Brian was in a world of his own, slurring out some old forgotten Elvis song. It could possibly have been All That I Am but Jake couldn’t be sure. When Jake had arrived back at the Memphis a minute or so later, he could hear Brian crashing about inside, but the door was already locked. He had knocked loudly, but at that moment all fell silent inside, the alcohol no doubt having rendered Brian unconscious.

  ‘Better get back,’ Jake had mumbled to himself as he wobbled, turned around and tried to get back off the boat. He’d tried valiantly, but never even managed to get his leg back over the side and onto the towpath. He’d fallen backwards, still cradling his precious bottle of Jack, and slumped down on the floor of the boat. His back against the stern, he’d stared up at the night sky, which was lit by the half-moon and starlight. A shadow had briefly passed over his prone form, cast by a man climbing over the side of the boat.

  Jake had looked up. ‘Oh! It’s you,’ he’d slurred. ‘You’ve got a nerve! I know what you’re up to and got a good mind to tell all.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ the man had scoffed.

  ‘Oh, wouldn’t I,’ Jake had replied, trying to stand.

  The move had proved fatal, as the man produced a knife and stabbed Jake forcefully in the stomach. Jake had fallen backwards, striking his head against the stern of the boat, before half turning and coming to rest slumped over the back. The man had then calmly looked around and seeing no one stepped back over the side of the boat onto the towpath, and strode off into the night.

  ***

  Something had caused Elvis (aka Brian) to fall out of his bunk in the middle of the night, but he had been far too drunk to notice or care. He eventually came out of his stupor at 9.30am, still on the floor, to the sound of rain pounding on the roof of the boat. He hauled himself upright and staggered to the galley, still dressed in his Elvis costume but minus the wig, his bald pate shining in the light from the overhead strip light, left on to illuminate the darkness of the galley rather than draw back the curtains and face the outside world. He took a slug of water and filled the kettle to make coffee.

  A few hundred yards away, a yo
ung woman stepped off another narrowboat not very far away. She was groggy, as she’d taken some stuff the night before during a night on the town. She glanced around, and noticed that at least it had stopped raining, but there were still plenty of puddles on the muddy towpath. Wearing a hoody and dark blue running shorts she laced up her new Nike running shoes. An involuntary shiver ran through her body. She’d only just made it back last night, owing to the combination of drugs and alcohol and would have to be more careful in future. She would be late, but the running would help revive her and she could always skip the first lecture. She set off cautiously.

  A few boats along, Elvis needed some air. He staggered and weaved to the rear of the boat, where he unlocked the door and slid back the bolts. Pushing open the top half of the stable-type door, he stopped short, unable to take in what he saw. Jake Bosson, the Streetsound drummer his new best friend from the night before, was slumped facing away from him half over the back of the boat, still clutching an empty bottle of Jack Daniels.

  ‘What the fuck!’ he exclaimed, falling backwards into the galley and further exacerbating his hangover with the sudden movements. Rubbing his throbbing head, and disbelieving what he had just seen, he rose from the floor. Opening the lower half of the door, he tentatively tiptoed his way up the three steps and over to Jake. He grabbed his shoulder and tried to turn him around, but Jake fell backwards down onto the deck. Brian then saw the knife and the blood confirming that Jake was no longer of this world. Brian’s reaction was to turn and vomit over the side of the boat onto the towpath, right in front of a young jogger, splashing her pristine Nike trainers. She had been listening to music through purple earphones, but stopped short and shouted ‘Disgusting!’ Brian did not help himself at this point, merely turning his head to stare at the body with a knife stuck in the abdomen, lying in a pool of blood on the deck of his precious boat. The young woman followed his gaze and spotted the body, screaming in shock and setting off at a sprint back in the direction from which she had come. She raced up some steps onto the street.

  In a state of panic, she mistook a traffic warden for a community support police officer, and grabbed the young man by the arm, shouting, ‘There’s a man been murdered, back there on a boat, on the canal!’

  ‘Calm down, miss. Er, are you sure he’s dead?’ the young officer asked.

  ‘My name’s Stacy, and, he looks bloody dead to me,’ she insisted, ‘and the man on the boat with him didn’t look much better either. Aren’t you going to call it in, then?’

  At this point, the traffic warden realised her mistake. ‘Oh, I’m not a policeman, miss. I’m a traffic warden. Mick’s the name.’

  ‘Oh, oh, I see,’ Stacy accepted. ‘Hang on. I’ve got a mobile.’ She rummaged in her small backpack. ‘Shouldn’t we ring the police or something?’

  By now Mick was rising to the occasion and looking to impress the attractive and distressed young woman before him. ‘Let’s just go and have a closer look, shall we?’ he said, taking hold of Stacy’s hand and gently leading her back towards the canal.

  Approaching the steps down onto the towpath, Stacy stiffened and became reluctant to proceed any further. ‘I’m not sure this is a good idea,’ she said. ‘What if that bloke on the boat is dangerous?’

  ‘Let’s just have a look,’ Mick encouraged, starting down the steps. Halfway down, the boat was clearly in view, with the body still lying on the deck as described.

  Proceeding cautiously, the duo approached the boat to find a man dressed in an Elvis costume sat next to the body, head in his hands and moaning. Mick paused before summoning up the courage to address the man. ‘Excuse me, sir, but can we be of any assistance?’

  Brian looked up in distress and confusion. ‘He was just lying there when I opened the door five minutes ago.’

  Mick stepped on to the boat, whilst Stacy watched from the towpath. Mick felt for a pulse in the man’s neck. ‘He’s definitely dead,’ he announced sombrely. ‘Oh shit! What a mess! The blood is all over the deck.’

  ‘And his head is bashed in!’ Stacy shrieked.

  ‘I didn’t do it! I didn’t realise he was dead until I tried to turn him around,’ Brian moaned. ‘Honest.’

  ‘That’s ’cos you’re out of your skull pissed, mate,’ Mick pointed out.

  ‘Is that a knife?’ Stacy pointed to what appeared to be a knife handle poking out from the abdomen of the body, the blade obscured by the deceased’s quilted blue jacket.

  ‘It certainly looks like it,’ Mick confirmed. ‘But don’t touch anything.’

  ‘Hadn’t we better call the police?’ Stacy choked, now on the verge of tears.

  ‘Yes, I’ll do it now. We’d better not touch anything, and perhaps you could make us and Mr Elvis here a cup of tea.’

  ‘My name is really Brian,’ he advised sheepishly.

  ‘I’ll make some tea, then,’ Stacy confirmed, grateful to have a purpose.

  Five minutes later the unlikely trio were sitting around the small table in the kitchen area of the boat, clutching mugs of steaming tea. ‘Did they say how long they would be?’ asked Stacy.

  ‘As fast as they could,’ Mick advised. ‘They said we should wait around.’

  ‘But I’ll be late for my maths lecture. I’m in my second year at Manchester University.’

  ‘You won’t find a better excuse. I’m sure they will understand,’ Mick observed, sipping their tea in silence as they waited for the police to arrive.

  Chapter 2

  At Greater Manchester Police headquarters, in the north of the city, Inspector Bill Lambert was poring over the latest crime statistics. Stiffly raising himself to his full height of six feet four inches, he stretched towards the ceiling, pulling down his waistcoat and loosening his tie before sitting down to continue his unenviable task. He sighed and wondered what vocabulary the chief constable would use this year to convince the general-public that crime had reduced and that Manchester was a safer place. When crime had increased last year, the spin put on it by the chief constable was an improvement in reporting methods.

  There was a tapping on the door, and in walked Detective Sergeant Maurice Evans, not quite as tall as his boss at six feet two and a half inches, but every inch a Welshman from the valleys, chuckling away and brandishing a report of some kind. ‘Got a good one for you here, sir,’ he announced.

  Lambert looked up. ‘Well, go on then. Tell.’

  Evans stopped chuckling and spread the paper on the desk. ‘Called in by a traffic warden, of all people. Seems he got stopped by a lady jogger, scared out of her wits, who thought he was a police officer. She dragged him onto the canal towpath at Castlefield Basin in the centre of Manchester. There on a narrowboat was a middle-age man dressed as Elvis, moaning to himself, next to the dead body of a man sprawled out on the deck, with an empty bottle of Jack Daniels lying beside him.’

  Lambert was himself smiling now. ‘Dressed as Elvis, you say? Has he done a runner from the local mental hospital or something?’

  ‘Can’t say about the man dressed as Elvis, sir, but the dead man had been stabbed. Oh, and it looks like he hit his head on the side of the boat when he fell. There is lots of blood. The ambulance is on its way to the hospital.

  Lambert was not smiling now. ‘Well, you’d better get over there and bring them all in. There’ll be a few happy motorists without parking tickets as a result.’

  ***

  At Castlefield Basin a short time later, a police siren could be heard approaching. The siren was at first loud, then quieter, then louder again, the driver or more likely satnav taking wrong turnings, unfamiliar with the area. Without local knowledge, it would be trial and error to find the precise berthing of the boat, given the labyrinth of canals, arches, railway and footbridges. A man exercising his dog watched the scene play out from a bridge crossing the canal, as Detective Sergeant Evans arrived, accompanied by Detective Constable Sammy Wang. They were followed five minutes later by crime-scene officers and a forensic team.

>   Detective Evans took charge of proceedings, while Sammy took notes, keeping the trio inside the cabin for initial questioning. This did not take long, and they were soon bundled into a large police cruiser and taken back to GMP Headquarters for further questioning. They were chaperoned by the two detectives, leaving forensics and crime-scene officers to continue the grisly task of documenting the finer details of the incident.

  Later that day, Stacy and Mick were given the all-clear to leave the police station, but Brian, now in normal attire, was kept in overnight. Fingerprints and DNA were taken, awaiting the preliminary findings from the crime scene.

  At 2.30 in the afternoon of the next day, Brian was called into the interview room, by now fully sober, tetchy and calling for a solicitor. Lambert and Evans were waiting.

  ‘Look, I’ve told you everything I know, and for the umpteenth time I didn’t do it! Why can’t I have a solicitor?’ Brian whined.

  ‘I haven’t been in on all the interviews,’ Lambert said. ‘So, help me understand the complete picture. It seems strange for you to be hanging around with a much younger group of guys, doesn’t it?’

  ‘No, I’ve known them for a couple of years. We have the same manager… well actually, he is my son. That’s the connection. The theory is that the young girls might bring their mothers to see Elvis, and vice versa, and any way Jake is older that the rest of the band, nearer to my age.’

  ‘Can’t quite see that working myself,’ Evans chipped in. ‘But hey.’

  ‘Depends on the venue and the town,’ Brian explained.

  Lambert’s expression was blank in confusion. ‘Yes, well. You say Jake came back with you to the boat. Why?’

  ‘Well, you see, I was really pissed, and he was just making sure I got back to the boat OK. He was pissed as well, otherwise he might have thought twice about helping me back.’