The DI Rosalind Kray Series: books 1-3

by Rob Ashman

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘It says it wasn’t Chloroform.’

  ‘Suprane? What’s Suprane?’

  Aldridge closed down the document. ‘The sample tested positive for Servoflurane or Suprane as it is known in the trade.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a powerful anaesthetic that works by suppressing activity in the central nervous system, leading to loss of consciousness.’

  ‘So it acts like Chloroform?’

  ‘Yes, but it is more powerful and faster acting.’

  ‘Where would someone get their hands on that?’

  Aldridge checked his watch. ‘I’m sorry, I need to dash to a meeting. Can we pick this up another time?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so. I have most of what I need.’

  ‘If you call the lab they have my diary we can talk again if you think it will help?’ Aldridge switched off the computer, gathered his things together and left.

  The lab technician looked over. ‘Something you said?’

  ‘All I said was Suprane.’

  Chapter 14

  Kray made slow progress back to the station. The stop-start line of traffic crawled along the Promenade past the Tower - an inconvenience which normally would have her raging but, on this occasion, it gave her time to think. The discussion with Aldridge rattled around in her head and, try as she might, the pieces refused to glue together.

  It was late afternoon by the time she marched into the station, taking the stairs two at a time up to the office. There waiting, as instructed, were her team of eager beavers. What she was not expecting was the place looking like a tip.

  ‘Have you been having fun?’ she said, eyeing the mounds of paper, empty box files and morass of post-it notes. The evidence board was festooned with new pieces of paper, notes scribbled across them in fat marker pen. The silhouette of a blacked-out face was pinned to the board with the name ‘Gorgon’ written underneath.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Kray asked.

  ‘DCI Jackson said that in the Met murder suspects are always given nicknames.’

  ‘Did he now? That’s helpful of him.’

  ‘Our killer is now called Gorgon after—’

  ‘A monster from the underworld in Greek mythology. Gorgon is the name given to three sisters who had snakes for hair and the power to turn anyone who looked at them into stone. He should have called him Medusa.’

  Tavener eventually regained control of his bottom jaw. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Because two of the sisters were immortal and Medusa was not. Let’s hope our killer isn’t one of the other two.’

  ‘How do you know—’

  ‘Don’t they teach you people anything in school these days? Okay, apart from giving you both a history lesson what else do we have?’ Kray was pissed off with Jacko interfering with his Met-related bollocks.

  ‘Err, we were working through the statements and phone records,’ replied Frost, immediately feeling the emotional temperature in the room increase a few degrees.

  ‘We found something interesting, ma’am—’ Tavener got no further.

  ‘Okay, firstly you can call me ma’am when the Chief or the Dep are around, if you can’t see either of them then my name is Roz. Secondly, I’m surprised you can find jack shit amongst this mess. This …’ she waved her arms at the mound of stationery, ‘is how information gets lost. This is how important details are not picked up. How the hell do you expect to conduct a thorough investigation when you’re working in what looks like the customer returns bay at Staples? This is what you should be focussing on, not giving bloody nicknames to killers. Get this shit cleaned up and put in order by the time I get back. I need to see Jackson and we will do the debrief after that. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes m—, Roz.’

  Kray stomped out of the room in the direction of the staff canteen. She didn’t have a meeting with Jackson but she needed a cup of coffee and time to cool down.

  She sat with the frothy drink in front of her and fidgeted with her wedding ring. She had overreacted but she could not stand working in a mess. Christ, when she thought about it, she couldn’t stand working in a place where the pens and pencils were on the same side of the desk. Everyone knows that pens sit on one side, pencils on the other.

  Kray felt her anxiety subsiding as the sugar and caffeine soothed it away.

  I might have gone a little over the top but I may as well start as I mean to go on.

  After twenty minutes, she made her way back to the office. Her new recruits were seated at two tidy desks.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ she said nodding her head as she joined them. ‘It’s Friday and the sooner we get this done, the sooner you two can hit the town, or whatever it is you intend to do. Let me start.’

  Kray ran through the latest findings. At times it looked like she was holding a story time session in a junior school rather than a briefing. They looked at her goggle-eyed as she relayed the gory details.

  ‘What do you have?’ she said ending her monologue.

  ‘Let’s start with Madeline Eve.’ Lucy Frost was keen to get off the mark. ‘She was twenty-six years of age, her parents still live at the family home in Selly Oak, Birmingham. She graduated from Manchester Uni with a two-one in Computer Science and took a gap year where she travelled extensively.’ She pointed at the photographs taken from the hall and pinned to the notice board. ‘Madeline came back to the UK in 2014 to start a law conversion course, again in Manchester. She worked part time for the university in a role where she promoted and advertised the Uni to colleges and schools. She got the bug for it and dropped out of her course to take up a position at Hounslow and Partners eighteen months ago.’

  ‘She had no steady boyfriend.’ Tavener wanted in on the act. ‘But her friends said she had a couple of flings in the last six months. Nothing serious, we are checking out the men involved. She was a popular girl with a wide circle of friends. Her Facebook page is full of parties and social gatherings with her last post being on the day she was killed.’ He consulted his notes. ‘Something about after work drinks.’

  ‘Anything unusual?’ Kray asked.

  ‘Yes, the phone call that she supposedly made into work on the Friday morning saying she was sick was not made from her mobile,’ said Tavener.

  ‘I thought Brownlow said …’ Kray stopped herself, knowing to continue would only show her frustration and contempt.

  ‘We checked the phone records and it definitely didn’t come from her mobile.’ Frost slid a printout in front of Kray. She didn’t pick it up. Instead, she took a deep breath and balled her fists under the desk.

  ‘The call was made from a public telephone box in Lytham St Annes.’

  ‘Good work. Any more details about the call?’

  Frost consulted a ream of paper. ‘There are one hundred and sixty-five payphones in the Blackpool area and according to BT, apart from our call, this particular payphone hasn’t been used in the last twelve months. It is due to be decommissioned. They were really surprised someone had used it. It’s located on Albany Road.’

  ‘We thought the best course of action was to get it cordoned off and let forensics have a crack at it,’ Tavener said. ‘What do you think, Roz?’

  Kray sat motionless, staring into space.

  ‘Roz? What do you think? Is it worth a crack?’

  Kray had a one thousand-yard stare plastered over her face.

  ‘We have a precise location. Here’s the postcode and address.’ Frost pulled a single piece of paper from a folder and handed it to her across the desk.

  Kray left the paper hanging in mid-air.

  ‘I know where it is,’ she said, pushing Frost’s hand away. ‘It’s right outside my house.’

  Chapter 15

  This is my third attempt and it is beginning to piss me off. The clock is ticking.

  It’s the same routine every Friday evening. While most people are out on the beer blowing away the effects of a hard week or rela
xing with a takeaway and Netflix, she goes grocery shopping. Maybe it’s because the place is quiet, maybe it’s because she can park her car in her favourite space or, maybe it’s because she has nothing better to do.

  She buys the same items every week. Pouches of ground coffee, a ton of wine, a selection of snacks and the occasional ready meal. How anyone can get through that much alcohol in a week and still function is beyond me, especially when she eats so little. The whole trip should last no longer than ten minutes, but she insists on wandering up and down the aisles, gazing at the food but never placing it in the trolley. It is like she slips into a trance, blindly going through the motions of a ritual which used to have meaning but now no longer has relevance.

  I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve watched her go through the same drill. She arrives at eight o’clock, parking in the same spot each time. It’s the bay nearest the trolley return and closest to the supermarket entrance. She gets out of the car, pulling the shoulder strap of her bag over her head so it crosses her body, and slips her phone into it. She zips it closed. Then she moves to the back of the car to retrieve a handful of shopping bags, banging the boot lid shut as the indicator lights flash orange and the car locks. She walks fifteen yards across the car park clutching the plastic bags in one hand and her keys in the other and struggles to pull an interlocking trolley free. The keys and plastic bags make it difficult, so she unzips her shoulder-bag and shoves the keys inside. The trolley finally disengages from the others and she walks away on autopilot.

  If it’s raining, she has the added complication of fighting with an unruly umbrella, but the routine is always the same. She saunters into the shop with her bag undone and the keys on the top.

  I watch her disappear inside the supermarket. Then I get out of my car, collect a trolley and follow her inside. She browses along the display of fruit and veg that is spilling off the shelves on either side of the aisle. I do the same, except I place items into my trolley whereas hers remains empty.

  She turns past the ready meals and heads down the raw meat section. The pre-packed items always hold a fascination for her as she picks them off the shelf, examines them, only to return them. My heart is banging hard against my chest and my mouth is dry. Twice before I’ve been this close and, on each occasion, I came away with nothing.

  It has to work this time.

  She breezes past the tinned section. I quicken my pace to get into position. The next aisle contains the breakfast bars. My stomach churns as she stops and goes through the weekly ceremony of picking boxes off the shelf.

  I step backwards and bump into her. My left shoulder collides with her right and the trolleys clang angrily together.

  The impact shoves her sideways.

  ‘Oh, please excuse me,’ I say in mock apology. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

  She jumps a mile, like I’ve woken her from a deep sleep.

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘I’m really sorry.’ Our eyes lock. She has no idea.

  ‘No, it’s fine, I’m fine.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ I smile and move away, disappearing around the corner with my trolley. I abandon my shopping and head for the customer toilets, her keys tucked away in my pocket.

  The cubicle door slams shut behind me and I slide the lock across. I put the toilet seat down and fish a leather rolled-up mat from my inside pocket. I lay it on the seat, undo the ties and unravel it to reveal a small pair of pliers, a cheap plastic lighter, a reel of Sellotape, scissors, a white plastic loyalty card from a coffee shop and a make-up wipe. Each item held in place with Velcro straps sewn into the leather.

  I take out the bunch of keys and flick through them, the silver Yale key is the one I want. I slide it off the ring and grip the round end with the pliers. The lighter takes a couple of strikes before the orange and blue flame ignites from the end. I hold the serrated part of the key in the flame, running it along its length. After a few seconds, I place the key down onto the leather, with the hot side facing up, and cut a two-inch length of Sellotape off the roll. I carefully stick the Sellotape along the length of the key and apply gentle pressure. I can feel the heat from the metal passing through into my thumb as I smooth it flat. Once it has cooled I peel away the tape and stick it onto the face of the loyalty card.

  One side of the Yale key is burnt black from the flame, so I clean it with the make-up wipe and slip it back onto the ring, taking care to replace it in the correct sequence of keys. I fix the items back in place onto the leather mat and roll it up, stuffing it into my inside pocket. Now for the tricky part.

  I walk out of the toilets, find my trolley and scan around the shop. Where is she? I hurry between the aisles, but she’s nowhere to be seen. By this point she should be mulling over her choice of wine, but when I get there I notice that particular aisle is deserted. I rush to the front of the store.

  Fuck, she’s at the till!

  Why the hell isn’t she picking bottles off the shelves looking for the best bargains, like she does every week? Why not today?

  My mind races. How the hell do I get the keys back into her bag before she notices? Then an awful thought strikes me. When she reaches for her purse she’ll realise they’re missing. Shit!

  The taste of panic floods into my mouth. My breathing is erratic.

  Think, think.

  I watch helplessly as she pulls her purse from her bag and pushes the credit card into the machine, casually chatting to the woman behind the till. She loads the bags into the trolley, stuffs the receipt into her bag and ambles away towards the exit.

  I leave my trolley and follow her. Just as she is about to leave, I collar a member of staff.

  ‘I think that lady has dropped her keys.’

  ‘Are you sure they’re hers?’

  ‘Yeah, pretty sure. Can you run after her and give them to her? I’m afraid I can’t walk that fast since my operation. Would you mind?’

  ‘No not at all.’

  I hand her the keys and she scurries off after the woman while I duck out of sight. I can hear her voice over the sound of the piped music.

  ‘Excuse me, excuse me. I think you dropped your keys.’

  I hide away at the back of the bread aisle and watch the minute hand on my watch sweep away the time. Ten minutes should do it.

  I pay for my groceries and load them into the car. A thrilling wave of satisfaction rushes through me as I pat the leather roll-up concealed inside my coat. The blackened outline of her front door key imprinted onto the surface of a coffee shop loyalty card.

  Chapter 16

  The phone lying on the bedside table vibrated and the screen lit up, cutting through the darkness. Kray didn’t stir, the bottle and a half of wine that was lodged in her head ensured she remained in a deep slumber. The call clicked through to voicemail. Seconds later it vibrated again.

  Who the fuck? Kray reached out a hand and pulled the handset under the covers.

  ‘Yeah.’

  The voice on the other end spoke quickly, the words tumbling together in a rush.

  ‘Okay, send me the details. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  Kray threw back the quilt, moaned out loud and made her way to the bathroom. The digits on her clock glowed green against the gloom - 3.53am.

  Forty-five minutes later Kray flashed her badge to the officer standing at the mouth of an alleyway. She pulled on a pair of plastic overshoes, a coverall and gloves, and ducked under the yellow tape. The sun was up, casting a pink glow across the sky, a poetic sight that was totally at odds with what Kray was staring at.

  ‘Morning. What have we got?’ she said picking her way across the metal checker plates on the floor.

  ‘Morning, Roz. Christ, you don’t look good first thing, do you?’

  ‘No and you don’t look like your diet’s working. What have we got?’

  Mitch was her favourite Coroner’s Office doctor. He was approaching fifty with a bald head and straining waistline, he was old school
and well respected. Very business-like and to the point, just the way Kray liked it.

  He was holding a wallet in his gloved hand. ‘Joshua Steven Wilson, twenty-eight years of age from Preston. His friends reported him missing yesterday at around 2pm. He was in town celebrating a thirtieth birthday party and was last seen disappearing with a woman in the early hours of Friday morning. He never returned to his hotel and his mates raised the alarm when they couldn’t get him on his phone.’

  ‘How the hell can you tell all that from looking at his wallet?’

  ‘The wallet gave me his name and the circumstances made me call the station.’

  Kray was aware of a grotty-looking man sitting with his back against the wall, staring at the floor. She pointed a finger his way and cocked her head.

  ‘That’s the guy who found him. He said he could hear a phone going off and went to investigate, found Joshua here and called the police. He says he’s homeless and was just passing by.’

  Kray looked down at the vagrant. He raised his head and smiled, showing off a set of crooked teeth.

  ‘How did you make the call?’ she asked.

  ‘I used the emergency function on his phone.’

  She took the wallet, thumbed through the contents and lifted out a wad of notes.

  ‘Well he wasn’t robbed,’ she said.

  ‘I may not have a home but I’m not a thief,’ the homeless man bristled.

  Kray pursed her lips and moved further into the alleyway. A figure wearing a white shirt splashed with red lay face down against the back wall. His head cracked wide open.

  ‘Ouch,’ Kray said wrinkling up her nose.

  ‘He’s suffered massive blunt force trauma to the head. Three blows I reckon. One to the left side, another to the back of the neck and the third to the right-hand temple. With that amount of damage, it’s unlikely it needed all three blows to cause death. We will know more once we do a post-mortem.’