Lessons In Blood

by Quentin Black

  “Did they get searched?”

  Waseem considered lying. Then he remembered witnessing an incident where another man, a respected villain, had been dishonest to the man who was now on the other end of the line.

  He reconsidered, “No. I went against my instincts to push it.”

  “Disappointing Waseem. Prisons are full of people who trusted their ‘instincts’ and not simple instructions.”

  “It will not happen again.”

  The voice continued as if he had never heard him, “Surely you realise that a man who thinks it’s kosher to make remarks like that should not be brought along to those meetings?”

  “That’s the thing, Rashid said it in Punjabi.”

  There were a few moments of silence. “Interesting.” The voice paused before continuing. “How did this gentleman look after the fight? Did he sustain any injuries?”

  “Well, that’s another thing. It wasn’t much of a fight. The guy destroyed him.”

  Again a pause. “What about the deal?”

  “Had one of my guys wash some of the mandy powder with cold anhydrous acetone and over ninety percentage came out, so it’s legit. The dust had some contaminants in it but no dilutants. An’ the herb was twenty percentage for THC. Boutique.”

  He had been impressed when he’d found out and hoped his boss was too. Getting quality drugs imported had been getting harder in recent years. The SOCA (Serious Organised Crime Agency), given more powers along with its renaming to the NCA, had been making its presence felt.

  “Getting one of these products of that quality into the country is impressive,” said the voice. “Getting all three seems remarkable, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes.”

  “How quickly can a deal be arranged?”

  “Quick. The white guy—Connor—said he’d be coming back to Brum in a couple of days and staying for a bit.”

  “Staying in the city?”

  “Yeah.”

  “OK, sell the product, and we’ll see how much demand there is.”

  The phone went dead, and Waseem felt happier—the Boss knew there was money to be made, and so did Waseem.

  “Tell me why you don’t accept that Ubaid Almasi killed your daughter?” said the Scotsman as they walked deeper into the woods. With no preamble before the question, O’Reilly tried to take stock of the situation.

  “There were a few reasons.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, it’s no secret that Jessie had a long-standing drug problem. At first, I did what any father in my position would do—I got her into rehab, and cut her off from her credit cards. All she did was get her stuff from street dealers—going ‘council’ as they say. Who knows what’s in the shit they sell. She’d sell her clothes, steal, the lot. So I had to make a decision before she inevitably sold herself, to turn back on her credit. I gave her a certain amount a week so she could buy the best stuff. I know it’s ‘enabling’, but it was the lesser of the two evils. The point is, it didn’t sit right with me that she had been found in some drugs den in Croydon. She could have gotten her drugs from one of these ‘oohrah Henry’ dealers.”

  “Almasi’s vehicle was spotted in the area by CCTV around about the time. And he refers to all the murders, including your daughter’s, in his diary. The accounts are all in great detail.”

  “After the case had been closed, I managed to borrow the said diary and have Professor Robert Speckin, an inventor of a method of ink dating. He deemed all the entries to be made on the same day—the day of Almasi’s suicide.”

  “You’re aware that some dispute the accuracy of ‘Inkage’,” said the Scotsman.

  The man’s knowledge of the company surprised O’Reilly but he countered, “Inkage will be officially implemented in all UK forensic laboratories by next year.”

  “OK. Maybe the entries were confessions before he took his own life?”

  “Ubaid Almasi was a known heroin addict. As you say, the accounts were very detailed: what the victims were wearing, how they styled their hair. Quite an impressive recall for a suicidal, drug addict.”

  “I’ll need to see this diary.”

  “By borrow, I meant borrow. It cost me a small fortune to have Speckin come to the evidence room to carry out his tests.”

  They walked on a few more paces, and the man spoke, “OK, this is now no longer your problem. It’s my problem. I cannot give you a timeline, but whatever transpires I will make you aware of it.”

  O’Reilly exhaled and fought the urge to cry.

  “What will happen if and when you catch whoever is responsible?”

  “They will die, Mr O’Reilly,” answered the man, his words hanging in the air. “You are never to speak of this again. Not your meeting with Mr Costner, not this meeting. You will appear to have finally accepted Ubaid Almasi’s culpability for your daughter’s death. You will not ask Mr Costner for any updates. I will inform you at periodical intervals if my investigation drags on. Understand?”

  O’Reilly nodded numbly. “I understand,” before continuing, “I told Mr Costner I would foot the bill, and—,”

  “When a man has to pay for justice then something is amiss,” said the man before holding out his hand. “Now I will bid you good day.”

  O’Reilly shook his hand and clamped his jaws together to hide the trembling. The Scotsman began to walk away and O’Reilly shouted after him. “I apologise but I didn’t catch your name.”

  “No apology necessary,” the man shouted back. “I didn’t give it to you.”

  5

  Andrew Watson was pissed off. He was waiting for a man he did not know, for a reason undisclosed with no way to contact him—“he’s tall and has a light Scottish accent” was all his friend would tell him. Watson didn’t even think his friend knew why this man wanted to see him. Not that the man was late, but Watson had things to be getting on with. As an investigations officer for National Crime Agency, he always had things to be getting on with. At thirty-seven years old, his life had been getting more stressful just at the age his natural energy had begun to wane.

  The Beefeater pub he was in had that gentle hum he liked, of it having people in, without being too busy. He was weighing up whether or not to have an alcoholic drink when a strong hand clapped him on the shoulder, startling him.

  “Would you like a drink, Andrew?” said the tall man with a Scottish accent.

  “Ahem, sure, I’ll have what you’re having,” he replied.

  “I am having a black coffee. You sure?”

  “Yes, coffee is fine but can I have it white with one sugar?”

  A few minutes later they sat across from one another with their coffees.

  “I apologise for the intrusion, I understand you must be very busy,” began the Scotsman. “My name is Bruce.”

  “It’s OK, I had a slow day anyway,” replied Andrew.

  “It’s regarding the murder of Jessica O’Reilly.”

  Andrew Watson momentarily stiffened, and Bruce continued, “Just before we begin. This isn’t an inquisition. As far as I can tell, the investigation was carried out impeccably.”

  “Then why are we having this conversation?”

  The Scot sipped his coffee. “It’s to placate a grieving and angry father that everything that could have been done has been done.”

  “Can I ask who you are? It’s all very cloak and dagger.”

  “I apologise, it’s not my intention to be ‘cloak and dagger’, but I couldn’t go into detail. Let’s say I do what you do—protect the people of the United Kingdom—but I am a little more free of the constraints of politics and judicial review.”

  “I see,” said Watson, hiding his intrigue. “What would you like to know?”

  “I have an overview and a few details of the case, but no more than that. The nephrectomy struck me as odd. Almasi had a history of mutilation but not performing surgery?”

  Watson nodded. “The diary detailed his fascination with it—that he had been practising his surgi
cal skills on rabbits and such like.”

  “Did it state where he had kept or disposed of the kidney?” asked Bruce.

  Watson thought for a moment. “No it didn’t.”

  “All his previous victims—and his latest victim Catherine Wilks—were all within the Luton area and with only Jessie found outside that area, way down in South-East London? An anomaly from the geographic profiling.”

  Watson shrugged. “His car was shown by CCTV to be in that area around the time.”

  “That’s another thing; heroin addicts don’t drive? Not that type of addict. Do we have any idea when he bought that car or if it was registered to him?”

  Watson felt a shunt of annoyance—this wasn’t just a simple review of the case. “Look, Bruce, is this off the record?” When the man nodded, he continued, “The NCA is the same as any organisation. It has a limited amount of manpower—workforce I mean—, finance, and resources. There are literally hundreds of cases on our docket. So when you’re given a bird in the hand like this, then you take it. Almasi was a serial killer, and now he’s dead. Of course, I questioned certain things, but there’s a diary of confessions and a car registered in his name picked up on CCTV in the area where she was found dead. I learnt long ago to let some things go or else go mad. I might have spent weeks and months—time that could have been spent solving other cases—only to come to the same conclusion anyway.”

  The Scotsman replied, “Then I can help you. The official result will always stand. But if this Egyptian wasn’t the person responsible for Jessica O’Reilly’s death, then I will find whoever is and bring them to justice.”

  Watson took a few breaths, his mind weighing the pros and cons of what he was considering saying. Finally, he said, “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

  When Bruce remained silent, he continued. “About a year and a half ago, we broke up this brothel in Hackney. Pimp was nowhere to be found. Anyway, one of the girls starts babbling on that she had been kidnapped. At first, I thought she meant by the pimp, but then she said she’d been taken to a hospital. Lifted her blouse to show me a scar that went around her right side and lower back. Ordinarily, I’d have put her ramblings down to her being an addict, but the scar caught my attention. I know what a slashing looks like and this looked more of an incision. Anyway, the pimp appeared, and the arrest was made. The social services came in for the girls, and I never heard from her again.”

  Watson took a mouthful of coffee before topping his cup back up. He carried on. “Over six months ago, I had a similar incident happen. Young girl was muling drugs for one of the kingpins we were after. We caught hold of her to shake her for information, and she obliged. She spewed out the same story except she was a little more with it than the first girl. Said she had been homeless. The police came to move her on, then she woke in a hospital. She had the same scar.”

  “What then?” Bruce asked.

  “The thing is, these two girls were English. Now, we’ve seen cases where Eastern European girls sell one of their organs or even bone marrow for access into the country. But that didn’t seem to be the case here. So I began some enquires on the side. Then after a time, I was told to stop from one of my superiors.”

  Bruce sipped his coffee. “Who?”

  “That I won’t tell you. But what I will tell you is this O’Reilly case was cut, bagged and zipped with unusual speed.”

  “So I gather, that if I had made my request to see you to your superiors, instead of on the QT to Kathryn, we wouldn’t be having this conversation?”

  He was referring to Kathryn Bainbridge, the deputy head of Scotland Yard.

  “I would think you’d have surmised correctly.”

  Bruce said, “Let’s keep this conversation between ourselves. No sense in poking what seems to be a hornet’s nest. I appreciate the risk you’ve taken telling me your concerns. Whatever I discover, and however far it goes, I will one day tell you—if you want to know. Also, there may come a time when you need help, and no one else is able or willing to come to your aid. If that time comes, I want you to reach out to me via Kathryn.”

  The Scotsman stood and extended his hand. As the hand enclosed his, Watson looked at this man that he’d just met. There was something about him that made Watson trust the stranger.

  Connor watched the strikingly attractive Grace smooth and readjust her green summer dress as he pulled up his hiking trousers. He took a moment to appreciate the shapely redhead’s allure before looking around the desolate expanse of moorland as the morning sun began to illuminate it. His attention turned back to the only woman he had been seeing with any regularity for the last few years—must be her green eyes. He smiled—the last roll around I had before this was two nights ago with an Asian bodybuilder.

  “That was a present for qualifying as a surgeon,” he winked as he fastened his belt. When they had first met years ago, she had been a trainee surgeon at the Leeds General Infirmary and he a serving Royal Marine. He’d been seconded to the hospital on a short-lived MOD scheme for team medics to gain practical experience.

  Her laugh, sweet and loud, caught in the air. “You really do love yourself, Mr Reed.”

  “That patch doesn’t lie,” he replied, nodding to the picnic blanket.

  “I think that was more you than me, lover.”

  “Yeah…but it was some of you,” he grinned.

  They had risen early to begin a walk to Haworth and Wadsworth Moor. After four hours they had reached the Top Withins ruins by mid-morning. No one else was around.

  The blanket had been laid out, and Connor had set down his backpack. Deep kissing had soon led to hard sex.

  “Come on then, chop, chop with the food,” said Grace.

  “You lay it out. I did all of the work.”

  She sighed and began placing out the contents of the backpack: turkey and cranberry sandwiches with seeded bread, bananas, nuts, water and a flask of black coffee.

  “So, how’s work?” he asked.

  She frowned. “Don’t be one of those guys.”

  “One of what guys?”

  “A small talk guy.”

  “I just thought I’d feign interest in you as a person since I have gotten what I wanted.”

  “You didn’t have to take me on a thirteen-mile walk just to shag me, Connor.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I was talking about the sandwiches.”

  Grace chortled. “Come on.”

  “OK,” replied Connor thinking, “homosexuality, are you born like it or can you learn to like it?”

  “OK, not bad. We talking all forms or male homosexuality?”

  “Male. We both know women like it,” he smirked.

  She sighed and said, “Well, Alfred Kinsey suggested that we are all on a spectrum of sexuality.”

  “Yeah, the Kinsey scale of Sexuality. I’ve seen the film.”

  “Well, there have been studies that show that the hypothalamus in homosexual males is different. Which would suggest it is biological.”

  “Who’s taught you a big word like hypothalamus?”

  She smiled. “What do you think?”

  “Apparently the ancient Greeks used to fuck one another. The older males used to fuck young boys. Some tribes in New Guinea still do that. You know, the young warriors fuck the young lads, and by young, I am talking about from eight to fifteen. I don’t think that you could ever convince me that would be my cup of tea but they consider that normal.”

  “But that’s a forced ritual. It’s not a natural expression.”

  “It’s an interesting point but—,” he was interrupted by the vibrating of his phone, and upon looking at it he said, “I’ll have to take this one.”

  He walked away a few paces and answered the phone. “Yeah.”

  “There’s been developments. We need to meet,” said Bruce McQuillan.

  “When?”

  “You can meet me. Is it a pub off the M6 at Knutsford this afternoon? Its called ‘The Windmill’.”

  “I am walk
ing in Haworth with a bird at the moment. I’ll have to drop her off before I start down.”

  “Fine, make it by six tonight, and we’ll have a pub lunch.”

  “OK, see you then,” Connor replied before clicking off the phone.

  He walked back to Grace and said, “Come on, eat up.”

  “You can fuck off Reed. You’re not traipsing me around this Moor at this ungodly hour, fucking me before rushing my brunch. Sit down.”

  He looked into her beautiful, flashing eyes before resignedly sitting, muttering, “It was your idea to go for a hike.”

  “Be a good boy and eat your sandwiches,” she said.

  He just smiled and did so.

  6

  Connor pulled into the well-lit carpark, spotted McQuillan’s BMW and parked next to it. He was on time thankfully—he didn’t want to irk his boss. The sky had begun to simmer into the dark blue of the evening, and the cosy-looking pub named ‘The Windmill’ was lit well against it.

  Connor strolled into the hum of the bar and found Bruce alone at a table in an alcove. There were two pints of Guinness on it.

  “We drinking before driving?”

  “Government guidelines state that you’re allowed 35 micrograms of alcohol per one hundred millilitres of breath. You’ll be fine, you’re eating.”

  The waitress came over and took their orders.

  Bruce ordered salmon with vegetables, and Connor a mixed grill without the chips.

  “How’s the diet going?” asked Bruce.

  “I don’t call it a diet, it’s a way of eating. Fell off it this morning as the girl I was with made sandwiches.”

  “What’s wrong with using Grace’s name?”

  “OK, Grace made sandwiches, and you’re meant to keep the carbs to a minimum.”

  “Why?”

  “To prevent insulin spikes—you feel loads better on it. Your body uses ketones instead of sugars. You should give it a try.”

  Bruce’s eyebrows raised. “From what I have read, it seems to me that I would have to live on butter, and whatever products they are punting—Keto biscuits and what not. Besides, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy a beer.”