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Nemesis by Vincent Cobb Free Sample

Nemesis by Vincent Cobb Free Sample



|Views: 2,926|Likes:
Published by Kevin Jacobson
The time is now, and a fragile psychic girl [Connie Rowden} is the only link to solving a series of crimes that have brought society to its knees. A child has disappeared and PC Angela Crossley knows she must find the killer before they strike again. ….

Soon a vision in the night reveals a horror .

Then the killings stop

But for how long ……

‘Nerve shredding fiction from a master Storyteller ‘ – The Bookseller Magazine.
The time is now, and a fragile psychic girl [Connie Rowden} is the only link to solving a series of crimes that have brought society to its knees. A child has disappeared and PC Angela Crossley knows she must find the killer before they strike again. ….

Soon a vision in the night reveals a horror .

Then the killings stop

But for how long ……

‘Nerve shredding fiction from a master Storyteller ‘ – The Bookseller Magazine.

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Published by: Kevin Jacobson on Jun 10, 2009
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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Book One of the Angela Crossley TrilogyPublished byM-Y Books Nemesisby VINCENT COBB
The man allowed the tear to trickle slowly down his cheek as he laid out the nakedbody of the child before him on the dirt floor. She was a pretty little thing, with herlocks of golden hair and pale, unblemished skin. She still looked pretty even now, indeath, with her eyes closed and her thin, bloodless lips pressed tightly together. It was so sad that such a lovely child had to die; it always had the same effect on himwhen they left him like this  alone once more, with only the memory of his sexualsatiation to sustain him.He sighed. If only it could be different, he thought, sorrowfully, as he gentlystroked the naked body for the last time. Children, especially little girls, were hisdeepest love, and when he lost himself in the act of coition it was, to him, a divinemoment  almost like a communion  and the cries of the child he was hearing werenot screams of terror from a dying little girl, but the beautiful strains of a choir of angels.The whole experience was soso celestial. And then the uninvited, unwelcome Godintervened and tore the life from the little girl right at the point of his ecstasy. Hewiped the solitary tear from his cheek and said a silent prayer for the soul of hissacrifice. Then he gathered her in his arms and rose from his position on the floor; iwas time now for the ritual burial. He had laid her clothes out carefully on theground  an act of reverence rather than contrition. He had washed the stains of thebaptism from her body and then cleansed himself of any residual evidence.Everything was prepared.Carrying the body in his arms, he was making to leave the hut when suddenly he felt a jolt run through his body, like an electric current, coupled with a sense of intrusionthat all but overwhelmed him. Someone, or something, was watching him. He couldsee nothing through the darkness, but he knew  from his heightened sense of intuition  that he was being observed, psychically, from afar; and it frightened him.Whoever, or whatever, it was knew; knew about his sacrifices  not just this one, but all the others too.He felt confused, apprehensive; threatened, even. Who was it? Who could bewatching him? And how? How was it possible?He had been so careful to remain undetected. He had planned everything someticulously, down to the finest minutiae, to ensure there was little chance of himever being discovered.And now someone knew  someone unknown but, like himself, with themetaphysical abilities to pierce the protective veil he had built around himself.Suddenly, he was more scared than he had ever been in his life before. Was hisworld  a world so carefully constructed and defended  about to end?
CHAPTER ONEI was a 19-year-old newly recruited WPC at the Birmingham Central police stationin Steelhouse Lane when I first met Connie Rowden; not much older than she was, infact. I remember the day well, because I was taking a break with some of mycolleagues in the staff canteen when the call came that the DCI wanted to see me. Iignored the taunts from the other PCs, too worried at the time in case I hadcommitted some serious breach of discipline that might cost me my career. That was me, though: always full of guilt.I recall thinking, What on earth would a DCI possibly want from a naive youngpolicewoman? I mean, I was very lucky to have been assigned to BirminghamCentral; the West Midlands Police Force has more than 7,000 officers and covershundreds of square miles over a very wide area, stretching as far as Wolverhamptonin the north  my hometown  and Coventry in the south. So, really, they could haveposted me anywhere, and I couldnt believe it when Birmingham Central, my first-choice station, came up positive. It was like winning the Lottery for a newlygraduated constable  although I did learn, much later, that it was due more to myresults at Police Training College than the luck of any draw...The very thought of having to confront Detective Chief Inspector Templar  orSimple Simon, as he was unkindly referred to by the rookies  frightened the lifeout of me. He was, to say the least, an extremely forbidding figure. It wasnt merelythe size of the man, or the fact he was the detective chief inspector; it had more to dowith his overpowering presence, and the sheer menace he projected, especially tosubordinates.But, after traipsing for what seemed like hours along miles of corridors through thehuge Victorian building, bumping into the scores of bodies in the corridors andpassing various incident rooms filled with dozens of officers (either on computerterminals or manning the phones), interview rooms, the computer centre with itsrow upon row of terminals and processors, and senior CID officers units  I finallyarrived at the office suite of the DCI. Of course, I had been given the guided tour of the Steelhouse Lane headquarters building when I first arrived a few weeks ago, but it was so large, spreading as it did over five floors (and that excluded the basement cells area), that I felt it would take me years to find my way around. I was lucky tohave remembered that the CID offices were on the third floor. What I did forget,though, was that three lifts serviced each floor of the building; that could have savedme time and a lot of leg-ache.Much to my relief the big man actually smiled at me when I finally entered his office.He invited me to take a seat alongside an attractive but obviously very anxiouswoman, who was already seated in front of his desk. I couldnt help noticing herstriking blue eyes, whilst her hair was the colour of golden wheat. When I looked at her a second time I had the impression she was struggling to control some innerstress. Her face was taut, like an overwound spring, and those blue eyes had ahaunted, almost desperate expression I had missed at first glance, as if she werepleading for someone to help her. Of course, I kept my feelings about her to myself,merely smiling hello and taking a seat as commanded. Even so, I couldnt helpnoticing how she was unable to stop her hands from nervously rubbing together, as

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