Rag doll Daniel Cole
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Title: Rag Doll
About the book "Rag Doll" by Daniel Cole
London is alarmed by a brutal crime - a terrible “doll” sewn from parts of human bodies was discovered in one of the apartments in the city center. Journalists have already dubbed the sadist a Rag Doll. But he doesn’t stop there and teases the police by publishing a list of his future victims and the exact dates of their deaths. William “Wolf” Leighton-Cokes, a detective with a scandalous biography, takes on the task of catching the psychopath. Will he be able to prevent the deaths of the unfortunates on the Rag Doll's list when the whole world is watching his every move? And why is the detective himself on this list?
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Daniel Cole
Ragdoll
Copyright © Daniel Cole 2017
© Lipka V., translation, 2017
© AST Publishing House LLC, 2017
Why should I care if you are the devil?
Samantha Boyd ducked under the flimsy police barricade and looked up at the Statue of Justice that towered over London's infamous Old Bailey court. Although she, according to the plan, was supposed to symbolize strength and justice, today the woman saw her in her true form - in the guise of a desperate lady who has lost all illusions, ready at any moment to fall from the roof down to the pavement. Naturally, she was not wearing a blindfold, unlike her sisters around the world, because when it comes to issues such as racism and corruption in law enforcement, “blind justice” turns into only a concept for naive simpletons.
Because of the horde of journalists who had swarmed into central London and had become so established that they had turned it into an absurd middle-class slum, all the surrounding streets and tube stations were once again closed. Grocery packaging bearing the Marks & Spencer and Prêt-à-Mange logos stood proudly from the trash-strewn asphalt. Sleeping bags from famous designers were put away to the whir of electric razors; a crappy travel iron in the hands of some guy completely refused to hide the fact that its owner slept in the shirt and tie that he owned in only one copy.
Samantha was nervous as she made her way through the crowd. After a six-minute walk from Chancery Lane station, perspiration appeared on her forehead, and a lock of platinum hair had come out in the very place where she had previously pinned it in a vain attempt to change her appearance. The press identified everyone involved in the trial from the very beginning. Today, on the forty-fifth day of the trial, Samantha’s portraits managed to spread around all the major newspapers in the world. She even once had to call the police when one particularly persistent reporter followed her to her home in Cleveland, not reacting in any way to her attempts to get rid of him. Determined to no longer attract unnecessary attention to herself, the woman walked, looking straight ahead and not raising her head.
There were two queues along Newgate Street, one leading to a row of dry toilets that clearly couldn't meet the needs of everyone in need, the other to a Starbucks coffee shop with a flashing neon sign. Emerging from the whirlpool seething between these two poles, Samantha moved towards the police officers guarding the entrance to the courtrooms. When she accidentally found herself in the field of view of one of the television cameras, dozens of them reporting from the scene, a short journalist pounced on her and angrily shouted something in Japanese.
“The last day,” Samantha reminded herself, leaving in her wake a stream of completely incomprehensible abuse. Just eight hours and her life will return to normal.
At the door, an unfamiliar policeman carefully examined her identification card and subjected her to a procedure now familiar to her: locking her personal belongings in a special box; in response to the metal detector, explain that she physically cannot remove wedding ring; silently become annoyed at the sweat stains during the search, and then walk down the featureless corridor and join the other eleven jurors for a cup of lukewarm instant coffee.
Due to unprecedented global media attention and the incident at Samantha's home, the jury was ordered to be placed under guard in one location, which immediately sparked public anger as the hotel's bills cost taxpayers tens of thousands of pounds. They used to talk about different topics in the mornings, but now, after two months of hearings, each of them mainly complained about the monotony of the evening menu in the restaurant, about the back pain after spending the night in a hotel bed, and lamented the absence of a wife, husband, children or final season of the series “Lost” – who was missing what.
When the bailiff finally came for the jury members, the tense silence hidden by the innocent chatter broke free. Foreman of the jury old man named Stanley, whom the others had appointed to this position only because of his striking resemblance to Gandalf, slowly stood up and left the room. Others followed him.
The Old Bailey, the number one court known throughout the world, heard only criminal cases of the highest importance. Here, such sinister celebrities as Crippen, Sutcliffe and Dennis Nielsen answered for their terrible sins from the dock. Artificial light flooded the room through a huge frosted glass window overhead, illuminating the dark wood paneling and green leather upholstery.
Daniel Cole
Ragdoll
Copyright © Daniel Cole 2017
© Lipka V., translation, 2017
© AST Publishing House LLC, 2017
* * *Why should I care if you are the devil?
Samantha Boyd ducked under the flimsy police barricade and looked up at the Statue of Justice that towered over London's infamous Old Bailey court. Although she, according to the plan, was supposed to symbolize strength and justice, today the woman saw her in her true form - in the guise of a desperate lady who has lost all illusions, ready at any moment to fall from the roof down to the pavement. Naturally, she was not wearing a blindfold, unlike her sisters around the world, because when it comes to issues such as racism and corruption in law enforcement, “blind justice” turns into only a concept for naive simpletons.
Because of the horde of journalists who had swarmed into central London and had become so established that they had turned it into an absurd middle-class slum, all the surrounding streets and tube stations were once again closed. Grocery packaging bearing the Marks & Spencer and Prêt-à-Mange logos stood proudly from the trash-strewn asphalt. Sleeping bags from famous designers were put away to the whir of electric razors; a crappy travel iron in the hands of some guy completely refused to hide the fact that its owner slept in the shirt and tie that he owned in only one copy.
Samantha was nervous as she made her way through the crowd. After a six-minute walk from Chancery Lane station, perspiration appeared on her forehead, and a lock of platinum hair had come out in the very place where she had previously pinned it in a vain attempt to change her appearance. The press identified everyone involved in the trial from the very beginning. Today, on the forty-fifth day of the trial, Samantha’s portraits managed to spread around all the major newspapers in the world. She even once had to call the police when one particularly persistent reporter followed her to her home in Cleveland, not reacting in any way to her attempts to get rid of him. Determined to no longer attract unnecessary attention to herself, the woman walked, looking straight ahead and not raising her head.
There were two queues along Newgate Street, one leading to a row of dry toilets that clearly couldn't meet the needs of everyone in need, the other to a Starbucks coffee shop with a flashing neon sign. Emerging from the whirlpool seething between these two poles, Samantha moved towards the police officers guarding the entrance to the courtrooms. When she accidentally found herself in the field of view of one of the television cameras, dozens of them reporting from the scene, a short journalist pounced on her and angrily shouted something in Japanese.
“The last day,” Samantha reminded herself, leaving in her wake a stream of completely incomprehensible abuse. Just eight hours and her life will return to normal.
At the door, an unfamiliar policeman carefully examined her identification card and subjected her to a procedure now familiar to her: locking her personal belongings in a special box; in response to the metal detector, explain that she physically cannot remove her wedding ring; silently become annoyed at the sweat stains during the search, and then walk down the featureless corridor and join the other eleven jurors for a cup of lukewarm instant coffee.
Due to unprecedented global media attention and the incident at Samantha's home, the jury was ordered to be placed under guard in one location, which immediately sparked public anger as the hotel's bills cost taxpayers tens of thousands of pounds. They used to talk about different topics in the mornings, but now, after two months of hearings, each of them mainly complained about the monotony of the evening menu in the restaurant, about the back pain after spending the night in a hotel bed, and lamented the absence of a wife, husband, children or final season of the series “Lost” – who was missing what.
When the bailiff finally came for the jury members, the tense silence hidden by the innocent chatter broke free. The foreman of the jury, an elderly man named Stanley, whom the others had appointed to this position only because of his striking resemblance to Gandalf, slowly stood up and left the room. Others followed him.
The Old Bailey, the number one court known throughout the world, heard only criminal cases of the highest importance. Here, from the dock, such sinister celebrities as Crippen, Sutcliffe and Dennis Nielsen answered for their terrible sins. Artificial light flooded the room through a huge frosted glass window overhead, illuminating the dark wood paneling and green leather upholstery.
Taking her usual place in the front row, closest to the dock, Samantha suddenly realized that White dress, sewn by herself, is a little short. She placed the folder with the case on her lap, much to the displeasure of the lustful old man, the foreman of the jury, who on the first day of the hearing almost trampled on his neighbor, wanting to sit next to her.
Unlike the courtrooms glorified in American films, where the elegantly dressed defendant is expected to sit at the same table with the defense, at the Old Bailey the defendant sat in front of a formidable audience completely alone. The low but thick glass partitions surrounding his elevation once again emphasized that the person inside posed a great danger to others.
That he is guilty until his innocence is proven.
Directly opposite the dock, to Samantha's left, sat the judges. Above the chair in the center of the hall - the only one that remained free during the entire trial - against the background of the kingdom's coat of arms hung a sword with a gilded hilt. The court clerks, prosecution and defense were located in the center; the public gallery along the far wall was crowded with excited, sleep-deprived spectators who, in order to get a seat to witness the end of this mind-boggling process, had to camp overnight at the entrance to the Old Bailey. In the depths of the hall, in God-forsaken places under the gallery, sat a variety of small people, one way or another involved in the process: experts, whose opinion the lawyers might or might not need; court clerks; and, of course, the policeman who arrested the suspect was a detective nicknamed the Wolf, William Oliver Leighton-Cokes, who sat in the very center of this motley gathering.
Wolf was present in the courtroom for all forty-six days and spent countless hours overlooking the dock from his discreet position near the exit. Strongly built, with a weathered face and dark blue eyes, he looked about forty years old, maybe a little older. Samantha thought that the detective could well be called attractive if he did not give the impression of a man who had not slept for several months and carried the heavy burden of the world around him on his shoulders. Although, to be honest, that’s how it was.
The Cremator Killer, as the press dubbed him, became the most bloodthirsty serial killer in the history of London. Twenty-seven victims in twenty-seven days, all prostitutes between the ages of fifteen and sixteen. The enormous interest in this case, among other things, was also due to the fact that it opened the eyes of the ill-informed masses to the harsh reality happening right under their noses, on the very streets where they live. Most of the victims were found still smoldering - he pumped them full of tranquilizers and burned them alive, while the fire destroyed almost every conceivable evidence. And then the atrocities suddenly stopped abruptly. In the absence of suspects, the police were at a loss. All the time the investigation lasted, a barrage of criticism fell on her - for inaction and failure to stop the death of teenagers, but when eighteen days had passed since the last murder, Detective Wolf took the criminal into custody.
The man in the dock was named Naguib Khalid. An Englishman of Pakistani origin and a Sunni Muslim, he worked as a taxi driver in London. He lived alone and had already been involved in an arson case in the past. When the court received DNA results confirming that he had given rides to three victims in the back seat of his car and corroborating Detective Wolk's damning testimony, the case seemed clear to everyone. But then, on the fifth day, it began to fall apart.
Alibis surfaced that contradicted the surveillance data collected by Wolk and his team. It turned out that during the investigation Khalid was pressured and intimidated. Conflicting forensic evidence led to the removal of charred DNA samples from the list of conclusive evidence. To top it all off, the head of the Department of Internal Investigations of the Metropolitan Police, completely delighting the defense, sent out a letter, which, among other things, was brought to Samantha’s attention. This message, written by an anonymous colleague just a couple of days before the last murder, expressed concern about the state of mind of Detective Volk and his methods of conducting the investigation, and also suggested that he was “desperate” and “obsessed” with the case, so he was offered to his superiors immediately suspend.
London is alarmed by a brutal crime - a terrible “doll” sewn from parts of human bodies was discovered in one of the apartments in the city center. Journalists have already dubbed the sadist a Rag Doll. But he doesn’t stop there and teases the police by publishing a list of his future victims and the exact dates of their deaths. William “Wolf” Leighton-Cokes, a detective with a scandalous biography, takes on the task of catching the psychopath. Will he be able to prevent the deaths of the unfortunates on the Rag Doll's list when the whole world is watching his every move? And why is the detective himself on this list?
The work was published in 2017 by AST Publishing House. The book is part of the "Masters of Suspense" series. On our website you can download the book "Rag Doll" in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format or read online. The book's rating is 2.79 out of 5. Here, before reading, you can also turn to reviews from readers who are already familiar with the book and find out their opinion. In our partner's online store you can buy and read the book in paper version.