by Rob Ashman
Kray was sat in Jackson’s office staring at the back wall. She’d been waiting over thirty minutes for him to return from Liverpool, but she didn’t care. The buzzing in her head had gone. So had the fly.
The frustrations of the day were raging inside her and she was conscious of trying not to lose it. Her eyes were drawn to the scattering of pens and pencils at one end of Jackson’s desk and the empty pen tidy pot sat at the other. She tore her gaze away from the mess, steeling herself against the temptation. Each time she did, the desire ratcheted up a notch. The ring spun round and round on her finger.
Finally, she could take it no more. She grabbed the pens, squared them up by tapping them against the desk and shoved them into the pot. Then she moved the pencils across to the opposite side and lined them up like soldiers on parade.
She heard the sound of polished shoes on block wood flooring coming down the corridor and checked her watch, it was 4.30pm.
Jackson pushed opened the door.
‘Oh hi, I wasn’t expecting you. Don’t tell me we had a meeting and I forgot?’
‘No, boss this is a casual visit. Did you have a good conference?’
‘The same shit as always. Big plans and big speeches, lots of top brass but precious little action.’
‘Is Brownba—’ Kray corrected herself. ‘Is DI Brownlow with you?’
‘No I dropped him off in the carpark, he had to head home. Do you want a coffee?’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks. Did you get my voicemail messages?’
‘No, I’ve been on the blower all the way here. So, what can I do for you?’
‘It’s more of what I can do for you.’
‘I’m listening...’
‘Firstly, can you tell me what DI Brownlow told you about the murder case? I mean, you had plenty of time together in the car, so he must have given you the low-down.’
‘Yes we chatted about it a lot. He’s dead impressed with you by the way, says you’re keeping all the plates spinning and making great progress.’
Kray grimaced inside. ‘That’s good to hear.’
‘What else did he say? He eh… he said certain aspects of the forensic pathology report were taking a little time to finalise and that the interviews with Madeline’s work colleagues hadn’t yielded much to go on. Neither had the house-to-house enquiries. He said it was slow going but was confident we are making good progress.’
‘Did he say why the path report wasn’t with us?’
‘Eh… something about additional tox screens. Why do you ask? I’m really pleased that you’ve settled in with Brownlow, he’s a good guy.’
‘So, he didn’t mention the inconsistencies or latest developments?’
‘No. What do you mean, inconsistencies?’
‘You know, inconsistencies, when things look like one way but they turn out to be another.’
Jackson dropped the ‘let’s play nicely’ act.
‘Spit it out, Kray. If you’ve come here to slag off Brownlow I’m warning you it won’t wash.’
‘No, sir I’ve come here to save your job.’
‘What?’
‘Because the way this investigation is being run, we are going to be caught in a shit-storm faster than you can say Independent Police Complaints Commission.’
‘Now that’s enough, Kray!’
‘No, it isn’t. You see if I had been in the car with you today we would have been discussing some pretty fucking major issues. Like, why do you think a young woman with a list of friends as long as my arm was not reported missing for the entire nine days that she was decomposing on her bedroom floor? And while you’re getting your head around that - how do you think Madeline Eve managed to eat lunch with her co-workers last Thursday when according to the pathologist report she’d already been dead for five days? Did Brownlow happen to mention any of that on your way to Liverpool?’
Jackson looked like a landed carp, his mouth was moving but nothing came out.
‘The reason why I ask is because we knew about that yesterday. And have done jack shit about it. No one has a grip on this case William and it’s going to blow up in our faces. You want that to happen, fine, I’ll keep my head down and do a good job, just as you asked, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
Jackson was still mute.
Kray slid a piece of paper in front of him and tapped it with her finger.
‘When Brownlow finally gets his arse in gear and manages to track down the path report, it’s going to say that. And when it does, ask yourself a question – where the fuck do you get one of those?’
Jackson looked down at the handwritten block capital letters scribbled on the paper, double underlined. It read ‘Daboia Russelii’.
Chapter 9
I’m on parade. The taxi door swings wide as I step out onto the pavement. The sea breeze hits my face and cuts through my clothes, the dampness of dusk feels cold against my skin. I asked the driver to pull up short of the rank, so I can enjoy the walk. My heels clip against the concrete, announcing my presence.
A gang of guys tumble out of a pub, blocking my path.
‘Wow!’ A short fat man shouts as he sees me stop in my tracks. ‘Ever so sorry, madam,’ he says with a wicked grin painted across his face. ‘Make way lads for the beautiful lady.’
He bows from the waist and waves his arm in a wide arc, removing an imaginary hat. The others part to form a guard of honour. The thin red material of my dress is clinging to the contours of my body.
‘After you,’ one of them says, his eyes giving everything away.
I lower my gaze in mock appreciation. ‘Thank you, boys.’
I watch them feast their eyes as I sashay between them, each one getting a good eyeful. I walk away, the sway of my hips holding their attention as I go. One of them wolf whistles.
‘If you fancy a lollypop later love, I’ve got something you could suck on,’ he calls out as the others dissolve onto bawdy laughter. Just the reaction I wanted. I love being on Parade.
It’s relatively early and the bouncers on the door of the Purple Parrot, with their bursting shirts and fluorescent armbands, see me coming. The tall one nudges the wide one with amateur tattoos inked around his neck.
‘Evening,’ he grunts as I approach.
‘Hi.’
The wide one opens the door with a sweep of his arm. He stands his ground and I have to brush against him to enter the club.
‘Have a good time,’ he says as the door whooshes shut behind me.
The place is all purple and red, with flashing lights and thumping music. A few tables are occupied with pretty couples while the bar is a crush of stag parties and hen dos. I head over to the stag party where a man is dressed in a pink tutu and body suit with bright yellow wellies. He’s wearing a red wig and pigtails and looks like he’s been on the beer for a week. The men around him look happy and full of shots. I push my way between them and place my hand on the bar; a barmaid appears out of nowhere.’
‘A large Sav Blanc please.’ She nods. How the hell she can hear anything over this racket is beyond me. A couple of the guys pivot around and stare.
‘Very nice.’ I hear one of them say.
‘Do you want to join us, love? My mate’s getting married and we want to give him a good send off. You know, last meal for the condemned man and all that.’
I turn and smile as my bucket full of wine arrives on the bar. ‘No thanks.’
A bloke pushes in beside me and slaps a tenner on the bar.
‘Here, let me,’ he says.
‘No thank you.’ I look up, he is tall and handsome with a stubble chin and blue eyes. I recognise him as the one who wolf whistled earlier.
‘We all thought you looked like a girl who would know the best places to party, so we’ve taken your recommendation.’ I glance over my shoulder to see the short fat one doing his Walter Raleigh act again, with a deep theatrical bow.
‘Hey watch it mate!’ The stag party must have taken offence to the new boy muscling
in. He ignores them.
I hear the door whoosh open and a gaggle of girls fall into the club dressed in smart business attire. Thursday is the new Friday as far as after work drinks is concerned.
‘Well?’ The barmaid has her hand out poised to take the money. The tall good-looking man beside me smiles.
‘Well?’ He flashes his white teeth and the lines around his eyes crease.
‘Thank you,’ I say picking up the glass and taking a sip.
‘Make it two, can you love?’ he says to the bored barmaid who’s seen this happen a hundred times a night.
‘My name’s Josh.’ He holds out his hand.
‘Hi,’ I say placing my hand in his. He wraps his strong fingers around mine and gently squeezes. His skin is soft and cool. His aftershave has faded but the remnants of the musky smell wrap around me.
‘Get in there Joshua my son!’ A voice behind bellows out above the beat of the music, followed by gales of laughter.
‘I think your friends are missing you.’ I look up, taking another sip.
‘Nah, they’re just jealous that’s all.’
‘One of them has an interesting line of chat.’
‘Pete is a bit of a dick when it comes to women, that’s why he’s never had one.’
Josh is still holding onto my hand, I make no attempt to pull it away.
‘Do you buy drinks for every girl you meet on the street, Josh?’
‘No, just the pretty ones.’ His eyes crease again and his face lights up. He finally releases his grip and my hand falls away. The other drink is slid in front of us on a paper placemat. He picks it up and we chink glasses.
‘Cheers,’ he says.
‘Cheers.’
‘Here’s to pretty girls and noisy clubs.’
I smile and bat my long eyelashes. The wine is cold against my lips.
There is a commotion to the side and Josh is shoved into me. In the collision I spill my drink down his shirt.
‘What the fuck.’ Josh holds me tight as the fracas continues. The man in the pink tutu clatters to the floor along with a tray of drinks. A star burst of glass erupts into the air showering my feet with beer. The doors fly open and within seconds the bouncers step in.
‘Come on boys, he’s had enough.’ The tall one lifts the man to his feet and escorts him out, surrounded by his so-called friends.
‘You okay?’ Josh still has me in his arms.
‘I’m fine, just got wet feet that’s all.’
We part and he looks down and laughs. ‘You have as well.’ We are both stood in a puddle, my stockings are discoloured from the liquid. I place my hand against the wet patch on his chest.
‘I spilled my wine.’ I can feel the muscles in his chest harden against my touch. He places his hand on top of mine.
‘That’s fine.’
I gaze into his eyes. He is beautiful, with his gelled hair and groomed features. He presses my hand into his body. I look down and can see a faint white band circling the third finger on his left hand. Perfect.
‘I didn’t catch your name,’ he says.
‘I didn’t give it.’
‘My mum told me it was rude to drink with girls when you don’t know their name.’
‘Your mum was right.’
‘So, we’ve not been properly introduced?’ Josh offers his other hand. I take it and once again feel his cool skin against mine. ‘So?’
‘So what?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘You can call me Madeline.’
Chapter 10
Kray was lounging at home with her feet up. She had figured she’d done enough damage for one day and had headed off after her showdown with Jackson. When she left his office he was already on the phone to Brownlow telling him to get his arse to the station, and no he wasn’t interested that he had some ‘personal matters to attend to’. He was not a happy DCI.
She poured herself a generous glug of white wine and surfed through the TV channels. For someone who didn’t eat enough food to keep a five-year-old child alive she watched a shit load of cooking programmes.
They reminded her of her husband. With his selection of knives, heavy wooden chopping boards and white aprons, he would cook up his latest inventions, serving them to her with his usual ‘well what do you think?’ look on his face. She never had the heart to tell him they all tasted the same. It always struck her as ironic that somebody with an unhealthy relationship with food should marry a chef. But sometimes life sends you what you need when you least expect it.
A plastic container of half eaten curry and rice lay on a tray on the floor. Calorific content adequate, nutritional value questionable. She had no use for chef’s knives, chopping boards or aprons. So long as the microwave went ding, that was all she cared about.
The revelations of the day played out before her as the Hairy Bikers knocked up a lamb tagine. Their humour and enthusiasm washed over her, only occasionally breaking her train of thought. She was glad the buzzing was gone, the reason for her intuition going into overdrive had been staring her in the face all along. She savoured the prospect of dropping that bombshell on Jackson when the time was right, but for now, she had given him enough to get on with.
She tore herself away from the TV and decided a hot shower would help wash away her frustrations. It would also allow her extra time in bed in the morning.
Kray sat at her dressing table with her fish bowl full of wine. The make-up pad felt soft against her face as it removed the grime of the day. Then it removed the extortionately expensive foundation cream which masked the scar running across her right cheek. She stared at her reflection as it slowly revealed itself. Her hands dropped into her lap, spinning the gold band around on her finger. The past rushed up on her and she shuddered.
Kray snapped herself away from her thoughts, shuffled off her bathrobe and stepped into the en suite. She stood in the shower, the steam rising from the cubicle to cloud the spotlights above. The half-bottle of shower gel she poured into her hands quickly produced a mountain of lather which Kray rubbed across her shoulders. Her fingers touched the raised flesh of a deep purple scar that ran from her left shoulder to midway down her back - the puckered uneven skin the result of fifty-six stitches. She washed her belly; her hands glided over a second scar that started to the left of her navel, traversed her stomach and bisected her right breast slicing through the nipple. This one was flat and faded, the result of forty-eight stitches.
The foaming suds covered her body, she liked the security they brought when she showered. The thick foam hid the slashes in her skin. It meant that if she was quick, and covered herself all over, she didn’t have to look at them. The inch-long stab wounds that peppered her back and shoulders could only be seen if she looked in the mirror, a practice that she tried to avoid these days.
The last of the water washed away the suds and she wrapped herself in a towel the size of a bedspread. She padded out to the bedroom to reclaim her wine and gazed at her reflection in the dressing table mirror. It was like looking at someone else, someone she used to know. She downed the remainder of the wine in one and took a seat. The glass top was adorned with a rich collection of skin products and make-up all sitting in regimented order, most of which had not been used in months.
The phone rang.
Chapter 11
Josh and I fall out of the fourth bar of the night and zig-zag our way along the Promenade. His friends have long since gone. They got bored of taking the piss and were last seen disappearing into a dodgy-looking club, chasing a hen party. Pete was leading the charge and still performing like a dick.
I have my arm wrapped tightly around his waist to keep him upright. His arm is draped across my shoulders more for balance than in a show of affection. His body feels cold as the night sea air chills his skin through his shirt. I feel my own skin prickle with goosebumps, not a reaction to the cold, but in anticipation. I’m trying hard to keep my excitement under control. Josh is so beautiful.
‘Wh
ere are weees going?’ he slurs.
‘Back to my place.’
‘Thaas fuckin’ brilliant.’ He squeezes me into him and we teeter around falling off the kerb.
Josh proved to have a remarkable tolerance to alcohol, taking two drinks to my one. He alternated between wine and beer, wine on my round and beer on his. I needed to keep a reign on my natural tendency to match him drink for drink, after all it would be no use if both of us were incapable.
He veers off to one side and sits down hard on a low wall outside a hotel guest house. The momentum pulls me with him.
‘Where are weees going?’
‘Back to my place.’ I lean in and plant a kiss on his cheek. He turns his head and our lips touch. I feel the wet warmth of his tongue as it darts into my mouth. The kiss lingers for a lifetime.
He even tastes beautiful. My heart is thumping.
‘Thaas fuckin’ brilliant,’ he says as we pull away. I take his arm and pull him upright, once more gripping him tight.
‘It’s not far, a few more minutes.’
The tranquillising effect of the Rohypnol is taking its toll. The crushed white powder has been coursing through his system since I got the drinks at the last bar and he went to the gents. A large glass of dry white wine makes an ideal dissolving agent. The effects started to kick in after thirty minutes. I look at my watch. It’s now been an hour since it first entered his system. He’ll soon be approaching the peak and I need to get him to the right place before he collapses.
He is getting heavy and difficult to manoeuvre along the pavement. My heart thumps hard against my chest.
‘It’s here,’ I say. ‘Down this alleyway.’
‘Doooes you live here?’
‘Yes, I have a small flat in the building at the end.’
‘Thass fuckin’ brilliant.’
I guide him away to the right and we lurch into the gap between two high-rise brick buildings. The alley is about ten feet wide and the night sky disappears into a thin slit at the top as we make our way along. It stinks of piss.
