Forced to Kill

by Emmy Ellis

  In booties and with gloves on, taken from a cardboard box nearby, they followed Shields up the path. Ordinarily, Oliver would have entertained shoving the man forward so he tripped, and he laughed to himself about the imagery, but he was fucked if he could do that now. Emotions gripped him—those of whoever had been killed inside—and they weren’t pretty.

  “Fucking little bitch. Knew I shouldn’t have had her. Was going to get an abortion, wasn’t I? But my old man reckoned it’d be a laugh to have a kid. Social Security payments would go up. So I had her, and look where it got us.”

  Oliver stopped walking, held his hand up to alert Langham that the dead had spoken. “Where is she?”

  “Don’t know, don’t fucking care.”

  Langham stopped, too, waving at Shields to do the same. The smarmy detective gave an eye roll and huffed out an impatient breath. But he halted.

  “You don’t have any idea where she might have gone?” Oliver asked.

  “No. Well, maybe. Made a pal for herself with some old biddy down the road. Reckon that’s where she fucked off to when she disappeared for days on end. Pissed me off, that did. I had no one here to make my cuppas.”

  Oliver bit down on his tongue. He wanted to rip this woman a new arsehole. Her cackling laugh, rich with phlegm, churned his stomach.

  “Down this road?”

  “Yeah. Number ninety-seven. Mrs Roosay, some poncy name like that.”

  Oliver couldn’t hold his anger back any longer. “And it didn’t bother you? You just let your child go there without checking the woman out first?”

  “Course I fucking didn’t. Why would I? Got her out from under my feet, didn’t it?”

  He couldn’t resist his retort. “But your cuppas…”

  “Yeah, there was that, but I wasn’t too fussed, not really. Wouldn’t have been long before someone else would be there to do it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nosy bastard, aren’t you?”

  She cackled again, the sound fading.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache threatening to lay him out. “She’s gone. Didn’t offer much except the fact that Glenn visited with an old lady at number ninety-seven. A Mrs Roosay.”

  Shields lifted onto his tiptoes, peering down the street. “That’s along there. Come inside here first, Langham, then you can take your lapdog down there and interview the neighbour.” He shook his head. “I knocked on that door, too. Thought she was out.”

  Oliver was too weary to snipe back about the lapdog comment. His energy had been sapped by Glenn’s mother, leaving behind the taint of evil and utter disregard for anyone but herself. He sighed as they stepped into the house, signed a scene log, and he mentally prepared himself for what he was about to see. He hoped to God that woman wouldn’t contact him again once he stood by her body.

  “In here.” Shields led them through a doorway in the hall and into a lounge. He stood in the centre, looking to his left, and out came the handkerchief again.

  Langham joined him, and by the expression on his face, Oliver wasn’t sure he wanted to follow. Langham had paled, his lips were drawn back in a grimace, and the frown that appeared gouged deep crevices.

  Oliver went in.

  Glenn’s mother was an unrecognisable heap of innards, legs and arms protruding from it. Intestines, heart, lungs, kidneys, and her liver mounded high inside a ripped-open stomach that had bled profusely. The air had dried them out a little, darkened them, but the carnage wasn’t something you could imagine. It had to be seen to be believed.

  “Where’s her head?” Oliver whispered.

  “Over here,” Shields said, the words muffled by his hanky.

  Oliver followed Shields’ pointed finger. The head sat in the corner, wedged on top of a pile of scrunched-up newspaper and oily fish-and-chip wrappers. An upended fast-food cup lay beside it, and there was a note next to that.

  “What’s that say?” Oliver asked.

  “Kid’s writing, bit of an angry scrawl but legible,” Shields said. “It says: Here’s your fucking tea. I assume the cup had tea in it, judging by the darker stain on the carpet around the neck stump, but it’s difficult to tell, what with the amount of blood.”

  Oliver allowed himself a small smile at the sense of victory Glenn must have felt then. He didn’t condone killing of any kind, but in this situation… No, he wasn’t going to go there.

  “There’s something else, too.” Shields gestured to the opposite corner. “Another note as well.”

  Oliver dared himself to turn his head. What appeared to be a foetus lay curled in the corner, a filthy, ragged blanket over it, only the head poking out.

  “And that note?” Langham asked.

  Shields moved to the door behind Oliver. “Says: I saved you from doing it.”

  Oliver pushed past Shields and went out into the hallway, his mind swimming with what Glenn must have put up with for her to have killed her mother knowing she was pregnant. Her logic in killing her unborn sibling wasn’t lost on him. She’d saved the child from a life of hell like she’d had. Christ, she must have suffered, harboured so much rage, and the drugs had given her the impetus to erase it all. Except it would be in her mind, lingering. Always. He understood why it was such a rage killing. Drugged and crazed Glenn might be, but somewhere inside was a little girl who just wanted to be loved and accepted.

  Sickening. All of it.

  “There’s another one.” Shields walked past Oliver, making a show of ensuring they didn’t touch in the small space, and walked upstairs.

  Langham followed, his expression grim, taking the stairs one at a time, arms by his sides, as though every ounce of energy had been sucked out of him. Oliver felt the same, and when he trailed the two detectives, his legs felt like they’d give way any minute and he’d tumble back down, landing in the filth of the hallway, stinky old shoes and a broken tennis racquet for a pillow.

  On the landing, one strewn with dirty washing, bursting black bags—he was surprised this household even owned any or knew what they were—and an odd assortment of bric-a-brac, he breathed in through his mouth. The whole house was filled with the stench of death, cloying and thick.

  Inside the box bedroom, a man sat on a bare mattress stained by his blood and who only knew what else. Dark stains, light stains—piss and shit most likely—and patches of crusty dirt that may well have been mud or food. He wasn’t sure and didn’t much want to entertain it further. The body held his gaze then. Sitting up like that, he looked for all the world like a normal bloke, just taking a nap in the nude. His eyes were closed, his hands clasped over his beach ball belly, and his black hair flopped forward over one eye. Both legs stuck out in front of him, the backs of his knees touching the mattress edge, the heels of his feet on a matted fluffy rug.

  But he no longer owned a penis. It sat beside him, holding down a note, an obscene paperweight. Blood had dripped from it, leaving a dribble that had meandered across the page, a now black-encrusted river.

  She’d cut it off when he’d been alive then.

  But how had she killed him? Nothing else appeared out of place.

  “This note says: Hope you enjoyed your dinner,” Shields said. “Seems obvious the girl had cooked for them, been a skivvy. She must have fed him something. Won’t know what that was until the ME’s had a good look at him and the tox screens come back.”

  Langham cleared his throat. “That penis. Indicates she did more for him than cook dinner.”

  “Seems that way.” Shields walked out, calling from the landing, “Mrs Roosay. Number ninety-seven!” as though he’d been the one to get the tip and they’d known nothing about it until he’d just said.

  Oliver wanted to find Glenn so those drugs were taken from her system and she was given some understanding somewhere. How old was she? Depending on that, she might be tried as an adult and sent away. He didn’t think that was fair. She deserved help, a better life, a family who gave a monkeys.

  That she possibly w
asn’t going to get it had Oliver belting out of the room and down the stairs, back out onto the broken concrete path Glenn had trudged up and down all her life, leaving and entering a home where no one cared if she existed—except for the fact that she made cups of tea, cooked meals, and gave her father more than he had a right to take.

  Chapter Ten

  Mrs Roosay turned out to be Mrs Rosé, a French woman of indeterminate years. She stood on her doorstep, back hunched, shoulders rounded, and squinted at them through thick-lensed glasses. Her home-knitted cardigan, brown with hints of beige running through it, crossed over at the front, her arms clamping them to her.

  Out of the protective clothing, Oliver felt less official.

  “Glenn, you say?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Langham smiled. “Have you seen her today. Or recently?”

  Oliver studied her. She didn’t display body language that spoke of her hiding information. Or holding a child in her home. She seemed weary, tired deep in her bones, and bewildered that a detective stood on her front path asking about a little girl.

  “I have not seen her for weeks. I have been worried, but there is nothing I can do. The authorities, they do not listen to me. Say it is ‘all in hand’. I do not believe them. How can it be all in hand if the child is still dirty and uncared for?” Tears filled her eyes.

  “Did you allow Glenn into your home at any time, Mrs Rosé?” Langham’s voice was soft, kind.

  She nodded. “I would rather tell you inside. Please, come.”

  Mrs Rosé led the way into her living room, the house the same layout as Glenn’s. Except this one was clean and well cared for. Family photographs covered the walls and every available surface—end tables, the mantel, the television—and the air smelt of furniture polish and fresh washing. Glenn must have loved it here and wondered how her home could be so different.

  Oliver and Langham sat at Mrs Rosé’s gesture to do so, on an overstuffed sofa covered in pink chintz. She settled in a matching chair to their right and gazed out of the front window with rheumy eyes.

  “She is a dear thing. I waited for her. To come here and visit. But she did not come. The last time she was here was my birthday.” She looked at Langham, her smile sad and watery.

  “When was that, Mrs Rosé?” he asked.

  “Two months ago. August seventeenth. She said she had made me a card, that she would bring it…” Her lower lip quivered.

  “And the time before that?” Langham prodded.

  “Every week on a Saturday morning. I have missed her. I wondered if the authorities had finally listened to me and taken her away, because I saw her getting into someone’s car. That car had been outside the house before, and the child had spoken to whoever was in there. Through the window.”

  She’d grabbed Oliver’s attention with that.

  Langham sat up straighter, then leant forward to take the old woman’s hand in his. “Can you remember what day that was?”

  She nodded. “A Friday. The Friday after she had been here on the Saturday.” She frowned, as though the date eluded her. “I cannot remember…”

  “I can work the date out, Mrs Rosé, don’t worry about that.” Langham gave her a gentle smile. “The car. Can you remember it?”

  She nodded. “Very expensive. Black. With one of those badges on the front. A Mercedes. The man who collected her did not enter her house. I had been pruning in the front garden and saw Glenn pass. She did not see me. Her head was down, as usual. But she glanced up just before she got to the car. The man got out and folded his arms on the roof just above his open door. He smiled, talked to her, but I cannot tell you what it was about, I could not hear. Glenn nodded, and he reached inside the car. He handed her something. Perhaps a cake, I am not sure, but she ate it there on the path.”

  A cake…

  Mrs Rosé raised one hand to her heart and closed her eyes. “Then the man walked around the front of the car and opened the passenger side. Glenn nodded, smiled up at him, and it seemed she knew him because she got in. Then he drove away, and I have not seen her since.” She stared at Langham. “I should have telephoned the police. But I thought… The car had been before…”

  Langham patted her hand. “It’s fine, Mrs Rosé. Please don’t worry or blame yourself. You’ve been a great help. This may be a long shot, but did you happen to notice the number plate?”

  She smiled and pulled her hand from his. Stood on rickety legs and shivered over to the mantel. “Now that I can help you with. I had seen the car so often, but that was not the reason I remembered the plate. I wrote it down but have not forgotten it.” She took a slip of paper from behind one of the photographs and handed it to Langham.

  Oliver leant across to read it. In her spidery handwriting, Mrs Rosé had given them shocking information. It was a personal plate. A name. One Oliver hadn’t expected to see. It had to be a mistake. Was that man capable of abducting a child? It went against the grain, all he stood for—unless he’d turned into a bent copper himself recently. Langham had paled significantly.

  5H13LD5.

  He wasn’t imagining it, was he? Wanting to see something that would bring that smarmy wanker down?

  Langham cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mrs Rosé, you’ve been more help than you can imagine.”

  “Will you… Will you come back and tell me when you find her?” The old woman smoothed her skirt then patted her hair. “I have grown to love her.”

  “Of course,” Langham said. “And if I don’t call round, I’ll telephone, all right?”

  She nodded, then wrote down her phone number. After handing it to Langham, she showed them to the door on unsteady legs, fingers fluttering beside her.

  They stepped outside, the front door closing behind them with a soft snick, and Oliver inhaled a deep breath. He had so many questions battering around inside his mind. A headache wouldn’t be long in coming. The lack of sleep was getting to him—he was all liquid bones and weary muscles—but his brain, it buzzed. He walked to the end of the path and turned. Langham still stood by the front door, finger and thumb toying with his lips as he stared at the carefully cut grass. It reminded Oliver of when he’d stared at the office carpet.

  Langham lowered his hand. “It can’t be him, can it?” He looked up, frown firmly in place, mouth a hard laceration. “I mean, he’s a copper. So fucking righteous. So correct all the bloody time.”

  “People change,” Oliver said. “Who knows what the lure of money does. If he’s involved, that is. If that’s the way this is panning out.”

  Langham nodded, gaze back on the ground, although he walked towards Oliver and met him on the pavement. “You reckon he has it in him to be involved? To be on some psycho’s payroll? Taking a kid, for fuck’s sake?”

  Oliver swallowed. “I’d like to say no. That the way he carries on tells us he’s well into law enforcement, wouldn’t be involved in anything dodgy. But honestly? He’s a bastard—I’ve always said that. An out-and-out bastard. With that personality? He’s capable of anything, if you ask me.”

  Langham nodded again. “Shit. So what do I do? Ask him? Watch him? Tell the chief?”

  “No idea. Not my call. For what it’s worth—my opinion—I say we have him watched, see where he goes, what he does.”

  “Have him watched? That means letting someone else in on this. Trusting someone not to tell him.”

  “What about running that plate? Might not even be his, just us jumping the gun.”

  “Yep. Come on.”

  Oliver trailed him down the street, back towards Glenn’s. Shields was outside, a posturing peacock, invisible tail feathers splayed as though he’d caught some woman on his sexual radar. But no woman was around. He was alone, strutting up and down the path, mobile to his ear.

  Langham held his arm out, stopping Oliver mid-stride. He tugged him closer to a hedge high enough to hide behind and not be seen. Close enough to hear. “Listen…”

  “It’s not like that,” Shields said. “Well, that’
s what I’m about to do, go and find her. That’s my job… No, I didn’t expect for her to escape—no one did… Like I meant for this to happen? Muddy the waters? Christ, the last thing I want is my job complicated. Bad enough we had Alex going around killing people, let alone her.”

  Who was he speaking to? It could be an innocent conversation, but that number plate coming to light had shed a new slant on what Shields was saying. He could be talking to Jackson at Privo…

  “It might be innocent,” Oliver whispered. “We might be hearing what we want to hear.”

  Langham gritted his teeth. “Shh.”

  Shields coughed lightly, then, “Langham? He’s interviewing a neighbour. What? Am I worried about that? Why should I be?”

  Oliver’s guts bunched. Innocent conversation? Is whoever is on the other end of that line reminding him his car might have been clocked in this street?

  Shields laughed, strutted up and down some more. “Fuck, no. I’ll give Mrs Roosay a visit once Langham’s gone. Check what he said to her. Whether she saw anything.”

  That had sounded sinister, like Shields would be warning Mrs Rosé off.

  “Right,” Shields said. “We’ll have this one dealt with in no time.”

  Oliver couldn’t stand it any longer. He walked forward, out into the open, making his way towards Shields. The detective had his back to him, his greasy hair shining despite the pale, feeble sunlight. On Glenn’s path, a crisp packet crinkled under Oliver’s tread.

  Shields spun around, eyes narrowed, his eyebrows quivering. “Yes, I hear you, sir. Will do.” He stared harder at Oliver. “Where’s Langham?”

  “Here,” Langham said, his voice gruff, barely concealed emotion sneakily bristling out of him.

  “Any news from the Roosay woman?”

  “No,” Langham said quickly. Too quickly. “She’s just some old French woman.” He shrugged and shook his head. “So now we need to regroup, work out what we’ve done so far, who’s dealing with what, and where we go from here.”

  Was it Oliver’s imagination, or did Shields sigh with relief just then?