Jaded

by Rob Ashman

  Kray had no doubt the reception staff would be welcoming, fully expected that the clinicians would be sympathetic and understanding, and that the aftercare team were highly qualified. But she couldn’t bring herself to come to terms with the fact that they were there to take the life of her unborn child. Not from any puritanical, moralistic perspective. This had nothing to do with thinking abortion was wrong. For her a little voice inside her head said, termination is not for you.

  She tore the leaflet lengthways, then turned it and repeated the process. Soon she had a cluster of confetti in her hand which she dropped in the bin.

  DC Duncan Tavener burst into her office like a kid coming home from school with a gold star.

  ‘Hey, Roz, are you busy?’

  ‘For you, Duncan, never. What is it?’ Roz Kray didn’t have favourites, but if she did, the young Scotsman with the boy band looks and stature of an international lock forward would be top of the list.

  ‘I have good news and bad news.’

  ‘If you’ve come in here to wind me up you can piss off, I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘Okay, good news first. Do you remember that body that washed up on the beach a few weeks ago?’

  ‘Of course I remember, I attended the scene. He’d been beaten up and shot in the head before ending up in the water. We’ve still not been able to identify him and the case remains open. What of it?’

  ‘I think we have a name. Michael Ellwood. His wife reported him missing when he failed to return home after attending a football match, he supposedly went to see Man United playing at home. The interesting thing is, he never went to the game. Greater Manchester Police did a trawl of public transport CCTV and caught him boarding a train out of Manchester Piccadilly bound for North Beach. We have him arriving on the platform and exiting the train station.’

  ‘So why the football cover story?’

  ‘Search me. All I know is he ended up here and the next we see him he’d been in the water for two days feeding the fish. They ran DNA and dental records and got a match, though four of his teeth were missing.’

  ‘Was he on his own in the CCTV footage?’

  ‘Yeah, he was.’

  ‘Didn’t the results of the post-mortem say his respiratory and digestive tract were burnt with a corrosive liquid? Something about it having the hallmarks of a South American drug cartel murder?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the guy.’

  ‘Next of kin?’

  ‘His wife and two grown up kids. He’d been married for twenty years and ran a small garage business in Salford Quays.’

  ‘What was he into?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘The guy gets tortured, executed, and his body is dumped in the Irish Sea. He must have been into something?’

  ‘Not according to GMP, not even a parking ticket.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  ‘That’s what they say.’

  ‘We’ll need to interview the wife.’

  ‘Ah, and that brings me to the bad news.’ Kray gave him one of her death stares, daring him to continue.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘She’s downstairs, interview room two.’

  Thirty minutes later Kray and Tavener were sitting opposite a petite woman with long brown hair and a face that matched the colour of the whitewashed walls. Her body seemed crumpled in the chair.

  What the hell must she be thinking? Kray thought as she eyed her across the table.

  A PC handed her a cup of coffee, the woman shook her head and pushed it away.

  ‘Any more coffee and I won’t sleep for a week. But who am I kidding, I don’t sleep these days anyhow.’

  ‘Mrs Ellwood, we are sorry for your loss,’ Kray said.

  ‘If I had a pound for every time…’ she replied staring down into her lap. She dug her thumbnail repeatedly into the palm of her hand as if she was trying to gouge away the pain.

  ‘My name is DI Roz Kray and this is DC Tavener. I believe you have–’

  ‘Identified the rotting corpse of my husband? Yes, I identified him. I’ve known that man almost twenty-five years and the only thing I could recognise was two rings. Two fucking rings!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Ellwood.’

  ‘My name is Miriam, DI Kray, please call me Miriam.’

  ‘Okay, please call me Roz.’

  ‘I suppose you want to ask me some questions,’ she said, still digging a hole in her hand.

  ‘We do, but you’ve had a traumatic enough day already, we can reschedule if you would prefer.’

  ‘Ask away, Roz. You can’t possibly have as many questions as me, so be my guest.’

  ‘Thank you. You said that your husband was attending a football match on the day he disappeared. Did he normally go to games?’

  ‘He occasionally went when they played at home, but he seldom travelled to away matches. Unless it was Everton or Liverpool.’

  ‘Did he go with friends?’

  ‘No, he went on his own.’

  ‘This is a tough question but I need to ask. Your husband was murdered in a particularly violent manner, was there anyone who would want to hurt him?’

  ‘No, nobody. Michael was well liked, he had loads of mates, and was a popular bloke. Who the hell would want to do this?’

  ‘I don’t know, Miriam, that’s what we need to find out. He ran a garage; did he owe anyone money? Was the company in debt?’

  ‘I kept myself out of his business affairs but we didn’t owe money. Our house is paid for and the garage was doing well. We have a loan on the pickup truck but that’s about it.’

  ‘Your husband was seen on CCTV boarding a train to North Beach, here in Blackpool. Can you think of any reason why he would make that journey?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Had he travelled to Blackpool before?’

  ‘Look, I’ve never been to fucking Blackpool, is that clear enough for you!’ Ellwood spat the words at Kray from across the desk. ‘I don’t know why he would want to come here, maybe he had a woman on the go, or maybe a fancy-boy, or maybe he rented himself out, or maybe he liked the view from the tower, or maybe he liked to eat Blackpool rock and have rides on the donkeys… I don’t fucking know why he was here!’

  ‘I know this is difficult, Miriam, but we have to ask.’

  ‘Sorry, you’re only doing your job.’ Tears rolled down her face and onto her lap.

  ‘Did Michael ever do drugs?’

  ‘What sort of a question is that? No, he never took drugs. Christ, he was bad enough when he drank beer let alone anything else. Three pints and he was on his back.’

  ‘How many times did he go to watch the football?’

  ‘Every now and again, when a game took his fancy.’

  ‘And they were always home matches.’

  ‘I said that already.’

  The scar on Kray’s cheek tingled.

  ‘Yes, you did.’ Kray paused. ‘The coroner and pathologist have released the body so we will transfer it to a place of your choosing. Thank you for your time, Miriam, I’m sure we will have an opportunity to speak again and right now I suspect you just want to go home.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  Kray rose from the table and extended her hand. Miriam gave it a fingertip shake. Kray tilted her head at Tavener, who took the hint.

  Outside in the corridor Kray stopped in her tracks, spun on her heels and bobbed her head into the interview room.

  ‘On second thoughts, Miriam, I wonder if I could impose on you for a little while longer? I’m sure we could stand you lunch in our canteen, after all you’ve had a traumatic day and it’s a good two-hour drive back to Manchester. Can we talk again in an hour?’

  Ellwood shrugged her shoulders. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Kray marched out with Tavener in hot pursuit.

  Tavener asked, ‘What are you doing? I thought–’

  ‘There’s something not right about this.’

  ‘Where are you
going?’

  ‘I have to go to a meeting now, Bagley has a weekly get together. It normally lasts about forty minutes. I want you to go around the houses again and turn over everything you can about Michael Ellwood before we sit down again with Miriam.’

  ‘Okay, but for what it’s worth, I felt really sorry for her.’

  ‘So did I…’ Kray chewed her bottom lip. ‘Right up until she started lying through her back teeth.’

  Chapter 3

  I’m an extreme example of what a crazy person can achieve. Some days, when I wake, I have so many personalities inside me I can’t decide which one to choose. It’s a macabre game of pick and mix, a morass of people, each one crafted for a reason.

  I would like to say that being me is shit and that’s the reason I choose to be other people, but that isn’t strictly true. I ghost through life pretending because I can no longer remember what being me looks like.

  My father died when I was six in a car crash and mum fell apart after filling her veins with alcohol and her head full of skunk. A concerned neighbour reported her to social services and they came to take me and my brother into care. We never lived with her again. Supervised visits were the closest we came to being a family. Then she died. Choked on her own vomit in a drug and vodka fuelled bender.

  I remember there were ten people at her funeral and that included the vicar and a woman from the council. It was pitiful.

  My younger brother and I were catapulted into a toxic procession of children’s homes and foster parents. Each one intent on doing us harm in the name of proxy parenting, which set me on a path of permanent self-loathing. Sometimes, I would force myself to be sick after eating breakfast because in my head I didn’t deserve a good start to the day.

  We were placed with one couple who were Bible-bashers, church of the something-or-other it was called. I remember when we went to worship there was a big fat book which took pride of place on the altar, the summary of the one thousand page tome seemed to be ‘If it feels good, it’s a sin’. Our time with them felt like a different form of abuse, one being conducted by a higher calling.

  When the donations plate came around on a Sunday I would pretend to put money in and took coins out. One for me and one for my brother. It seemed only fair – we had to endure the rigours of a religious upbringing – and the church roof seemed fine to me.

  However, what was not fine was when our foster mother caught me pilfering cash. We were back in the children’s home faster than you could say, ‘Thou shalt not steal’.

  I learned fast that you either fitted in or felt the back of somebody’s hand – it was up to you. And fitting in for me entailed working out what they wanted and adapting my personality and character to suit. Life was all about survival. I became a social chameleon, blending into my surroundings while pandering to the quirks and vices of those in charge.

  I always knew I wasn’t right in the head. I would look at the other kids and think, that’s not me. While they were developing into boisterous young adults with all the problems that came with it, I was ghosting through life pretending; pretending to be in love, pretending to rebel, pretending to be heartbroken, pretending… everything.

  I slipped into adulthood copying those around me. I became a master at blending into my surroundings, fitting in so no one saw the join. Occasionally, I would glare at my reflection in a mirror and wonder, who is the real me? And the answer that came back was always the same – there is no real you.

  I’m a composite picture of everything I’ve ever seen and everyone I’ve ever met. Capable of shape-shifting in an instant to meet any given circumstance. It’s a real talent.

  But a talent with a drawback – because there is no real me, there’s no empathy. I look at others and think, I don’t know what that feels like.

  While I was busy blending in, my brother was hell-bent on making himself a square peg in a round hole, getting into trouble and being punished on a regular basis. I became fiercely protective and did everything I could to keep him safe, but he would insist on putting himself in the firing line.

  I remember at one children’s home there was an older lad who bullied him mercilessly. We tried to get help from the grown-ups but they did nothing and made matters worse. I was fourteen and my brother was twelve. The boy in question was called Barry Canning.

  Canning was the freak of the bunch. You know the type – he’d been shaving since he was fourteen, had hairs on his chest, stood a foot taller than everyone else and swung his dick around in the showers. I don’t know what my brother did to upset Canning so much but he hated him with such a passion that you could taste it in the air.

  The home nestled comfortably in its own grounds which were maintained by a handyman. He worked out of a large, windowless building where he stored his tools and equipment. The lady who managed the admissions and placement process was called Mrs Macklam. She was a forty-year-old peroxide blonde with enough cleavage for three women and a liking for short skirts. She played the lead role in many a teenage boy’s night-time fumbling and Canning boasted to anyone who would listen that he was shagging her. A likely story. The other boys were in awe of him and believed every word, whereas I thought he was talking bollocks.

  His attacks on my brother were getting worse.

  One day I wrote Canning a note and slipped it under his pillow while he was out peddling his testosterone-fuelled lies. It was supposed to be from the lovely Mrs Macklam, inviting him to join her in the handyman’s shed for a night he wouldn’t forget. There was an immediate change in Canning’s behaviour when he found the note. He strutted around the home with a pronounced swagger and adopted a benevolent, almost presidential, air about him, which was more disturbing than his school bully routine. To my amazement he kept the forthcoming liaison a secret. It must have been burning a hole in his pants.

  I had miscalculated the degree of preparation necessary to carry out my plan which resulted in many late nights working by torchlight, trying to figure out how to hold down the handle so the machine would start. Fortunately, it was old and not fitted with a fail-safe device – God only knows what I would have done otherwise. My elaborate plan would have fallen at the first fence.

  On the night in question I stole the key from the main office and hid in the equipment shed. It was cold and I can remember my teeth chattering. My eyes became accustomed to the dark and I used a stepladder to remove the starters from the fluorescent fittings to ensure the place remained in darkness. The last task was to leave the lock on the latch. Everything was ready.

  Then I sat back and waited.

  The hands on the luminous face of my watch were approaching midnight when I heard the door creak open – it was Canning.

  ‘Mrs Macklam?’ he hissed. ‘Mrs Macklam, it’s Barry.’

  The door swung shut and I could hear him feeling around, bumping into things in his search for the light switch. He found it and the fluorescent fittings above our heads flashed staccato bursts of light as the gas in the tubes failed to ionise. It was like a badly timed strobe show in a nightclub. The pitch black punctuated with pulses of bright white light. I watched the faltering figure shuffle to the centre of the room, his arms outstretched, groping at the space in front of him.

  ‘Mrs Macklam, it’s Barry,’ he repeated himself. ‘Are you there?’

  I kept my eyes fixed on Canning, reached up with my gloved hand and flicked the switch. The big industrial lawn mower roared into life, filling the room with a cacophony of sound.

  ‘Mrs Macklam?’ Canning called out. He took a few tentative steps towards the noise. ‘Is that you?’

  I ran forward and shoved him in the back with all my might. He toppled forwards, flailing his hands in the air to arrest his fall.

  Later that night, Canning left the home in an ambulance and never came back. The upturned mower removed all but three of his fingers, his right ear and most of his cheek. And almost severed his right arm at the elbow.

  There was a police investigation and we
were all questioned, but I had a watertight alibi – I had been playing chess with my brother. We received a sound telling off from the housekeeper because that time of night was way past our bedtime, but the police left us alone after that. My brother and I never spoke about the events of that evening, we didn’t have to. The only thing that mattered was Barry Canning never bothered us again.

  Chapter 4

  My name is Billy Ellwood or Billy Raymond or Billy Osmond… take your pick. I answer to any of them, or at least I did once upon a time. Now, I’m Billy Wright; a fifty-year-old man with a mind-numbing job, no wife, no kids and no significant other – whenever it looks like someone is in danger of becoming significant, I break it off.

  I’m sitting in my car in an open-air car park which looks like a bomb site. Potholes the size of lunar craters pepper the surface. I glance into the rear-view mirror, Jade glares back at me.

  ‘You’re having second thoughts, aren’t you,’ she sneers through her black painted lips.

  ‘There’s a lot to think about.’

  ‘Rubbish! There’s nothing to think about.’

  ‘I’m just saying…’

  I shake my head and stare out of the window at the Birmingham skyline shrouded in light mist and rain. The same shitty weather as the day I left.

  Jade’s heavily made-up eyes narrow to slits. It’s a look she tends to adopt when she’s annoyed with me, which at the moment is most of the time. ‘Don’t bloody bottle this.’

  ‘I have no intention of bottling it, all right!’ I snap back. ‘This is not straightforward, that’s all. There’s a lot to think about.’

  ‘The only thing you’re thinking about is that damned promise. That was eighteen years ago. Eighteen bloody years ago! Now I know moving on is not your strong suit… but… really?’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘Charming! Don’t get angry with me, get angry with them.’

  ‘I am angry.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it. You look like a rabbit caught in headlights, like a kid who’s sulking cos he’s not been picked to play football, like a–’