by Rob Ashman
‘Fuck!’ she cried in anguish, staring up at the clouds escaping into the distance. She straightened her shoulders and removed a card wrapped in cling film from the bag. It depicted a cartoon figure in a chef’s hat standing in a kitchen. Around him in speech bubbles were innuendo jokes about the size of his chopper and what he was going to do with it.
‘See, I didn’t forget.’ She inserted the card amongst the spray of cut flowers, her hands trembling. The lettering across the top read, ‘Happy Birthday’.
‘Anyway, I get this murder case …’ Taking a ball of cloth from her pocket she soaked it in the last of the water from the bottle. ‘I get this murder case and then like buses another one comes along. And I end up with that one as well.’ Kray diligently wiped away four weeks of grime from the top of the stone like she was rubbing away the past. Every sinew in her body had told her not to come today, but she had to. The damp material kissed over the white lettering as dried tears stained her blotchy face.
‘So now I have two fucking cases to manage. Fancy that, eh? Only been back a month.’
The cloth slipped from her grasp and her fingers came into contact with the cold black marble, sending a jolt of memories shuddering through her. Her fingers turned white as she gripped the top of the stone. In her mind she could see herself leaping from a car before it had even come to a halt and running up the street shouting through the open window as the vehicle cruised beside her.
‘What the fuck do you know?’ she yelled.
‘I know fucking plenty, now get in the car.’
‘Fuck off.’
She could see the people around her scurrying away as she skirted around the back of the moving car, dodging through the traffic to the opposite side of the road. She could hear the voice behind her calling out.
‘Roz come back.’
But she had no intention of coming back.
It was the only thing they ever rowed about, it was the open wound in their life that refused to heal. Like clockwork, when things were going well, her poor eating habits would rise up and bite their happy relationship on the arse. The worse thing about these rows was that she knew he only had her best interests at heart. He loved her. Worst of all, she knew he was right.
As she clutched onto the stone with both hands, Kray could see herself stomping up the Promenade towards the Tower, crashing through the huddles of holiday-makers and day-trippers. She crossed a side road and once more joined the throngs of people out enjoying the thin sunshine.
Then Kray saw the flash of the blade. But it was too late.
His intention was to ‘split her like a kipper’ with a vicious upwards slash from groin to chin. She dodged to the side and the blade of the Stanley knife missed its intended target but cut a deep diagonal gash across her front. Starting at her belly, a glistening red line traversed her body slicing through her right breast. Her T-shirt erupted in blood as she spun away from the blow, hunching herself forward. The second blow ripped down her back, scything a yawning groove into her flesh. She arched her back, searing white pain tore through her.
In a sideways glance, Kray could see the attacker raise his arm and plunge the knife into her shoulder. He raised his arm again and blood spurted into the air as the short triangular blade exited her body. His clenched fist came crashing down, burying the blade deep into her back. Kray screamed in agony as she stumbled away, twisting and weaving to avoid the blows. Again and again the razor-sharp edge cleaved her open as the attacker stabbed and slashed her. Plumes of blood streaked across the pavement like some performance artist’s painting. Parents grabbed their children and ran in all directions.
She could see herself whirling around, trying to dodge the flailing arm, then her legs gave way and she hit the concrete face first. She lay there staring at her attacker’s feet. She could see flecks of blood imprinted on the white material of his trainers.
The sound of Joe’s voice boomed inside her head. She could not make out if it was a throwback to their row or if he was actually there.
Then there was the crunching sound of two bodies heavily colliding and she saw her attacker’s feet lift into the air as he was propelled backwards. She tried to move but her limbs refused to work. She felt wet and warm as the blood soaked through her clothes and pooled around her.
The two men landed with a spat on the ground - Joe on top, the man with the knife sprawled beneath him. They struggled briefly and her attacker rolled from under Joe and legged it. Joe lay motionless face down on the floor.
She could feel hands pulling at her as people arrived at her side.
‘Call an ambulance!’ someone shouted. ‘Call 999!’
The cold pavement pressed into her cheek as she stared across at Joe. A middle-aged man appeared out of nowhere and rolled him over onto his back. A shower of arterial blood spewed into the air, covering the man’s face and chest. He recoiled in horror wiping away the fluid.
From her position, Kray could see the Stanley knife sticking out of Joe’s neck. His body was in spasm, his hands and feet twitching. She tried to get up to help but all she did was claw at the concrete. Kray watched the blood-soaked man strip off his shirt, roll it into a ball and clamp it to the side of Joe’s throat.
‘Get an ambulance!’ he cried at the onlookers. ‘Call an ambulance.’
Joe struggled to right himself but only succeeded in tilting his head forward, his body shaking and convulsing with the effort. Even as his life leaked out of him, Joe’s only thoughts were of saving her.
Their eyes locked.
The six years they had spent together flashed between them in an instant. She could hear the sound of sirens whirling around as her world dissolved into darkness.
Kray was suddenly ripped from her thoughts by her phone ringing loudly in her pocket. She pulled her hands away from the polished marble as if it was red hot to the touch and staggered to her feet, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. She pulled the mobile from her pocket, her hand trembling.
‘Yeah.’ Her voice was coarse and breathless.
‘Roz it’s Lucy Frost. Where are you?’
‘Can this wait, Lucy?’
‘No, Roz, I don’t think it can.’
‘I’m in the middle of something.’
The voice on the other end paused. ‘It’s urgent Roz, how quickly can you get here?’
Kray put both hands on the phone to stop it shaking. ‘What is it? What’s so urgent?’
‘We’ve trawled through the CCTV footage from the bars and have a positive ID on the woman who was with Joshua Wilson the night he was murdered.’
‘That’s good work. Put a face to the name and pull her in for questioning.’
‘Roz, you need to come and see this.’
‘I need to finish off here, then I’ll join you later.’
‘But Roz, we know who she is.’
‘Even better. Drag her arse down to the station.’
‘Not sure it will be that easy Roz, the woman in the picture is Madeline Eve.’
Chapter 20
The swing door to the station bounced back off its hinges as Kray battered her way through. Her car was parked in a disabled bay as it was the closest one to the entrance - she would deal with the snotty email from the facilities when it arrived.
Bounding up the stairs, she hurtled down the second-floor corridor and found the Imaging Suite on the left, a welcome addition to the forensic capabilities of the force since their third-party suppliers of imaging expertise developed a lead time of eight weeks to process a piece of CCTV. Sometimes effective policing and cost-cutting make unhappy bed fellows. Both members of her crèche were sat in front of an oversized flat screen.
‘Hey,’ she said, breathing heavily. ‘I got here as fast as I could.’
Frost’s fingers flitted across the key board and a blur of images rolled back and forth.
‘Hi Roz,’ Tavener said, ‘we thought it best for you to see this straight away.’
‘I can’t increase the resolution more th
an that. It’s still not good enough.’ Frost’s eyes were glued to the pixelated figures in front of her.
‘You know how to use this kit?’ Roz asked.
‘I did a six-week placement here when I was on rotation. It’s state of the art gear, very cool.’ Frost sped through the CCTV footage, occasionally stopping and zooming in.
‘What have you got?’ Kray asked, pulling up a chair.
Frost pressed a key and the image on the screen disappeared to be replaced by a menu of files. Three more clicks and the screen was once more filled with black and white pictures of grainy people.
‘Okay, these are taken from the CCTV footage in town. We have fleeting screen grabs of Joshua Wilson and a young woman, but this is the best so far. This is him at half past midnight.’ The image showed him standing in a crowded bar. The shot was taken from above by a camera located in the corner of the room. His face was caught in profile, it was definitely him.
‘Wind forward a couple of minutes and we have this.’ The pictures whizzed around like a Charlie Chaplin movie, then slowed down. ‘Here, he is joined by a woman.’ Frost froze the screen.
Kray leaned forward and scrutinised the image. It showed a woman with a dark bob sidling up to Josh and slipping her arm around his waist. They manoeuvred their way through the knot of people and out of shot.
‘But that’s only the back of her head.’ Kray said.
‘Yes, but then …’
The image scrolled forward and the couple came back into shot. Josh was nearest to the camera, shielding the woman from view. They were heading towards a group of guys who were vacating a high table. Josh had his arm around her shoulder guiding her through the mass of people. He reached the table and put his pint down marking his territory. He seemed to exchange words with the men leaving and they laughed. Every now and then tantalising glimpses of the woman could be seen as they jostled position.
Kray was on the edge of her seat with her elbows on the desk, as if getting her face closer to the screen was going to help.
‘Get out the way,’ she said to herself as a tall man dressed in a sharp suit crossed in front of the couple.
The group of men parted and Josh pulled a bar stool up to the table for his companion. All that could be seen was the top of her head. She put her glass on the table and bent down, disappearing from view.
‘What the fuck is she doing now?’ Kray asked.
‘We think she’s sorting out her bag,’ said Tavener.
The woman emerged, stood up and flicked her hair behind her ears. Josh steadied the stool and she slid herself onto it. She turned and lifted her wine, he chinked his glass against hers and they drank their toast.
Then the woman looked up, straight down the lens of the camera. Frost hit pause.
Kray’s jaw dropped as she gazed at the face staring up at her.
It was Madeline Eve.
‘Fucking hell,’ Kray uttered, her face so close to the screen she looked in danger of toppling off her chair.
‘That’s what we said,’ chipped in Tavener, looking over Frost’s shoulder.
‘That is the best image we have so far, Roz. There may well be others, but it takes time to trawl through the footage,’ Frost said, pushing herself away from the desk.
‘That’s her alright,’ Kray confirmed, pointing a finger at the image on the screen.
‘How the hell does that happen? She doesn’t have a bloody twin,’ said Tavener.
‘No, she doesn’t, but from this angle, and from this distance, that is Madeline Eve,’ said Frost.
‘And she’s laid up in the morgue with a decomposed body and no face. This is someone impersonating her,’ said Kray.
‘Are we sure of the identity of the body?’
‘Yes. The dental records match and she had some scarring on her left knee following a childhood injury. Her parents positively identified the scar. It’s definitely her,’ Kray replied.
‘Then who the hell are you?’ Tavener asked, it was his turn to point a finger.
‘A woman who dresses up as dead people,’ said Kray.
‘Maybe not. Have you ever seen the Lady Boys of Bangkok? I saw them in Manchester and they were the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen,’ said Frost.
‘You saw the …’ Kray left the sentence hanging.
‘It was a hen party.’
‘Oh.’
‘What I mean is, it could be a man.’
Kray touched the face of the woman on the screen. ‘I know this place,’ she said in a whisper.
‘Pardon, Roz.’
‘This is the Purple Parrot, off Matlock Lane.’
‘That’s right,’ said Tavener. ‘You know it?’
‘I used to know it, I don’t go there any more,’ Kray said, and a shiver ran through her. She traced the outline of the couple on the screen with her finger.
‘Too many bad memories?’
‘No, exactly the opposite. Too many good ones,’ Kray mused to herself as she scrutinised the image. ‘Shit! Did you see that?
‘What? What is it?’
‘Run it back and then forward again.’
‘Okay.’ Frost drew herself back into position and operated the keyboard.
The image of Madeline Eve ducked down beneath the table, stood up, sat herself on the bar stool, chinked glasses with Josh and looked up. Then she lowered her gaze and continued her conversation.
‘Rewind,’ said Kray.
Frost made the images go into reverse then pressed play.
The sequence repeated itself.
‘And again,’ Kray said.
Frost did it again.
‘And again.’
The footage rewound and played.
‘And again.’
‘What is it, Roz?’ asked Tavener. ‘What can you see?’
‘Stop! Stop it right there,’ Kray said suddenly. ‘Look.’
They both peered at the screen, then at Kray.
‘Look at what, Roz?’ he asked.
‘She isn’t simply looking up. This woman is staring straight into the camera, and if I’m not mistaken, she lifts her glass slightly when she does it.’
Frost played and rewound the images.
‘See there, she lifts her glass as she looks into the lens.’
‘Shit you’re right.’
‘This isn’t someone who’s been caught on CCTV. This person is posing for the camera saying, ‘Cheers’.’
Chapter 21
I never laughed much as a kid, father saw to that. Whether it was the cut of his belt or the back of his hand, childish joy was something I encountered at the homes of others. And while he was busy thinking up different ways to inflict pain on my body, my mother was equally occupied screwing with my head.
She had always wanted a girl; I was a crushing disappointment from the second my life clock started ticking. To the outside world I was Jason - the socially awkward, scrawny boy with the over-excitable mother and a scary father. But when the front door closed I ceased to have a name. I was ‘runt’ or ‘little shit’, but never Jason.
At every opportunity my mother would whisper in my ear telling me how we would both be better off without Father. How our lives would be transformed if he should one day disappear. She even did it when he was in the house, she’d wait until he left the room then sidle up to me.
‘You and I would be so much happier without him, don’t you think? We’d be fine you and me and you wouldn’t have to dodge his anger.’ For years she bombarded my malleable brain with the poison that my father was nothing but a septic sore that lay at the centre of our lives, poisoning everything around it. A sore that needed to be lanced.
I later came to realise that it was my mother who had her finger poised above my father’s anger switch. And when she pushed the button, she ensured it always exploded in my direction. But as much as I hated the beatings, as much as I hated feeling sick when I heard his key turn in the lock, what I feared most was when Father went out of the house and it was just me
and her. On those occasions my name was ‘Pretty Girl’. My mum made me wear patterned skirts and dresses with satin slips. I had open-toed patent shoes and lace-topped socks. She spent hours teaching me how to apply make-up and how to fit a wig correctly.
‘That’s it Pretty Girl, be gentle, you don’t want it to clump on your eyelashes.’ Or, ‘not too much red, you don’t want the boys to get the wrong idea.’
The voice training was tough. I was not allowed to speak as a boy. I had to adopt the soft tones of a girl. I learned about chest resonance, timbre and pitch. I had to speak with my head voice, forcing the words to the front of my mouth to increase the pitch. The exercises were relentless - practice, practice, practice, until it was second nature. When my father was at home I spoke normally, but the second he was out of the door I had to transition to ‘Pretty Girl’.
At first I fought against it, but if I defied her, or purposefully did it wrong, she would fly into an incandescent rage. She would shriek like an animal, screaming about how I should have been a girl and she would make me one, even if she had to kill both of us in the process. Once the rage had taken hold, nothing I did could bring her down. With her fury squarely in the red zone she would storm into the kitchen and return with a pair of drapery pinking shears and make me pull down my feminine underwear, forcing me to expose myself.
‘Do you want me to cut it off?’ she would hiss, grabbing my ear to hold me in place, while she snapped the shears open and closed. I would struggle against her hold, looking down as she brought them closer and closer to my genitals - the blades snapping open and closed. ‘Do you want me to get rid of that thing?’ I remember my body trembling with terror and feeling the warm flow of piss on my legs as I lost control. It always ended the same way, I would be thrown into the cellar under the stairs and left there in the pitch black. To this day, the sound of metal shearing against metal makes me want to piss myself.
My mother was pure evil in a floral dress and pearls.
Life improved when Father left, or it would be more accurate to say, when he didn’t come back. He was never found.
