by Rob Ashman
‘It was a long shot.’
‘This is beginning to bug me.’ Kray waved her arm in front of the boards.
‘Don’t forget the young woman lying in the hospital bed.’
‘I know, I’m sure she fits into this puzzle. We need to bring her into the picture somehow.’
‘Bagley would never go for that; we have enough on our plate already.’
‘That’s true, but I got a–’
Bagley burst in.
‘Roz, can I have a word please?’
‘Yes, sure, I think we’re done here. Okay, guys, you know what to do.’ She picked up a file from her desk and followed Bagley down the corridor to his office.
‘Where are we with the drug connection? I need to brief the ACC.’
‘In a word, sir, nowhere. Ellwood doesn’t come up on any of the searches.’
‘Have you tried–’
‘Blackpool and Manchester? Yes, sir. They both came up clean.’
‘I don’t buy it. This is a drug-related killing, mark my words.’
‘The evidence would suggest otherwise. But something interesting came up.’
‘Oh, what?’
‘A young woman was hit by a taxi in town. She’s in hospital with serious head injuries. Tavener and I went to take a look.’
‘Why the hell did you do that?’
‘It sounded out of the ordinary. She is of East Asian origin, no ID, no money, no phone. She’s under sedation so we were unable to speak with her.’
‘And you thought you’d stick your nose in? You do know we have a process for allocating cases, don’t you?’
‘I do, sir, but we were in the location so we thought…’
‘How do you mean “out of the ordinary”?’
‘Well I reckon she might have been trafficked.’ Kray handed Bagley the file. He flicked it open and studied the photographs.
‘You’re barking up the wrong tree. I spent time in the Trafficking Unit when I worked in Nottingham and Manchester. The statistics are clear: trafficking that takes place in East Asia remains in East Asia. Countries such as Thailand, Malaysia, Laos, Vietnam, Cambodia tend to traffic people into the same region. A lot of the women are brought from the rural areas and sold in the city. They don’t ship them into Europe, and they definitely don’t ship them to Blackpool.’
‘Yeah, I know that, but–’
‘But what? She probably got mugged; ran out into the road and got run over. I don’t see why we need to overcomplicate it.’
‘Overcomplicate it? A young woman is lying in a hospital bed with a busted head and enough puncture wounds in her arms to embarrass a whole smack house and I think we owe it to her to explore all the avenues. Tell me the last time you saw track marks like that? What junkie do you know would do themselves that much damage?’ Bagley glanced at the picture. ‘Well?’
‘That is the worst I’ve seen.’
‘Exactly! And you know that traffickers use drugs to make their victims compliant. It forces them to toe the line. This…’ she stabbed her finger at the image, ‘is the result of someone injecting this woman – she’s not doing this to herself.’
‘I don’t need a lesson in coercion techniques.’
‘She was wearing counterfeit clothing.’
‘Oh, come on, Roz, you can get knock-off goods on mail order these days. Check with Missing Persons before we start jumping to conclusions.’
‘Something’s not right.’
‘When are you going to realise I don’t run this department on gut feel and intuition? We step through a logical process using tried and tested police methods. I know you are part of the folklore around here, Roz, for cracking cases, but on this occasion you’re wrong.’
Kray held her tongue, waiting for the penny to drop.
‘This has nothing to do with trafficking but you’re right about the track marks on her arm. She could be a drug mule?’
‘Yeah, maybe.’ said Kray.
‘There’s a drugs link to Ellwood, I’d stake my pension on it, and this woman looks like she has a drug connection as well.’ Bagley stared at the picture while Kray held her breath. ‘I want you to take this case, Roz, run it alongside the Ellwood investigation.’
Bingo!
‘But I have a ton of work to do, what with–’
‘Just do it, Roz. Just do it.’
Kray took the file from Bagley’s hand, turned on her heels and walked out. She had to make a swift exit to hide the broad grin that was spreading across her face. She met Tavener coming out of the incident room.
‘I’ve got a job for you.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You need to get another evidence board.’
Chapter 25
Kray pulled her car into the visitors’ bay and stepped out, grabbing her overnight bag from the passenger seat. She made her way to the foyer area and let herself in. The lift took her to the second floor and she slid the key into number twenty-four. She had butterflies in her stomach.
‘Hi,’ she called out, dumping her bag in the hallway and kicking off her shoes. The place smelled like a top-end restaurant. Millican had promised vegetable risotto followed by panna cotta and she had been looking forward to it all day.
‘Hey, you’re on time for once.’
‘Well you said you’d be cooking something nice… this time.’ They embraced each other, she kissed him on the mouth. She could taste wine on his lips.
‘Cheeky sod,’ he replied. ‘I always cook you something nice. Are you up for a glass?’
‘Yes, just a small one, I’m still trying to be good.’
He busied himself in the kitchen and returned with a chilled white wine. Beads of condensation clung to the outside of the glass. She plonked herself on the sofa.
‘You’re in a good mood,’ Millican said.
‘How do you mean?’
‘You know… like… happy.’
‘Now who’s being a cheeky sod.’
‘No, you do. You look… happy!’
‘Well, believe it or not I think I might have had a good day!’
‘Bloody hell, that’s a first. Did Bagley fall under a bus?’
‘No, no such luck. But I did make progress with the cases I’m working on and I left work on time. So, all in all, I’d say it’s been a good day.’ Millican slumped onto the settee beside her and she folded herself into his arms.
‘Here’s to having good days.’ She held out her glass and they chinked a ‘cheers’.
‘You should have them more often.’
‘No, I think one a year is quite sufficient.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Bloody starving.’
‘Good, it’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.’ Millican heaved himself from the sofa and disappeared into the kitchen. Kray snuggled into the cushions and sipped her wine.
‘How was your day?’ she called out.
‘Good,’ he called from the other room. ‘I had an article published.’
‘Wow! I’m impressed, what’s it about?’
Millican appeared in the doorway clutching a magazine. ‘Listen to this… “It is well recognised that over the past four decades incidents of asymptomatic primary hyperparathyroidism have increased significantly. However–”’
‘Hyperparathyroidism? Is that even a thing?’
‘Of course it is. There’s a really good bit here… “so the conclusion we can reach from conducting laboratory tests is–”’
‘Is that reading pathology journals can significantly spoil an otherwise pleasant day.’
Millican feigned a pout. ‘I take an interest in your work.’
‘That’s because I talk about it in plain English and not made-up words.’
‘I’ll fix dinner then.’ He tossed the magazine at her from across the room and turned in a theatrical huff.
‘I’m really proud of you.’
‘Bollocks! Is that plain enough for you?’ They both laughed.
Dinner was even better
than Kray had imagined. Millican was a genius in the kitchen. She cleared the dishes from the dining room and loaded the dishwasher.
‘That was amazing. Maybe you should write cookery books instead of pathology articles, I’m sure you’d get more readers that way.’
‘You are pushing your luck, lady.’ Millican wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. ‘Just you wait till I get you upstairs.’
‘What are you going to do? Read me some more from your journal?’
‘Cheeky cow.’
‘Don’t squeeze me, I need a pee.’ He wound his other arm around her and squeezed.
‘Ohhh! Let me go before I wet myself.’ Kray struggled free and legged it upstairs to the bathroom.
Sitting there, she could feel the butterflies in her stomach going berserk.
Tonight’s the night.
This was going to plan. She had rehearsed what she was going to say and how she was going to say it. She ran through the little speech in her head again.
Chris, I have something to tell you. I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while and wanted to pick the right time. And now is the right time…
She reeled off a length of toilet roll.
Kray folded the tissue paper and wiped herself. A red smear caught her eye. She stared at it, her mind not computing what she was looking at. She took another length of paper and wiped again – same result.
She checked her underwear. Dark spots stained the material.
Fuck!
Chapter 26
I pull the car past the wrought-iron gates and park on the driveway. A dim light penetrates the fluted glass in the main entrance; other than that, the place is in darkness. I switch off the engine and check my watch, almost 9pm. I get out into the cold air and crunch my way across the gravelled courtyard, towards the light.
A tall pitched roof towers above me with ornate latticework decorating the edging. The stone plaque mounted high on the wall reads, 1863. The trailing greenery across the front of the property gives the place a vicarage-like feel. Which is no bad thing, I suppose.
I hear the chimes of a bell echoing somewhere in the hallway as I press the button. The dark silhouette of a figure approaches. The door opens.
‘Are you Mr Ambrose?’ I ask.
‘Yes, you must be Richard Moss, we spoke on the phone. Please come in.’ The man standing in front of me is middle-aged, dressed in a black suit, his white face highlighted against the gloom. He oozes a sense of melancholy from every pore.
I shake his hand and enter into the warmth of the house. The name Richard Moss came up on my internet search of garages in the Salford area. I have no idea who he is, or whether his car servicing lives up to his advertising claims. But tonight he’ll do nicely.
‘Thank you for seeing me out of hours, Mr Ambrose,’ I say.
‘That’s fine, we try to be as flexible as we can. It is not always easy for people to get here during the day. I’m afraid ours is not a nine-to-five job.’ His delivery is soft and low, almost a whisper. Boy, this guy is in the right job.
‘No, I don’t suppose it is.’
‘My condolences on your loss.’
‘Oh, err, Michael was a colleague. Well, less of a colleague more of a work friend. I run a garage in Salford Quays called Moss Autos, you may have heard of us?’ Ambrose purses his lips and shakes his head. ‘Michael and I used to send each other work – if I was snowed under I’d give him a call and vice versa.’
‘His wife Miriam said they owned a garage.’
I nod my head and smile. He nods in return, minus the smile. The seconds tick by.
‘Is it possible for me to…?’ I ask, anxious to break the impasse.
‘Of course, please follow me.’ We make our way to the back of the hallway and Ambrose opens up a door leading to a long, dimly-lit corridor. There are doors leading off to the right and left. We reach the fourth one along. He pauses with his hand on the door handle. ‘Due to the circumstances, the family have requested a closed casket.’
‘I understand.’ Ambrose opens the door, steps inside and ushers me in.
‘If you need anything I won’t be far away.’ He crosses behind me and closes the door.
The room is lit by two subdued lamps, the walls painted cream, the carpet beige. A faint smell of furniture polish hangs in the air. Two chairs rest against one wall and two against the one opposite. Between them a pale brown casket is cradled on a wheeled trolley that’s draped in white covers. The brass fittings seem to fluoresce against the dim lamplight.
I pull up one of the chairs and sit in front of the coffin, my head bowed. Tears well against my bottom eyelids and I reach up, placing my right hand onto the oak-veneered lid. I can feel the contours of the edging beneath my fingers, cool to the touch.
Tears roll down my cheeks and fall onto the carpet. My eyes become accustomed to the light and I watch the droplets lie proud on the surface before being absorbed into the pile. My shoulders start to shake and I sob my goodbyes. Memories flash before me like a magic lantern show, each one a painful reminder of what has gone before.
I see the parade of care homes we visited, the look of glee on his face when he gained his apprenticeship and the look of sadness when I went off to war. I feel his hand squeezing mine; once when we stood at the graveside watching our father’s ashes being placed into the ground and the second time when we buried Mum.
The memories come thick and fast, tumbling around in my head. They take me on a helter-skelter ride of the good times and the bad.
Suddenly, I’m back in my house in Birmingham, kneeling beside Blythe, screaming at her to wake up. I remember a pair of hands gripping my shoulders, pulling me away. A man dressed in green falling to his knees to take my place.
‘The baby, the baby,’ was all I could say. I have no idea what he said in return.
He put an oxygen mask over Blythe’s nose and mouth then jabbed her with an adrenaline stick. The other paramedic went to work, resuming the compressions.
It was like watching everything in slow motion.
Five minutes later they stopped.
They patched me up, and when the police arrived I identified myself and gave them a potted version of events. I told them about the operation in Nottingham and about the Critchleys. I called Rick. He came straight over.
The coppers removed the ski masks from the two men who were lying on the floor. I recognised them from the club – both were dead with their heads caved in.
I later learned that Natasha had been suspicious of me going to visit my sick mother and had followed me. When she saw the set-up at home, she put two and two together and ran back to Rolo as fast as her shapely legs would carry her. I guess this was what Rolo was referring to when he said there would be the harshest of consequences if I broke the pledge.
I wanted revenge, who wouldn’t? But I was embroiled in a massive police investigation that saw the Critchley operation shut down. Rolo and one of the brothers were sent to jail. The remaining brother was never charged and disappeared to live off his millions.
I was swept along in the enquiry which was a crazy mix of a murder investigation and a drug and money laundering case. And throughout, all I could think about was: Who was the third attacker?
Rick did his best to get me rehabilitated into the force but I couldn’t risk that. I was still alive and sooner or later they would come looking for me again. Or at least that’s what my paranoid mind kept telling me.
I had all the counselling that was going, but in the end I reverted to what I knew best and told them what they wanted to hear. Rick was a big support, right up until the time when he was told to move onto the next big case. Then he melted away, just like the others.
Every bone in my body wanted to wreak revenge but the promise I made to Blythe was the only thing I had left. Rick’s parting gesture was to help me disappear – new name, new place, new job.
‘If you’re thinking of tracking them down – don’t,’ Rick had said. ‘This is a
fresh start, don’t fuck it up.’ And with his words ringing in my ears he was gone. I wasn’t to see him again for another eighteen years. And now they had returned to take their pound of flesh in the form of my brother’s life.
The vision of Miriam burst into my thoughts, her face snarling, spitting her words at me.
‘Leave my fucking family alone! Come near us again and I’ll kill you.’ The image jolts me from my daydream.
There is a soft knock at the door. I rub my face with my hands and get to my feet. The door edges open and Ambrose is standing there in all his melancholy splendour.
‘I just wanted to check you were…’ he says.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ I glance at my watch. 9.45pm. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you so long. I lost track of time.’
‘Don’t worry, sometimes it takes that long. It’s not a problem.’
‘I’ll be on my way. Thank you for being so accommodating.’
Ambrose moves to one side and I join him in the corridor.
‘Will you be attending the funeral?’ he asks.
‘Umm, no, I don’t think so.’
‘Let me show you out.’ Ambrose escorts me back to the main entrance and out the door. The cold air pricks at my face as I get into the car.
I didn’t want to do that, but I needed to. I have no idea when the funeral will take place, but one thing I do know is… I won’t be there.
‘Do you feel better now?’ asks Jade, her shock of blue hair complimenting her eyeshadow.
‘Yeah, much better.’
I gun the engine and head back to the Paragon.
Chapter 27
Marshall walked across the pedestrianised area to the car park. The sprawling building in front of him was lit up like a small town. The umbrella above his head was to protect him from the glare of the CCTV rather than what was falling from the sky.
He was struggling to focus. That bloody copper had turned up and wanted to trawl through the CCTV. Christ knows what she reported back to the station. Marshall was sure that was going to return to bite him in the arse. He quickened his pace to fight against the cold. He was dressed in a cotton T-shirt when a thick overcoat would have been more in keeping with the season.
