The DI Rosalind Kray Series: books 1-3

by Rob Ashman

  The event held in a huge room decked out with a winter wonderland theme. Crystal white tables dusted with artificial snow and Santa’s sleigh hanging from the ceiling sent my wife into a whirlwind of delight. The men wore black tie while the women came in their decorative finery. The collective clothing bill alone was probably double our company’s turnover.

  We were shown to our table where our host was pouring bubbles into tall champagne flutes. Three other couples had already arrived, we introduced ourselves and took our seats. My wife’s eyes were as wide as saucers as she took in the electric ambience of the room.

  She leaned over and squeezed my arm. ‘See, this is why I keep going on about expanding the business. This is what I mean when I tell you to be more dynamic. This is amazing. We belong amongst people like this.’

  I smiled back. The same smile I always gave when Sadie was giving me a hard time about expanding the business and being dynamic. Which she seemed to do more and more as time went on.

  ‘Why can’t we move house? Why can’t we buy this? Sharon is off to Florida again, Sharon has enrolled her kids into private school’ were fast becoming her favourite topics of conversation. A conversation I found difficult to join in.

  We sipped our champagne and looked happy. Our host was a larger than life character with gelled back hair, broad shoulders and a twinkling smile. The woman on his arm looked like an agency girl, short on conversation but long on bedroom technique. She smiled at the others around the table, not bothering to engage in conversation, probably thinking she was doing more than enough to earn her cash.

  I have to say my wife looked stunning. The dress hugged her trim figure and the corseted bodice gave her a deep cleavage, the like of which I’d not noticed before. As we chinked our glasses together I felt a very lucky man, indeed.

  ‘More fizz!’ Our host pulled another bottle from the ice bucket and held it in the air. My wife squeaked her excitement.

  The food did not quite live up to expectation, probably a function of the mass catering, but that didn’t bother Sadie. If they had served her up a Pot-Noodle, she would have been fine. The more she knocked back the drink, the more the bottles kept coming. The more they kept coming, the more she accepted the challenge.

  Our host and Sadie hit it off immediately. His flamboyance and charm bedazzled her, while his credit card kept her interest on red alert – much to the annoyance of the hired help sitting next to him.

  The conversation around the table was loud and raucous. I was having a good time but nowhere near as good as Sadie. She was the loudest of them all. If I had a pound every time she leaned into me and said, ‘See, this is what I’m talking about’, I could have bought my own winter wonderland.

  After the meal, the dancing started. A live band was knocking out classic Christmas hits and Sadie dragged me up onto the dancefloor with an ‘I luuurrrve this one!’ The others around the table clapped. When Sadie passed by our host, they high fived each other.

  By the time we got back to the table, the young, glamorous woman with the face like a slapped arse had vanished. Our host had an empty seat next to him.

  ‘Is she okay?’ Sadie blurted out across the table.

  ‘Fucked if I know!’ he answered. They both dissolved into gales of laughter. ‘Want a top up?’ He pulled another bottle from the bucket and staggered around the table.

  Sadie held out her glass. He tipped the bottle and poured fizz over her hand. More gales of laughter ensued.

  ‘I luuurrve this song,’ she shrieked as the band played the intro to another festive classic.

  Our host abandoned his attempts to dispense champagne and leaned across to me. ‘Do you mind if I ask your wife to dance?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask her.’

  ‘May I have the pleasure?’ he said, holding his hand out to Sadie.

  ‘You may, kind sir.’

  He stepped back and she rose from her seat. As she glided by his arm slid around her waist on their way to the dance floor. She came back half an hour later.

  The crowning glory for the evening was the count down at midnight. By this time, everyone was well oiled, including me. The compere went through his routine.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he yelled into the microphone. ‘Three, two, one. Happy New Year!’

  The first sound of Big Ben chimed out across the vast hall and a hail of party popper steamers exploded into the air. People gathered in circles, linking arms and sang, “Auld Lang Syne”. My arm was wound around Sadie and we shuffled back and forth to the music singing our heads off, banging into those around us. Balloons and tickertape rained down from the ceiling, coating the revellers below. The last bars of the song rang out and I kissed my wife. I could taste the alcohol as she squashed her body against mine. It hadn’t felt this good in a long time.

  Someone slapped me on the shoulder and I spun around. John was there with his hand outstretched. We gave each other the mandatory man-hug, and I moved on to embrace Miriam, his wife. I could see Sadie with her hands resting on the shoulders of our host, he had one hand on her waist and the other on her hip. They went in for a peck on the cheek and missed, connecting instead with a full blow mouth to mouth kiss.

  I never got invited to another Chamber of Commerce dinner dance. Sadie did though and the first crack in my life opened up.

  ‘Your burger, sir.’ The young woman with a wide smile and gaping top slid the plate across the table. ‘Will you be wanting anything else?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, thank you, this is fine.’

  It was then I realised I was starving and hadn’t eaten anything since my croissant breakfast that morning. No wonder I was crashing like a bastard.

  I stuffed my face into the burger. The soft meat, crisp salad and jalapeño chillies made my taste buds dance and it immediately made me feel better. My plans were working out fine, I was on track and eating a delicious burger, watching the footie. What the hell did I have to feel down about? My spirits lifted, and I reached across to the table next to me, grabbing a local newspaper. Across the top the banner headline read: Local Businessman Found Dead at Home.

  I take another chunk out of my burger and swirl a chip around in the mayonnaise. See, there was no need to feel down. No need at all.

  Chapter 8

  Kray threw her keys onto the hall stand as the front door clattered shut behind her. She dumped her bag in the hallway, kicked her shoes into the corner and skidded her way up the laminate flooring to the lounge. She reached down, flicked on a lamp and headed straight for the fridge.

  The cold white light illuminated her face as she stared into the empty void. A half-eaten bar of chocolate, an egg and two bottles of white wine stared back at her.

  ‘I need to go shopping,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘The wine’s getting low.’

  Kray pulled a bottle from the top shelf with one hand and the chocolate with the other. She walked through the lounge, back into the hallway, glancing up to see the heavy dead bolt fitted to the door. Every muscle in her body was telling her to yank it across.

  She had fitted it after she realised Strickland had broken into her house. Since the attack, waves of paranoia washed over her on a daily basis.

  ‘He’s fucking dead,’ she told herself over and over, but it was no good. Try as she might, no matter how many times she repeated the phrase to herself, Kray was plagued by fear and mistrust. Her mind played tricks on her with noises and coincidences.

  A cat knocking something over in the garden or a strange car parked in her road was all it took to have her reaching for the baseball bat. She had convinced herself that she was getting better, when the truth of the matter was, she was getting worse.

  In work, things were so hectic she didn’t have time to be scared but when she got home, that’s when the demons in her head came out to play.

  Kray looked at the bolt – it was like a daily test. A test to see if she could keep her rising panic in check or give in to her urge to bolt the door.

  W
ho’s in control here, me or my fear?

  After what seemed like an age, she put the bottle and chocolate onto the floor, reached up and slammed the bolt across with a thud. She plodded up the stairs, promising herself that next time she would leave it unlocked.

  Hot water cascaded into the bath making the foam rise. The room smelled of lavender and linen, or at least that’s what it said on the bottle. She discarded her clothes onto the bed and padded through into the bathroom. Bottle in one hand, chocolate in the other.

  ‘Bollocks,’ she said, realising she had forgotten a glass. Then, she saw one sitting on the wooden plank that spanned across the bath. A forgotten item from when she last took a bath. Kray swilled it under the tap – it would be fine.

  She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her foundation had faded, and the lines in her face were harsh under the halogen lights, dark rings circled her eyes. The scar across her cheek was visible. She stared at her reflection, wincing at the dark red lines that crisscrossed her body and the inch-long stab marks peppering her shoulders.

  Kray traced her fingers across the puckered skin; it felt alien to the touch, as though she was feeling the pain of someone else. She closed her eyes and could see the flashing blade as it arced through the air, slashing her skin. She could feel the searing agony of the blade ripping her open. She saw her husband, lying on his back with Rampton’s knife sticking out of his throat. The blood-soaked stranger kneeling beside him, his balled-up T-shirt pressed hard into his neck trying to stem the flow.

  Kray dropped the glass into the sink. It chinked against the porcelain. She gasped.

  Her head dropped and she gathered herself together. The glass lay on its side still intact. She tore her gaze away, avoiding the mirror and set the glass down onto the wooden board. The bath was full and the foam stood above the waterline by ten inches. More than enough to hide her scars from view.

  She slipped beneath the water and poured herself some wine, glugged at it and then topped the glass back up, desperate for the familiar numbing effect to come quickly.

  ‘That fucking bolt,’ she said to herself.

  Chapter 9

  It’s Wednesday. I quite like Wednesdays.

  I pull my car into the usual space and step out into the bracing wind. The sun is not yet up, and the sky is inky black with grey patches scudding across it. Pin pricks of rain sweep from nowhere to sting my face. I hurry to the side entrance and into the warm. Walking down the corridor to the changing rooms, I’m welcomed by the cacophony of locker doors slamming.

  The clocking-in box emits a beep as I hold my wallet up to the sensor – five forty-five am. I like to be early.

  I change out of my day clothes and into my work gear. The preparation hall is particularly noisy today and the band-saw screams as it encounters hard bone. The stench of hot steam and meat once more fills the air and sweat breaks out across my brow.

  Is it me or is it hot in here today? Maybe it’s the medication playing havoc with my body.

  I wander through the foot bath, sloshing my wellingtons against the blue sanitised water and step out along the cordoned off walkway to High Care. After pacing through two more sets of doors, I’m at my work station. I nod a good morning to the supervisor, Vinny Burke, who grunts back. He is a miserable bastard and ironically thick as pig shit.

  I open the door and enter the ten by twelve feet room. It is much the same as the other one but with a three feet wide stainless-steel grid that runs the length of the room, set into the floor. We practice job rotation which is supposed to promote workplace flexibility and prevent boredom. All I know is, I get to do different stuff. Which is good.

  I check my apron is securely tied and pull the chain mail glove on my right hand. I can hear snorting and grunting coming from the room next door. They are bang on time today. Then all is quiet, except for the sound of scuffling hooves on a resin floor. The chain conveyor above my head starts up. Any second now, I will have my first customer of the day.

  The thick rubber partition at the one end of the room parts open and she comes trundling in, hanging upside down from the conveyor by her back hoof. Her free leg kicking rhythmically in circles. I cannot afford to hang about; the clock is ticking.

  I turn her around so she is facing away from me and steady her. I lean forward, taking a good look at my target. It is always good to get a clean one right off the bat. I plunge the knife into the pink flesh and feel the momentary resistance of her thick skin. Then, the blade sinks in and I push it forward and out.

  The initial plume of blood arcs through the air and into the drain. I spin her around. The next gush of blood pumps out. She probably weighs in at around sixteen stone, heavier than me. I often wonder if my blood would pump down the drain as fast as hers.

  The avalanche of claret continues until it begins to drain down and stop. By this time she is nearing the exit built into the opposite wall, being pulled along by the overhead chain. I help her on her way with a shove, and she disappears into the next room, just as the partition gives way, another customer comes to see me. Hanging upside down with her back-leg dancing.

  I twist her around and pick my spot. A plume of blood gushes into the drain.

  I must admit, I quite like Wednesdays.

  Chapter 10

  The morning had come around way too fast for Kray. She drove to work with the window wound down in an attempt to blow away the cobwebs. The combination of a bottle of Pino, ten squares of chocolate and a shit night’s sleep had taken its toll.

  She parked in the nearest available spot and bounded up the stairs, trying to shake the tiredness from her aching limbs and headed straight for the coffee machine. She reached her office with an Americano in each hand and downed them like they were shots. Gathering up her stuff, she rushed to the incident room.

  Kray loved conducting morning prayers. It was the one opportunity in the day where she could get things straight, check on progress and demonstrate leadership. This morning though was different. This morning was not good, due to the incident room looking like it had just hosted a kid’s birthday party.

  Kray stood out front and surveyed the eager faces staring back. One face that was not eager was Tavener’s. He had worked with Kray on the previous case and knew how she felt about running a tight ship, and that meant keeping the room in an orderly fashion.

  Kray surveyed the debris. There was paper everywhere. The incident boards looked like they had thrown information at them, and the workstations were cluttered with files. Not to mention there were pens and pencils occupying the same side of the desk – her OCD levels were off the scale.

  ‘We made a discovery yesterday, two in fact,’ Kray announced to the room. ‘But before I share them with you I am going to treat myself to another coffee.’ Tavener sunk down into his seat, he knew what was coming having heard this speech before. Kray continued, ‘I know you are all chomping at the bit to hear the news so we can catch the sadistic bastard that did this, but that will have to wait. Because the other discovery of the day is we will not be capable of catching a bloody cold working in a shit heap like this!’

  Kray strutted about the room waving her arms. ‘This is the way things get missed.’ She pushed a mound of paper across the desk. ‘This is how information gets lost.’ She pointed to the post-its stuck to the wall. ‘And this…’ She stood in front of the incident boards. ‘…looks like the work of a five-year-old.’ She marched back to the front picking up a handful of pens as she went and depositing them onto a desk that didn’t have pencils.

  ‘I am going to piss off and cool down while you make this place look like a professional incident room. Now, I know this is our first proper day on the case and we may as well get off on the right foot. My style is always to promote discussion and encourage challenge – ask Duncan, he will tell you.’ Tavener flinched when she mentioned his name. ‘So, in the spirit of starting as we mean to go on, does anyone have anything to fucking say?’

  The room was so quiet you could
hear one of the post-its falling off the wall and hitting the carpet. Kray scanned the room. Seven faces looked back at her with their mouths slightly open. She turned on her heels and walked out.

  Tavener breathed a sigh of relief – it could have been a lot worse. All eyes were on him. ‘Do as she says.’

  The room was filled with the sound of chairs being scraped against the floor in a mad rush to get to work. Files and paper were relocated and desk surfaces cleared of rubbish. The bins filled up with unwanted material and the printers were kept busy, creating proper documents to replace the scribbled notes. Photographs were straightened and white boards cleaned of their previous content.

  Every now and again, somebody would shout out, ‘This okay?’ The comment was aimed at Tavener, who would nod his approval. He didn’t much relish his new-found position as head of QA – it meant anything out of sorts would be down to him.

  As the last sheaf of unwanted paper went into the confidential waste bin, the door flew open and in walked Kray, positively buzzing from her double espresso and three bites of a cinnamon swirl. She had conceded when she was sitting in the canteen that the ferocity of her outburst could be down to her missing breakfast – again.

  She stood at the front as the last of the team took their seats.

  ‘That’s better. I don’t expect to have to do that again, understood?’ The faces nodded. ‘Let’s make a start.’ She walked over to the incident board. ‘I do not intend to go over all the information most of which you already know. Suffice as to say, John Archibald Graham, fifty-four years of age, was found murdered at his house at eight-fifteen yesterday morning by the cleaner. His cause of death was exsanguination. It would appear from the initial findings from the post-mortem that being tortured did not kill him.